Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Carter Vaughn, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Carter Vaughn, Svetlana Vetrova, New York Admirals Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Model Ilya Rozanov, New York Admirals Player Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, Situationships, POV Shane Hollander, New York City, Pining, Friends with Benefits, Or Sex with Friendship Benefits, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Scott Hunter haunts the narrative, (he is fully alive), Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Carter Vaughn, Carter's A is Actually for Ally, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Phone Sex, Pining While Fucking, Ilya Rozanov Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Top Shane Hollander, Bottom Ilya Rozanov, (just the once), Slow Burn (but not for fucking), (just for communicating)

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of in new york, you can try things

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-30 Completed: 2026-08-29 Words: 178,867 Chapters: 19/19

Into the Blue

Summary

With the first overall selection of the 2010 NHL draft, the New York Admirals are proud to select Shane Hollander.
 

“Ah, New York! New York is nice, yes?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I haven’t really spent much time there. Yet, I guess.”

“I am also moving to New York.”

----

On the night of the NHL draft, Shane Hollander goes to the gym. Ilya Rozanov may not be a hockey player, but somehow he is there, in Shane’s orbit, in New York, under his skin.

Or, how more proximity can turn a fuck buddy into a best friend, but falling in love is always hard.

Chapter 1: number one best hockey player

Chapter Notes

June 2010, Los Angeles

New York. It was New York.

In his heart of hearts, he’d known it for months. He was too superstitious to say it out loud—always shutting down any conversation that had too much certainty in it, like tempting fate too closely would crack the ice open under his feet and he’d be yanked away from the possibility altogether.

Still, the logical part of his brain—which sounded a lot like his mom—did the math long ago, as long as when Scott Hunter had left for Boston, and more recently when the draft lottery had swept New York to the top spot. They desperately needed the strength at center, when their gamble with the Hunter deal and trying Novak in his position had failed spectacularly and they’d plummeted in the standings over the last two seasons.

(If he were Hunter, he would feel pretty fucking smug about that, especially with how quickly he’d turned Boston into contenders. 

Actually, the whole sequence of events with Hunter had given him some pause about the team’s management, but his mom had reassured him that it was a lesson they’d learn from and not a mistake they’d make a second time with such a key piece of their roster. He’d tried not to worry about it more than that, since thinking too deeply about New York’s long-term teambuilding strategy was one of those fate-tempting thoughts that usually made him panic.)

So, here he was.

First, on stage, in Los Angeles, the words he’d been waiting his whole life to hear ringing in his ears: With the first overall selection of the 2010 NHL draft, the New York Admirals are proud to select Shane Hollander.

Then, smiling, even with the white hot lights searing down on him, making it impossible to see the crowd cheering in front of him.

Standing, first next to the podium, gripping the red, white, and blue jersey in his hands, the weight of hearty claps on his shoulders.

Later, backstage, then in the rooms beyond, still smiling, posing with one pointer finger in the air, squeezed between the second and third picks going to Edmonton and Florida, respectively, on either side of him.

In other rooms, all night, nodding along as people congratulated him. More hands on his back, more good-natured squeezes on his shoulder. 

He was happy—of course he was happy. It was more than everything he had dreamed of, it was literally everything he had been working for since he was barely old enough to walk but already able to skate. It was the start of the life he had always wanted.

But maybe part of him thought that there would be more to it, just for tonight. That the culmination of all those years of work, all that stress, the long days, the tension in his muscles that never seemed to go away, the constant looping his brain did on the plays he needed to make, the passes he missed, the ways he had to improve next time—that all of it might finally go quiet. Just for a few minutes, just until training camp came, and the season began, and he’d start the next climb.

Instead, here he was in Los Angeles, well past midnight on the West Coast, staring at the ceiling and wondering if his brain would ever stop buzzing. Maybe it was just adrenaline.

But part of him worried that, fundamentally, he was just like this: that there would always be this thrum behind his eyes and between his ears. He’d tried for nineteen years, and had still never found the off switch. There were only ever temporary reprieves.

A temporary reprieve was probably the best he could hope for tonight, too. 

He pulled himself out of bed, tucking the sheets in place so that when he eventually came back it would feel like he was slipping into his usual sleep routine. He changed quickly, shorts and a compression shirt, tying on sneakers. He hoped the gym would be empty this late at night—he assumed it would be. The hotel was crawling with hockey players and their families, but he figured that most of them were sleeping off their celebrations (at least for anyone that had gone in the first round). 

The gym was small and uncomfortably cramped for a hotel this nice, but at least there was no one in it. Shane immediately made his way to a stationary bike, adjusting the seat to the correct position before sliding on and twisting the resistance knob until the pedals had the right balance under his feet. The room was quiet, and he hadn’t brought his iPod with him, but that seemed better. He didn’t really like listening to music while working out, anyway, and as the sound of his legs pushing the machine cut through the silence, he could feel the vibration in his head slowly calming down. 

Shane had been in motion for barely three minutes when the door squealed open. He darted his eyes to the side, assuming at first that it must be another hockey player, looking to work off some extra emotion from the day.

It wasn’t. 

Shane looked long enough to be certain he had never seen this guy before in his life, and then forced himself to look away. 

Miraculously, he kept an even pace on his bike even as the guy sat down on the machine next to him. Which was objectively weird, in an empty hotel gym, at midnight, with literally every other piece of equipment open to him.

Shane sneaked a look at him out of the corner of his eye, and saw only the side of a grin, and a glimpse of bare, golden bicep and forearm. Hockey player or not, the guy apparently worked out. 

Shane ducked his head down again. He thought he heard a soft laugh, or maybe a cough, but refused to look up to confirm. A wave of mortification flowed over him. Had he been caught staring? Was his face doing something weird? 

But as he braced his arms against the handlebars, he pushed back on the feeling. Fuck that: Shane wasn’t the one who had sat down right next to an occupied bike. If he had given the guy a weird look, it was because the guy had done something weird, not Shane.

He let the righteousness of this settle over his shoulders as the cadence of their pedals thrummed through the air, and—wait, was this guy trying to fucking race him? 

Shane picked up his head to look over his shoulder and found flinty eyes staring back. The man smirked at him—fucking smirked.

Shane almost had to look away again when that expression seemed to pierce something deep within him. Instead, he turned the knob between his knees to increase the resistance as he picked up the pace. Shane did turn away then, setting his shoulders and pushing focus into his quads and glutes. 

It was hard to say who won, probably because they were on fucking stationary bikes. But Shane was first to back off. He’d been riding longer, though, he rationalized to himself as he straightened up, hands on his hips. So really, he had probably won on distance. 

They heaved off the bikes at the same time. Shane wobbled for a moment when coming back to solid ground. His legs felt like jelly. That had been the point of coming down here, but if he was honest with himself, he had probably pushed himself past the point of simply expelling some extra energy. 

He stumbled to the mat at the corner of the gym, ostensibly to stretch, but mostly to get off his shaking legs. He flopped down more gracelessly than he would have liked.

But when he looked up, the guy was right there. He had followed Shane over to the mat, sitting opposite, legs stretched out in front of him. Shane’s leg would have touched him if he sat the same way, so naturally he bent his knee, pulling his foot in towards himself instead. 

Sitting across from each other now, there was nowhere else for Shane to look except directly at him. So for one, split second, Shane allowed himself just to look. 

That was all he needed for the thought to form in his head, too clearly for Shane to shove it away into a box, unexamined: this was simply the hottest man he had ever seen. 

“Woo!” He said, grinning at Shane, sweat curling the hair at his temple. “What a fucking city, huh?” 

The smooth timbre of his voice, and the rough edges of his accent, didn’t help slow down the rush of blood that Shane was pretty sure was visible all over his skin. Shane refused to follow the track of sweat down towards the man’s neck, towards the collar of his black tank top.

Instead he lifted his eyes, pointedly looking around the cramped gym they were currently occupying inside of a business hotel. Of all the sights and scenes Los Angeles was known for, this was not one of them. 

If the man understood Shane’s silent response, he ignored it. He nodded at him instead, tilting his head down towards him. “You are here for… what, some kind of sport event?” 

That pulled Shane’s attention back, and not to the sweat dotting across his face. He had to be messing with him. 

It wasn’t that he expected everyone to know about the draft, or to even care about hockey at all. But there was something in the specific tone of voice, the near-mocking choice of words, that he snagged on. If Shane had to pick a person who would know about the draft, someone like this guy—Russian, probably, built like he was made for board checks, with well-shaped quads that could have come from long hours of skating and probably glutes to match (shut the fuck up, Shane)—would have been it. But Shane still didn’t think he was here for the draft. He had a fairly strong sense that he would have noticed him if he’d ever seen him before, between the face and the whole fucking body.  

“Uh, yeah,” he said cautiously, keeping his expression even. “They put us up here for the NHL draft.” 

“Ah, so you are hockey player,” the guy responded, leaning forward, an arm draped casually over his knee. Shane didn’t think he was imagining the shrewd look, and the slightly narrowed blue eyes. He definitely wasn’t imagining the smirk. “Are you good?” 

Shane had almost expected the question, or something like it, from the moment he caught the sly edge in the guy’s tone. He couldn’t help the way his lips twisted, though. He was still catching his breath from the bike, which seemed as good a reason as any to simply nod in response. 

“So you have been drafted? What number?” The guy’s eyes didn’t leave his face.

The questions were so pointed, the stare so direct, that Shane wondered exactly how he was being fucked with–if this guy somehow knew everything about hockey, if he was someone’s brother or a GM’s son or a KHL player that Shane had somehow missed. 

But the question was impossible to avoid. “Yeah, I got drafted today.” 

He left it at that, holding himself back from answering the second question. Even if he knew it headlined hockey news tonight, it still felt too boastful to say outloud, especially when there was a chance that this man already knew and was trying to pull his chain.  

A beat of silence passed between them, and the guy shook his head slightly, raising his eyebrows, a clear way of telling Shane to spit it out. 

Shane breathed in slowly, letting his head rest lightly against the equipment behind him. He spoke carefully. “I was drafted first.” 

A grin split the already handsome face across from him, and Shane was suddenly aware of the full meaning of the word “luminous.” He had literally never seen anything so beautiful. Which was a perfectly normal thought to have about a sweaty, strange man in a gym at midnight. Fuck. 

“Ah, so you are trying to be shy,” the man laughed. “I am not so shy, I am going to tell every hockey player I see tomorrow that I beat the shit out of number one draft pick in bike race.” 

Shane felt a rush of heat rise to his face and a scoff popped out of his mouth before he had even fully processed it. “You didn’t beat me and we weren’t racing.” 

It came out fast and defensive, but Shane was used to being the most competitive person in any room. This was something new. 

The man in front of him scoffed back, derisive. He said nothing, though, simply lifting his water bottle to his lips for a long, slow drink. Shane watched the motion for a beat too long, then quickly tried not to. But the look away was too slow, unsuccessful. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, unwilling to check the man’s expression to see his reaction. He felt more than saw the man shift positions, pulling both legs in slightly, dropping his knees out to either side. Shane didn’t look at what was in the middle of them. 

“What team will number one best hockey player play for?” 

Shane couldn’t help it. He looked at what was in the middle. “Uh, the New York Admirals.” 

“Ah, New York! New York is nice, yes?” The guy’s tone shifted again, suddenly sounding more genuinely pleased instead of the vaguely devious edge it had been treading on since they began speaking about hockey. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I haven’t really spent much time there. Yet, I guess.”

In truth, it was the part that worried him most. He was almost debilitatingly intimidated when he thought of the city, and was certain that the summer would not be enough time to mentally prepare for the abrupt change from Ottawa. 

“I am also moving to New York.”

“Oh.” Shane looked at him quickly. Well, at his face. “What… I mean, what are you going to be doing there?”  

The question seemed lame, but he didn’t know what else to ask. The statement had pulled in his full attention, though. The guy had clearly opened the conversation for a reason, though Shane didn’t understand the motivation for it. 

“Model.” He looked proud when he said it. And fuck, if that didn’t make all the sense in the world. “I am in LA for job. I have been to New York many times, but only moving September.” 

“That’s awesome.” Shane tried to keep his tone even, processing the fact that the apparently professionally good-looking man in front of him was, for some reason, vaguely giving him shit about hockey and talking about moving to New York. He was also trying to keep his eyes on the guy’s face, not on his neck, or on his lap, still drawing Shane’s attention like a magnet between his splayed legs. “I mean, yeah. You probably know more about New York than me, then.” 

“Mm, no. Have much still left to see.” His eyes were directly on Shane. 

There was an undercurrent to his tone again, but it was different from before. This time it sounded more like a hum. Something about it made Shane feel undone, like he was being pinned to a board. Not like in hockey, but like an insect, behind glass. He took in a slow breath, his throat suddenly feeling bone dry. 

The guy, apparently, also noticed Shane’s harsh, unsteady swallow. He lifted the water bottle in his hand, shaking it in Shane’s direction. He shook his head in response, but was met with a more insistent shake. Shane hesitated one more moment, but refusal felt beyond him at this point. He reached forward. 

The touch of his fingers against Shane’s almost felt like being stung. He tried not to yank his hand back, instead counting slowly in his head as he lifted the bottle to his lips. He felt insane as he took a drink, wondering why they were still making eye contact, trying desperately not to think about the other man’s lips around the same part of the bottle mere seconds earlier, of his saliva in Shane’s mouth. He pulled the bottle away as soon as the cool liquid trickled down his throat, but the man across from him shook his head. 

“More,” he said. It came out as a puff of air more than a word spoken aloud. 

Shane put the bottle to his lips again. 

“What is your name?” 

Shane took in a breath both because he needed one after rehydrating, and to steel himself for the brush of fingers as he passed the water bottle back. “Shane. Hollander.” 

“I am Ilya Rozanov.” The name rolled off his tongue like a purr and Shane was certain he wouldn’t forget it.

He was certain, actually, that he would find himself in front of a computer screen before long, searching for pictures from the jobs Ilya Rozanov had booked. He kicked himself immediately for the thought, but now that it was in his head, he knew it would stay there, like a scuff mark—a curiosity that wiggled its way into his brain, into a corner where it might never leave. 

“It’s, um, nice to meet you,” he said.

“Do you know anyone in New York?” Ilya Rozanov sounded cool and casual, but his eyes were roving over Shane in a way that made his fingers itch, remembering the momentary contact between them. He swallowed again, and hoped it didn’t look like a gulp. 

“Uh… I guess my teammates. I don’t know any of them well so far. But there will probably be some new guys on the team, too. But outside of that, not really.” His mouth felt like it was completely disconnected from his brain at this point. He tried to stop himself from rambling, and ended with an inexplicable shrug. 

The other man seemed to fully ignore this display of incoherence. “Is hard to make friends in a new city.” 

Shane wasn’t sure what to say to this. He also wasn’t sure he should speak again for a little while. 

But Ilya Rozanov kept looking at him, this time, it seemed, with some sense of expectation. “So we will be friends.” 

Shane blinked. He wasn’t sure what he thought Rozanov was going to say, but that was about the last thing he would have expected. He still had no idea how to react. He had never been in a situation like this before: after midnight, in a gym with a stranger, (half hard) (shut the fuck up, Shane) talking about New York, apparently making friends. 

But Rozanov, apparently, would not be deterred. “You have phone number?” 

Shane watched as he shifted on the ground, reaching underneath his hip to pull out his cell phone. Shane couldn’t see from where he was sitting, but when Rozanov handed it back a second later, the screen was open to a new contact - first name “S,” last name “H” – waiting for a phone number. 

“Too much to type whole name,” Rozanov shrugged. 

Shane snorted, but looked down at the phone again. Gripping onto a physical object seemed to have brought him back into his body a little bit, enough to hesitate before continuing. It seemed like a blindingly stupid thing to do: giving his phone number to a stranger in a gym. Who could be, really, anybody. 

But there was a small voice in his head speaking to him again—one that he thought had always been there, but that had been more vocal lately, particularly approving while watching Friday Night Lights and maybe less approving when fumbling with Jessica in her bed. Tonight, the voice was succinct: hot model. 

Just this one time, Shane listened to the voice. He typed in the number. 

Rozanov looked nearly as smug as he had after coming off the bike when he took the phone back. He texted immediately. 

The chime and corresponding buzz in Shane’s pocket made him jump, which was stupid, because he could see the other man typing. He pulled his phone out quickly, opening it to see the text from an unknown number. It read, simply, “ilya.” 

Shane hesitated again. He had a specific naming convention for his phone contacts (full first name and last name, always, because he was a normal human being).

But there was something appealing about the way he had put Shane into his phone, something he liked about the idea of matching him. And more than that, he wasn’t sure what he thought about having Ilya Rozanov’s full name in his phone, though he wasn’t sure he could articulate the reason behind his discomfort. 

So he saved the contact: “IR.” 

Rozanov was watching him, head tilted to the side with his cheek nearly pressed against his shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded. Shane was having trouble looking directly at him. 

“You have had big day, Shane Hollander. You should sleep now, no?” 

“Uh, yeah.” There was something like relief at the idea of escaping from this gym, from the claustrophobia of such close proximity to this strange man, but there was also something else. Disappointment. “Thanks.” 

Shane stayed on the ground for another moment, searching for the right thing to say to end the interaction.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, finally. “Uh… good luck with the job.” 

“I do not need luck, is just standing and looking pretty. Easy for me.” Ilya Rozanov looked him dead in the eye, and winked.

Shane stared at him, suddenly seized with the simultaneous urge to roll his eyes and to reach forward to touch the strip of skin just visible under the hem of his shorts. It was an intensely jarring combination. And it clearly meant it was time for Shane to get the fuck out of here. 

“Okay, well. Nice to meet you.” And now he had said that twice. Excellent. “Good night.” 

He scrambled up from the floor, looking anywhere except at Rozanov as he dusted his seat off and turned towards the exit. He had barely even stretched. 

“Good night.” Shane heard, rather than saw, the smile in Rozanov’s voice. And he could feel, even without seeing, the other man’s eyes on him as he left the gym. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was thinking about those eyes, the precise shade of blue, as he came in the shower. 

____

In the light of the next day, the whole thing might have seemed like a bizarrely provocative fever dream. But then the elevator happened. 

Shane was on his way down to meet his parents, who were already waiting in the lobby. He wasn’t late, exactly, but he’d found himself moving more slowly than usual through his morning routines. It was probably the late night, he thought. He’d slept well, but hadn’t actually gotten to sleep until nearly 1:30am. 

He was trying not to think about the night’s sequence of events more deeply than that when the elevator stopped on the sixth floor. He almost dropped the water bottle in his hands when Ilya Rozanov stepped in. 

The first thought that entered him was that Rozanov was somehow even more good looking in the daylight. Which made sense, since again, he was an actual model. 

The second thought, which took a moment to process and seemed profoundly confusing, was that Rozanov seemed as thrown off to see Shane as Shane felt seeing him. But the expression changed after only a moment, and there, again, was the grin. It had already been brilliant under bad fluorescent lighting. Here, Shane wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to look away. 

“Shane Hollander. Leaving LA?” He nodded down at the suitcase next to him.

“Hey. Good morning. Uh… yeah. Got to get back, and everything,” Shane responded, all of his best casual conversation skills on display. 

Rozanov chuckled, but still seemed to somehow nod very seriously. “Yes. You must do important hockey things now. As number one best player.” 

The ribbing helped tamp down Shane’s nerves—he could handle chirps, especially stupid ones.

“Yeah, so important,” he replied dryly, pausing as he tried—and failed—to think of a wittier response. “Fuck off.” 

“Hey, is no way to talk to new friend,” Rozanov scolded him, the smirk on his lips at odds with the stern look he tried to fix on Shane.

It was unfair—he didn’t look like he’d gone to bed as late as he must have, considering Shane had left him in the gym. Shane wondered if it was possible for him to ever look anything less than perfect. 

“Who said we were friends already?” Shane asked, forcing himself to find his bearings, which apparently meant saying the first words that found his mouth. “We aren’t in New York yet.”

Rozanov was still watching him intently, which did very little to help Shane keep his bearings now that he had possibly found them.

The elevator slowed as it reached the ground floor, and Shane prayed that his parents weren’t waiting right outside. Not that there was anything to see. Shane just wasn’t sure he wanted them to know about this—this interaction. He didn’t know how to describe the encounter in the gym, this follow-up in the elevator, and he didn’t really want to be forced to try. 

“You are interesting, Shane. Hollander.” He spoke after a long moment. Shane didn’t know what to say to that, but he could feel his cheeks growing warm and probably red. From the amused look on Rozanov’s face and the way his eyes swept over Shane, he could see it, too. 

The elevator doors opened. Rozanov moved first, glancing over his shoulder casually. “Text me in New York.” 

The brush of fingers against Shane’s hand was barely anything, but like the night before, he felt a sharp jolt from the contact. The aftershock stayed with him for hours.

Chapter End Notes

If you know more about hockey than I do (which is probable), then forgive me if the Hunter trade doesn't make sense. In my heart of hearts, I did not want Scott in New York for this story. Just know that Scotty is living his best life in Boston, flabbergasted every day by Cliff Marleau, and will eventually fall for a BU grad student (who is up there studying art history even though he and his dad hate Boston).

(EDIT: thank you to the exceedingly kind commentator who explained the typical timelines (and reasons) for when new players enter the league after the draft!!! I wrote myself into a discrepancy by having Shane go in 2010 instead of 2009 like in canon, but I didn’t want to make him go a whole year without seeing the guy from the gym again. For the sake of Shane’s sex life, please forgive me!)

Chapter 2: new friends in a new city

Chapter Summary

New York, texting, Rolex, Los Angeles again, Shane Hollander's breakout performance, 1410.

Chapter Notes

Shane didn’t text him. 

It wasn’t because he was scared—okay, not just because he was scared. It was everything that had come after LA. Preparing to be a fully professional athlete, breaking up with Jessica because the distance was an insurmountable obstacle (or simply one he did not want to surmount), moving to New York, the agonizing decisions of how to build an adult life, starting with where to live. 

Shane couldn’t think of anything more stressful than living with a roommate, no matter how many times someone tried to tell him that it would help ease him into the cadence of the NHL. He knew he was too particular—he’d stress about it from both sides, of someone throwing him off but also of putting them off, his new teammates all thinking he was weird because his roommate complained about his sleeping habits or eating habits or the fact that he genuinely never listened to music.

Then, where to live. He wanted to be near the practice facility, and was sure his mom would agree. But she’d shocked him when she told him her preference. It was after they had driven around Tarrytown for half a day, Shane’s brain focused on trying to memorize optimal routes between neighborhoods and shopping complexes. 

She had sounded cautious, but clear. She worried he’d be lonely by himself in a suburb, or with only some of his older teammates around, the ones with families and children. She knew he liked things being quiet, but she worried it would be too quiet. And if he hated it, he could change it next season. At first, all he could do was look at her. He would have never guessed that his mother, of all people, would have wanted him to live in Manhattan, alone, at 19.  

And it seemed like she was still trying to convince herself even as they talked it out together. But Yuna Hollander was thorough, and methodical, and Shane trusted the logic of all of her decisions, even when the decisions made him feel unsteady. It would be a good experience for him. They’d pick a place in a safe neighborhood. He’d talk to other teammates who lived in the city for tips on navigating to the practice facility. He’d be around new people, new things, get to experience everything New York had to offer. And all of that was good, not utterly terrifying. 

Shane still thought it sounded like hell, but it was better than sharing space with someone else. And as much as he dreaded the noise and crowds and ferocity of Manhattan, he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of a quiet place in the suburbs, either. He didn’t think of himself as someone who felt lonely—he was alone too much, and too good at being alone, for that. It was more like the idea of loneliness lurking in the background when he thought about living alone near Tarrytown. He didn’t want to open the door to it. 

In the end, they found a place not far from NYU. It was small, and the rent was fucking insane, but it was clean and easy enough to get to Madison Square Garden. He felt overwhelmed on his first night there, but even by the second, he already found himself getting used to the noise from the street in the background of his evening routine. He thought it would be jarring, after spending his life in a place that was silent at night, with actual stars visible in the dark night sky. But the traffic sounds had started to blend into something almost like a white noise. It was almost comforting. 

Then, the rush of the calendar. Training camp, getting used to the rhythm of the team’s schedule, his own schedule. The anticipation of the season starting, the nerves, the need to get his body to where he wanted it to be, the brand deals lining up for him slowly but surely. The pressure. His brain felt filled to capacity at almost every time of day. 

He liked the team. There were a lot of older guys, but they were welcoming, never made him feel like he was as stupid and green as he sometimes felt, himself. The younger guys were good, too. Especially Carter Vaughn, who had already matched up with him on the wing and had made a specific effort to bring Shane into the team’s fold a little more closely. 

He didn’t know Vaughn well, had only met him a few times on the ice when playing against Team USA. He figured out quickly that he had been close with Scott Hunter, from coming into the league around the same time and playing for the national team together. Vaughn was never weird about Shane coming into the team in his friend’s old position, though—he’d only made a few wry comments about the Admirals’ performance in the recent seasons, groaned once or twice about how good Boston had become. He was a little louder than Shane would have liked as an overall matter, but he was a good guy. Shane still wasn’t as social as the other rookies and sophomores, but it wasn’t so bad to go out with them for lunch sometimes, or to hang around a hotel bar with water or a ginger ale when the road games started. 

Things being what they were, Shane being who he was—he might have just left the encounter in the gym where it belonged (in LA, and in the back of his mind during a shower, sometimes) if it wasn’t for Rolex. 

The idea of Rolex wanting to sign him on as a brand ambassador blew his mind, frankly.

“Shane is exactly the kind of young athlete and young man that Rolex wants to be associated with,” his mom had quoted from the email. “He’s smart, he’s serious, he’s handsome, and we believe he will be hockey’s most significant ambassador in a generation.” 

He couldn’t call himself that, and he couldn’t wrap his head around any of it: why they really wanted him, if he really wanted to do it, or if he just knew it was a good idea, like his mom had told him. If he was only doing it because of his mom, because of the trust he put in her decisions. Even the ones that made him feel unsteady.

But he thought she had probably been right about Manhattan. And she would certainly be right about Rolex. And in any case, there was no way he could turn it down. 

The first shoot was simple. Just a quick few shots, a modest run of a campaign. It was a slow start, coinciding with the early half of the NHL season, but that was good for Shane. He never saw the ads himself, just the photos by email, from his mom. 

And one day, there was a text waiting on his phone. 

IR
Hollander. Are you stealing my job.

It came out of nowhere in the middle of the day, and Shane had nearly dropped his phone into the sink when he saw the letters appear on the screen. 

The next text was a link. Shane had no idea what to expect from clicking it, and still, he did it without thinking. It was the Rolex campaign. 

IR
How the fuck did you book this

Shane didn’t know how he meant it. For all he knew, Rozanov was actually unhappy about the campaign—it literally was his job, after all, and maybe he really did hate the idea of some random athlete who looked awkward as fuck in front of a camera taking away opportunities from actual models. Or maybe he was just fucking with Shane again. 

He fired off a response before his brain could catch up with his fingers. 

Can’t give away my trade secrets.

IR
Agh fuck your secrets
Did they give you a watch
My last job all they let me keep was socks
Had hole in both toes end of day
Terrible ducking socks
Fuck

The messages were fast and furious, and Shane found himself nearly as amused to read them as he was confused to receive them in the first place. He was still standing over the sink, dishes forgotten. 

Socks are actually way more practical than a watch I might wear once a year.

IR
They gave you a fucking watch!!!!

Of course.

IR
I hate socks
Did you move to New York 
Where do you live 

Shane didn’t respond, because he had to go to practice. And he had to wash the dishes. Certainly not because he was scared to answer. 

But the texts didn’t end there. Rozanov found him again two weeks later, in the middle of a short trip to Pittsburgh, this time complaining about the fact that he had been given no socks and the worst pair of shoes he’d ever been asked to wear. Shane had helpfully sent him an article about the dangers of foot fungus. Rozanov’s responses about athletes foot had swiftly turned into ruthless cracks about jock itch, at which point Shane had put his phone down to continue his pre-game routine. 

There was more after that. Rozanov, sending commentary on the best and worst airports he had traveled through, the offensive lack of good tea available in the US, an update on the blisters he had developed from going sockless, weeks ago now. Shane initiated once or twice, too, though when he asked Rozanov if he had ever been to DC, the answer he received seemed a little harsh (once, everyone looks terrible and wears ugly suits, will never go back). 

____

And then it was December, and the Admirals were in LA. 

It was really fucking good. They had been working so hard already, on chemistry and tactics and the right rhythms between the different options on the first and second lines, but it really felt like things were clicking now. The score—6-1—was almost obscene, but Shane was equally proud of his clean goal in the second period and the scrappy, hard fought one in the third, when LA had been desperately trying to claw themselves back from the hole the Admirals had driven them into over fifty minutes. 

As a rule, Shane tried not to listen to commentary—aside from his coaches’ feedback, he already had a list of things in his head he wanted to watch for in video and correct for next time, and he didn’t need outside critique filtering into his inner monologue. But the post-game analysis was playing somewhere in the locker room, and he couldn’t help but hear the sound bite: Shane Hollander’s real breakout game.

The adrenaline was still flowing when his phone chimed an hour later, after he had made it back to the hotel. His teammates were going out—it’s LA, they kept saying—but they stopped pushing him to join after Vaughn reminded them that he was 19, too baby-faced to get into any of the clubs they wanted to hit. Not for the first time in the season so far, Shane was grateful for the legal drinking age in the United States. 

His head was still on the game when he looked at his phone, expecting to see something from his parents, maybe, even though they always called him, never texted. 

IR
You are in LA

It wasn’t phrased as a question. Shane stared at the words, trying to discern if it was meant as one anyway, or if somehow Rozanov knew this as a factual statement. It wouldn’t have been impossible, obviously: the game schedule was public. Easily accessible. But it would mean that he would have had to look up where and when the Admirals would be playing, and take note of it. Had he done that? Why would he? Had he just stumbled across the game, randomly? Had he maybe watched it? At this, Shane got a hot, deeply embarrassing, flush of pride. 

But the next text nearly knocked him out of his body. 

IR
I am in LA

Shane had no clue what this was supposed to mean. Was he suggesting they meet? Would he do that? They had never talked about it before, other than Rozanov’s occasional questions about New York, which Shane always managed to sidestep. They had said they’d be friends, though, before. And so this must have meant that. 

IR
You should come to hotel
Celebrate win

So he knew there had been a win. Which meant he had watched it. Or looked it up. But what was he suggesting? Because there had to be a suggestion in it. Or was Shane extrapolating what had happened in the gym based on his own overactive imagination? Had he seen Shane staring at his dick? If he did, though, and if he was still texting him—what would that mean? 

IR
Unless maybe you are busy
Or jock itch
:(

It was some kind of perfect elixir of emotion within Shane that led him to respond: the absurdity of the frowny face, the adrenaline from the win, the memory of draft night, the low-level horniness that had infected him ever since Rozanov had texted him about Rolex. The last few months, his slow attempts to learn to be an adult in a new place, alone. Simply being in LA, where it was impossible to exist without thinking about his encounter with a stranger, the last time he’d been in this city. 

What’s your hotel?

Rozanov sent the name less than a minute later. And then a number, 1410.

____

He second guessed himself the whole way there. This was crazy. It was stupid. It was a complete misread of the situation. He would get there, and Rozanov would just want to hang out. He resolved himself to being okay with that—hanging out, maybe drinking, talking about the game and how well it had gone. The same performance of normal he did all the time. 

But then he was in the lobby, in the hallway, outside room 1410. And then he was inside, face-to-face with the smirk he had been unable to get out of his head since June. 

Maybe it was because they had been mostly sitting for the bulk of their first interaction, but here, Rozanov was somehow so much more than Shane had remembered. Taller, broader, hair curlier and wilder, cheekbones sharper, eyes brighter. He was wearing jeans and a black tank top—tighter than the one he’d worn in the gym, this one molded to his torso—and Shane couldn’t stop staring at him. It took him too long, way, way too long to catch himself, and when his eyes finally met Rozanov’s again, he was certain that the other man had read him like a book. 

But still, he was smiling. “You are here.” 

“What, you thought I wouldn’t come?” Shane cleared his throat, dragging his eyes away from the man in front of him to look around the room instead. It was smaller than the one he was sharing with Saarinen, another rookie, but here there was only one, big bed. The shades were open, and he took a moment to look at the glittering lights of Los Angeles visible in the distance. 

There was a pause, long enough for Shane to turn and look at Rozanov again. He found that he was being watched, carefully. 

“Maybe. Thought it was possible. You change your mind.”

And he realized that Rozanov had identified and catalogued every single time Shane had avoided answering his questions about New York. Shane wasn’t sure how he felt about being seen through so clearly, especially when he didn’t know what explanation Rozanov had formed for himself about it. When Shane didn’t know the explanation himself. 

“Nope,” was all he said. 

“Is good to see you,” Rozanov mused, moving himself away from the door and towards Shane.

Shane stood still, tracking his movement, trying not to look at the bare shoulders and arms. “You too.”

Rozanov stopped right in front of him, forcing Shane to meet his eyes again. “So, your win.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. 

“Congratulations.” Rozanov enunciated each syllable carefully. And smirked, again. Shane’s eyes dropped, finally. He watched every movement of his lips. 

This seemed to act as a signal for Rozanov. He pushed himself forward, towards Shane again. All at once, Shane realized he was being backed against the wall, and then Rozanov’s lips were on his, his mouth hot and searching. 

All at once, he felt every sensation in his body, sharpest in the places Rozanov pressed against him. Lips, mouths, tongue, hands on his shoulders, chests and stomachs pushing together, hips, and oh holy fuck, he could feel Ilya’s dick, hard and shifting against his own. Shane had a thought that he’d probably been hard since the minute he entered the room, and now he felt like he might disintegrate from the depth of need within him. He had never felt anything like this, and it was just kissing. What would the rest of it feel like? 

All at once, he had to know, had to make there be a rest of it. He pulled his body back only enough to squeeze his hand between them, reaching immediately to unbutton Rozanov’s jeans. Shane was met with a hiss the instant his hand touched bare skin. The weight of Rozanov's dick against his palm made Shane’s heart start to race—it was big, and it was hard, and all he could think about was what it would look like from closer up. 

He moved away from Rozanov long enough to skim down his body, his head resting briefly against chest, abdomen, crotch. Rozanov pushed himself back enough to give Shane room, and Shane acted on pure instinct, want, and need. He fumbled to push Rozanov’s pants and underwear all the way down, staring for one, long moment at his cock, before it was in his mouth. 

“Shit,” he heard vaguely from above him, but it entered his ears half-processed, his attention too focused on the stretch in his lips and jaw and the sharp, unfamiliar taste.

He was already moving his head, sucking. It wasn’t conscious, it wasn’t an imitation of what he’d experienced those times from anyone else, or an attempt to move the way he thought he would like, himself. It was just movement, like it was something he’d been wanting to do for a very long time and had never allowed himself to think about whether he could. 

It felt like he had barely begun when Rozanov was pushing him back, mumbling at him to stop. Shane felt a wave of horror, certain that it had been terrible, until he saw the other man’s face as he pulled him back to his feet. Rozanov’s face was flushed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

If there was any doubt in Shane that he had been doing an okay job, it was erased as Rozanov pulled him into another kiss, mumbling against his lips, “Too good, going too fast.” 

Shane let himself go in the kiss, again. His hands were on Rozanov’s shoulders now, gripping the tops of his arms, moving over his pecs. He had lost his shirt somewhere along the way, and Shane felt lit up inside at the feeling of his smooth skin, the strength of him underneath. He had only ever felt a girl like this before, and it had never been anything like this. And he’d imagined it, maybe, but only ever idly, never as something he thought of as a real possibility. Suddenly, he had to understand why this had happened. 

He pulled away slowly, the wet sound of their lips parting sending a jolt to his dick. He swallowed, taking a moment to clear his mind—it didn’t work—before attempting to speak. “How… did you know…that I…?” 

Rozanov was watching him carefully, and his eyes lit up when he grasped Shane’s meaning. “Oh. Well, I had idea when you would not stop looking at my dick.” 

He grinned when Shane’s mouth dropped open, leaning in to continue speaking with his lips at his ear. “The rest was hoping.” 

The hot air against Shane’s ear and neck sent a small tremor down his back. “I wasn’t looking at your…” 

He trailed off, not even sounding credible to himself. 

Rozanov laughed at him, which was fair. His lips were still at Shane’s ear, now ghosting along the side of his neck. “Have you ever…?” 

Shane didn’t need to hear the end of the sentence to know what he was being asked. “Not with a…” 

He made a vague nod between them, having difficulty getting the word out of his mouth. Guy. Man. Someone like you. “Have you?” 

“Ah. Yes.” 

Shane nodded, because of course he had. He was a fucking model who traveled around the world and had gotten Shane’s phone number in a hotel gym in Los Angeles. He had probably done this a hundred times. And it was insane to feel anything about that at all, let alone jealousy, but there it was, anyway. 

Rozanov seemed to not want to pull on this thread of conversation, either. He leaned in again, pressing his mouth to Shane’s throat, and neck, the kisses feeling like small licks. “Do you want to?” 

“Isn’t that what’s already happening?” 

Shane watched Rozanov pull back with his eyebrows raised. He was pleased, apparently, at the impudence in Shane’s tone. “We can keep kissing in door, or we can go to the bed and you can let me put my mouth on your cock.” 

Shane laughed before he could help it, feeling his cheeks heat up at the brazen phrasing.

“I mean,” he said, trying to keep his voice sounding casual and steady. “If that’s what you really want, then I guess.” 

Rozanov nodded at him, but there was a smile playing at the corners of his perfect mouth. Shane didn’t know if he walked them forward or if Rozanov walked them backward, but they entered the room together with purpose, towards the big bed. Rozanov dropped himself onto it, kicking off the shoes, underwear, and jeans that he had miraculously not tripped on. 

In the full glow of the lights in the room, it was hard not to stare. Of course people paid to have him photographed, use his face and perfect body to sell their goods. He was unreal. Shane looked from his chest, to his abs, to his big, perfect dick, to his sculpted legs, and back again over all of them. It was only when he finally looked back at his face that he saw Rozanov staring back at him, vexed. 

“Hello?” He gestured at Shane in irritation. “I want to see you.” 

Because, right, Shane was somehow still fully clothed. He hesitated for half a second, or even less, but the outrage on Rozanov’s face at the pause got him moving. He took off his shirt first, folding it without thinking before he dropped it onto the chair at the desk. He took off his pants, next, and then his underwear, dropping them into one neat, folded pile. 

His heart was racing by the time he finished. He had dressed and undressed in rooms much more brightly lit than this one hundreds of times before—earlier today, even—but he had never had so much attention on his body. But when he looked back at Rozanov, he saw open hunger in his expression, blue eyes roving up and down Shane’s body like Shane imagined he had been doing back to him only moments before. 

And though he had never thought of himself in this way before, maybe it made sense, when he thought about what Rozanov might be seeing. He was, after all, a professional athlete. He was strong. He was fit. He took care with his body, was proud of what it did for him on the ice—what it had done tonight, with two goals and an assist. And maybe it was the memory of that accomplishment, of the good fucking hockey he had played, that made him stand for a moment in front of Rozanov, letting him look as much as he wanted. 

Rozanov made a noise in his throat, reaching forward to pull Shane to him. They were on the bed, tangling together, and in no time, Rozanov was making good on his earlier words. Shane felt every nerve ending in his body respond at the feeling of getting his dick sucked by this insanely perfect man, who definitely knew exactly what he was doing or at least understood well enough to bring Shane to the point of incoherence. He came embarrassingly quickly, and though he tried his best to push Rozanov back and away, he stayed where he was, Shane’s fingers lightly tangled in his soft, curly hair, as he swallowed. 

To whatever extent Shane’s brain hadn’t short circuited, he wondered if he could—should, would be able to—do the same thing. But it was a half thought, not even fully processed, as he caught his breath. 

Rozanov’s grin reminded Shane of a wolf, as he pressed loud kisses to Shane’s stomach and abdomen, pulling himself level on the bed and dropping down next to him. Shane watched him idly stroke himself, and Rozanov watched him back. 

Shane pushed himself up again, twisting to settle between Rozanov’s legs. He felt a hand, surprisingly gentle, rest on his head, and he wondered if he looked as determined as he felt to make this good—maybe not as good as Rozanov had been, but good enough. He kept his hands on Rozanov’s hips as he bobbed his head up and down, remembering the way the tongue had felt on him only moments ago. He tried to do the same, flexing his jaw as he got used to the sensation. 

In the end, Rozanov didn’t give him a choice on whether or not to swallow. He pushed him off with a hiss in Russian. Shane stayed close, watching him stroke himself. Without thinking, he moved Rozanov’s hand off, taking over the motion for him, watching as he came onto his stomach. They both paused, then, harsh breaths echoing in the silent room. 

Shane looked at his hand. Most of Rozanov’s come was on his own body, but there was a small amount on Shane’s thumb. Without thinking, he brought it to his mouth. It was exactly what he thought it would taste like. 

“Fuck,” Rozanov said. 

Shane looked up. Rozanov was staring at him with open hunger, and Shane could already feel his dick stirring again, which was—ridiculous. It was ridiculous. He couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him. In a second Rozanov was laughing with him, his abdomen shaking underneath a drying layer of come. 

It was somewhat embarrassing that they didn’t have an actual conversation until now, laying naked on the bed next to each other, half-hard. There was an inch of space between them, but Shane could feel the heat of Rozanov’s arm even through it. He asked why he was in LA, and Rozanov told him about the clothing company that had flown him in to do a shoot. Shane had never heard of it, but that meant nothing. Shane hadn’t heard of most things, especially the cool things. 

“How long have you been a model?” He asked. 

“Since I was sixteen.”

Shane nodded, the follow-up question occurring to him after a beat. “How old are you now?”

It was a little weird to register that he didn’t know this, and had already had this man’s dick in his mouth. 

Rozanov looked amused, thinking along the same lines, perhaps. “Nineteen. You?” 

“Oh. Same.” Not that the precise number mattered to Shane, exactly, especially when the other man had already seemed close in age to him. But it was unsettling not to know, to realize how little they actually knew about each other. This feeling prompted him into another question, which he thought he knew the answer to, but realized he had never actually asked. “So where are you from, like, originally?” 

“Mm, you can’t tell?” Rozanov gestured at himself, even while rolling to the side to reach for a tissue from the bedside table. He took his time grabbing one, finally wiping himself off before he continued. “I am from Russia.” 

Shane nodded again. There had been a small shift in Rozanov's tone, his body language. A guardedness Shane hadn’t seen before had crept in. “Is that where you’ve been living? Before New York?” 

“Yes and no.” The smile Rozanov gave him was definitely tighter this time. Before Shane could backtrack, figure out what he had said wrong, figure out why Rozanov was being so fucking weird about this, he had already rolled on top of Shane again. 

“And what about you?” His blue eyes glittered down at Shane. “In New York, mm? Where have you been living?” 

Shane opened his mouth, thrown off by the quick shift, from the weight of naked Ilya Rozanov on top of him, from the question he knew he was being fucking weird about answering. And still, nothing came out. 

Rozanov laughed, letting him off again. He leaned down to press an air light kiss to Shane’s mouth, already rolling away. “I will shower now.” 

“Oh,” Shane said, sitting up. “Right. I should… go.”

He was relieved to see that he had plenty of time before curfew, even though he had lost track in the delirium of the night. 

“Okay.” Rozanov watched Shane get up from the bed. And he stayed like that, standing nude in the room, smiling to himself as he watched Shane dress. Shane huffed out a laugh, willing his dick not to get hard yet again under the direct, brazen attention. 

He held his hands out after pulling on his sweatshirt, as if to say, there. Rozanov laughed softly, taking two short steps to stand eye to eye with him again. He pulled him forward by the sweatshirt, but kept a few inches distance between their bodies as he kissed him again. 

“Fucking text me in New York,” he said against Shane’s lips when they parted. 

Shane was smiling. He might never actually stop smiling. “Go take a shower.” 

The second guessing started in the car on the way back to his hotel, because that was the way Shane Hollander’s brain worked. He’d been moving through the night on adrenaline—which he realized only as he felt himself starting to crash. There had been confidence, too, from pride in himself and his performance. But now, his head starting to ache as he leaned it against the cool glass of the cab, the pride was slowly being overtaken by a pulsing sense of fear and confusion. 

He’d left thinking, I can’t believe that happened. The words stayed the same, now, but the inflection had changed.

I can’t believe that happened. 

He blew his breath out slowly, trying to take control of the buzzing under his skin. It was hard, when the same skin was still reverberating in all the places it had just been touched. 

Rozanov’s last words to him were all wrapped up in it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to text him, or see him, in New York. It was that it would feel real if he did. Especially after tonight, when there was no longer a plausible pretext of simply making new friends in a new city. And while he had to admit to himself that Shane was not an average straight guy—and there was no escaping that admission after tonight, after months of jerking off thinking about the memory of simply meeting Rozanov, after years of noticing in men in ways, it had to be said, he did not usually notice women—he couldn’t examine whatever he actually was. If there was a word for it, he wasn’t ready to use it. Not with the fear, now making him jittery, of being seen, of someone knowing, of what the fuck it would all mean. 

It was only later, after he had made it back to his hotel without running into anyone he knew, after the team boarded onto the plane the next morning, his teammates too hungover to even know what they had done themselves the night before, let alone anyone else, that he finally allowed himself to release the tension in his shoulders. It was only then that he let himself think about it again, and he was grateful beyond belief that no one could see into his mind as he rested his head against the window of the plane, thinking about the feeling of soft curls threaded through his fingers and hot skin under his lips.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to Ilya Rozanov for being my vessel for DC slander today. <3

PS. I have no idea how being a model works, though I did live down the street from Gigi Hadid. I’m going to use that as my permission to use artistic license with whatever the fuck Ilya’s career looks like.

Chapter 3: do you know that i’ve been holding my breath all of this time?

Chapter Summary

Happenstance, 1221, a disguise, All Stars, research, two little crabs, the view from a rooftop in Vegas.

Chapter Notes

January 2011, Toronto

Shane didn’t text him in New York, again. But, he rationalized, it was because of Christmas, and then the pounding spate of games in January leading up to the All-Star Game, which he would be attending for the first time. 

The last game before the break was in Toronto. And he was, actually, texting Rozanov. 

Shane had initiated this time, sending something tame about the movie he’d watched on the plane. They texted about that a lot, with both of them spending a lot of time traveling, and Shane had learned that Rozanov had an absolute dogshit taste in movies. Not that Shane’s taste was all that discerning, but he didn’t just choose the first one with an explosion or a bald guy on the cover. 

Rozanov had changed the subject to express consternation at the difference between American and Canadian dollars, and Shane was a moment away from launching into an explanation when the importance of the exchange actually hit him. 

Wait, are you in Canada?

IR
Yes Toronto

Shane stilled. It felt too serendipitous, for their schedules to match up again like it had in Los Angeles—twice in LA, if he counted the draft. For a split second he wondered if this had been on purpose, if the other man had somehow manufactured a reason to be here when the Admirals were. 

But that was absurd, and actually, pretty fucking arrogant of Shane. He already knew that Rozanov’s schedule was as crazy as his own, and it wasn’t like they regularly kept each other updated on their movements between random, sporadic texts about nothing. It was happenstance. Serendipitous, but happenstance. 

Me too. We have a game tomorrow.

IR
Really
I am still here from shoot
Leave tomorrow
Busy? 

If Shane had any doubts about Rozanov’s interest, the four texts in the span of thirty seconds helped dispel them. He chewed on his nail, struggling with how to answer—which was stupid. He had opened this up in the first place. He had asked about Canada. He had offered up that he was in Toronto, too. He had wanted Rozanov to know. 

A fifth text came in: the name of a hotel. 

Shane still wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but a look at a map showed that he could walk to the other hotel in less than ten minutes. And his roommate for the trip, O’Brien, was still out getting food with some of the other guys. There was no reason for anyone to know he had gone anywhere at all, if Shane was back by curfew. 

He made the walk in seven minutes, both because he was trying not to be seen, and because Toronto in January was fucking cold. 

Rozanov opened the door of room 1221 looking the same as he had five weeks ago in Los Angeles. He wore black sweatpants, this time, and his expression seemed bemused at the sight of Shane in front of him bundled into a puffer jacket and knitted hat. 

“Is this a disguise?” 

He stood back, letting him into the hotel room. It was bigger than the one in LA, but more impersonal. The only thing on the wall was a picture of a farmhouse, which Shane was pretty sure he had seen before in a hotel room in Pittsburgh.  

“What are you talking about? It’s a hat.” Shane pulled it off his head, self consciously raking his fingers through his short hair. 

Rozanov shrugged, leaning back against the wall to watch him unzip his jacket. “You look like you are trying to disguise.” 

“I’m wearing a hat and a coat because it’s freezing outside,” Shane said, wondering how and why the guy got such a kick out of being so fucking irritating, and why it seemed like Shane liked it so much. 

“Is it? Did not seem so bad to me,” Rozanov shrugged again. “Maybe Canadians do not know winter.”

“You realize that I’m Canadian, right? Which means that I actually know exactly how to handle a Canadian winter,” Shane argued, toeing off his shoes in the entry way. 

“Yes, I know, which is why I thought you would explain stupid coins, but now you are here trying to look like spy.” 

“I’m not trying to look like a—” Shane gave up. On bantering, on holding himself back. 

He pushed Rozanov against the wall, gratified by the grunt of air it pulled from him, and kissed him. His mouth opened immediately, and Shane shivered at the feel of his tongue. It had only been five weeks, but he had thought about this every single night, and most days, too, especially when he—-

He jolted back, grimacing at the sharp, earthy taste in his mouth. 

“Wait, you smoke?” 

Rozanov looked startled at the sudden end to the kissing, his hands hovering in the air where they had been gripping Shane a moment ago. 

His expression changed when he saw Shane’s frown, and he rolled his eyes, groaning loudly. “Oh my god. You are not serious.” 

Shane kept scowling, still repulsed by the unpleasant, unexpected taste. “Smoking is bad for you.”

The derision on Rozanov’s face might have made Shane back down a little, except he knew that he was fucking right. 

“You know what else is bad for you?” Rozanov reached up, cupping Shane’s chin with his thumb and index finger, not squeezing, but holding him in place. Shane felt a heat in his abdomen at being boxed in, at the eye contact as Rozanov leaned in close. 

“Concussions.” 

That was… fair. Still, Shane resisted, murmuring with his face still trapped in Rozanov’s hand. “I’ve never had a concussion.” 

Yet, he didn’t have to say. 

Rozanov studied him for a moment longer, keeping himself still, an inch between them at the most. “You don’t want to kiss me, then?”

Shane stayed silent, but his body betrayed him, leaning forward to cut the distance between their faces.  

“Ah ah, you don’t?” Rozanov squeezed his face, sharply, keeping him in place. Shane opened his eyes, looking up to meet the measured blue gaze before him. Rozanov squeezed again, gentler this time, expectant. 

“I want to kiss you,” Shane said, slowly, letting each word fall between them. 

This satisfied him. He kept his hand on Shane, pulling them together once more. This time, Shane ignored the taste of ash. After a few moments, he didn’t even notice it. 

One time together had apparently already been enough to learn some of each other’s rhythms, to develop some understanding of each other. This time, Rozanov stripped him first, watching with open amusement as Shane paused to fold his clothes before pushing him back onto the bed. 

This time, Shane’s mouth stayed exactly where it was when Rozanov came, letting himself taste everything, the way he’d been thinking about doing it since December. 

The only stutter came when they’d switched positions on the bed, Shane on his back, gripping the soft golden curls and trying to keep his voice down at the sensations caused by the man between his legs. Rozanov’s fingers roamed over his balls, then lower, and Shane froze. 

Rozanov stopped, too, and his head moved under Shane’s hands as he looked up at him. “Do you touch yourself here?”

“Uh. I.” Shane shifted, not uncomfortable, exactly, but Rozanov hadn’t moved his thumb away and it was hard to think about anything else besides the sensation of it. 

“Sometimes,” he admitted. 

“Do you want me to?” Rozanov kept his eyes on him even as his mouth dipped down again, kissing the base of his cock, and lower. 

“Uh,” Shane couldn’t think. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

“We do not have to.” Rozanov spoke, even as his mouth kept roving, around and over Shane’s skin, in places Shane never knew he would feel so sensitive, only because he had never been touched there before. Not like this. “If you do not want to.”

“I do want to,” he blurted out. He could feel his face getting hot, and he kept his eyes shut, breathing slowly so he didn’t come in the middle of a conversation about fucking. 

“Is okay if you are nervous.” 

Shane heard, and then felt, Rozanov shifting on the bed. He opened his eyes to see Rozanov hovering above him. 

“We do not have to,” he repeated. 

Shane’s eyes scanned his face, taking in the surprisingly earnest expression he saw before him. It was enough to draw forth a more honest answer than he might have otherwise given. “I’ve thought about it. I want to. But maybe not…” 

“Not tonight,” Rozanov agreed, leaning down to kiss him. “Not in Canada.”

Shane huffed out a laugh, too overcome with sensations to defend his home country, as he  watched Rozanov slide down the bed again. Still talking, because he was always talking. 

“Tonight, I will just touch your ass some more.” 

And he did. 

Shane was glad to see there was more than an hour before curfew when he was getting dressed again. Rozanov lounged on the bed, still naked, sprawled with his long limbs taking up the entire space. 

“You should quit smoking,” Shane said, absolutely picking a fight just to stop himself from staring. 

“Sorry, no English.” Rozanov rolled his eyes, dropping back onto the pillows dramatically. Shane laughed, and shook his head. 

“You can’t fool me. Your English is fine.” 

“You think?” Rozanov seemed to perk up some at this, sitting up again to consider Shane. “It is terrible language. Horrible rules, I have been learning for years.” 

“Yeah, it’s good.” Shane shrugged, pulling his shoes back on and bending to tie the laces. “Speaking more than one language is hard. I think my French has gotten way worse lately because I never get to use it, and I grew up speaking it.” 

“Oh, you speak French?” Whatever Rozanov wanted to say about this was cut off by a loud buzzing from the bedside table. 

Shane watched as he grabbed his phone, immediately losing his open, happy expression. The contrast was startling. He had never seen Rozanov scowl before, but there was no other word to describe the change in expression as he punched a button on his phone, ending the buzzing sound. 

The vibration started again a moment later, as Shane was tying his other shoe, and Rozanov hit the button again, shoving the phone under his pillow. He mumbled something under his breath, which made Shane look up out of instinct more than anything else. 

Rozanov looked back at him, and there was a strange expression on his face. “My fucking brother.”

Shane blinked, surprised at the admission, and also at the anger contained in three small words. 

“Is everything okay?” He asked cautiously as he stood up straight. 

The pillow muffled the sound of the buzzing phone, but didn’t extinguish it. Rozanov rolled himself away, grabbing his pants from where he’d dropped them on the floor, pulling them on. He was still frowning. “Just money, always fucking money.” 

Shane paused, for just one second, as he pulled his coat on. There was a lot in the statement, most of it confusing, but it wasn’t like he knew anything about Rozanov’s situation, or family, or life in general, really. He didn’t particularly want to pry, especially as Rozanov looked immediately regretful about letting this detail slip. But it put a new dimension to what had seemed, from afar, like a glamorous lifestyle of looking beautiful and flying around the world to different places to be photographed. 

He didn’t really know what to say, but in the end Rozanov didn’t give him much time to figure it out. 

“Enough,” Rozanov said, voice gruff, striding forward to take hold of the moment again. “Hollander, enough of this. Next time I make you come, it will be in New York City.” 

There was a joke to it, a swift one—clearly aimed at papering over the moment with the phone—but Shane knew that he was serious, and also that he was right. 

If Shane wanted this to continue, it couldn’t be based on happenstance, the serendipity of being in the same cities across a continent. And as confusing as this was to him, a blotch of strangeness in the otherwise orderly routine of Shane Hollander’s life, he wanted it to continue. He wanted next time. 

“Okay,” he said, pulling his hat on. 

Rozanov’s eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Wait, who is this strange man in my hotel?” 

Shane laughed, grabbing his arm to pull him back, even as Rozanov jokingly called for security. “Shut the fuck up.” 

He kissed him. The taste of cigarettes was gone. 

____

He had been looking forward to the All-Star Game all season, long before he knew he would actually be going. It was crazy to get the chance during his rookie season, but his numbers were what they were, and the Admirals were steadily climbing in the Eastern Conference. 

It was good to see his parents, too. They’d come to a few of his games so far—two in New York, then also the ones in Ottawa and Montreal—but his schedule hadn’t allowed for more than a lunch or dinner and a quick hello after the games. They had more time in Raleigh, even with Shane taking the first evening to spend with his team. 

It was awkward, to be so much younger than most of the other guys. They didn’t seem to care that he didn’t drink, but their comfort with each other—the easy rapport with which they shared stories, the groans about certain media personalities they’d encountered over the years, the quiet rumors that passed between them in gossipy undercurrents—would have been hard to break into, even if Shane was better at the social stuff. He stayed mostly quiet, laughing when he was supposed to, answering questions when asked, responding with his own when politeness called for it. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t what he thought it would be. 

He met Scott Hunter for the first time, for real, at the skills challenge. They’d had faceoffs against each other already, in two games this season so far, but had exchanged only a brief word, a nod. 

Today, Shane was side-by-side on the bench with him, minutes after breaking Hunter’s record in the shot accuracy competition. Shane was struggling not to be completely awkward about it, but Hunter seemed amused more than anything else. 

“Nice shooting, Rook.” 

“Uh, thanks.” Shane knocked his stick against the ground, watching the action on the rink in front of them. “It was only like a tenth of a second.” 

It had technically been 0.20 faster than Hunter. And Shane hadn’t been trying to break the record, really, just focusing on the targets and snapping the shots off as quick as he could. But the thing was, he thought he could actually go faster. If he’d had a reason to really try. 

He didn’t say that, though, because he wasn’t an asshole. 

“It was faster than that.” Hunter reached over to pat Shane’s shoulder with a gloved hand. “You can be proud of yourself, you know. You’re pretty fucking good, Rook.” 

Shane looked at him. He wasn’t always great at reading expressions, but Hunter was still smiling at him, still seemed amused. 

If Shane was honest with himself, he’d been kind of dreading this interaction. He didn’t know how he’d feel if he was Hunter, after what had happened with the Admirals, for a rookie to sweep in as a replacement only a couple of years later. But Hunter seemed to have no hard feelings. 

It probably helped that Boston was killing it this year. Or Hunter was just a genuinely good guy, as Vaughn was always saying. 

Shane finally admitted to himself, after the last night of the weekend, after he was back in his hotel room and done with a perfectly nice dinner with his parents, that the whole thing had been a bit of a letdown. He was glad he had gotten to play, of course, and would do it every time he got an invitation. 

But maybe he had just expected some kind of spark, some more specific excitement. Instead he just felt kind of alone. 
 

____

The weirdest part about New York City was that it started to fit. The team had felt right quickly, the coaches and the staff and his teammates, but he’d still been uncertain about the unknown map of the city, the crowds, the frenzy. 

Sometimes the crowds were still bad: his neighborhood on Saturday mornings when people swarmed the farmer’s market, or Times Square at any time. One time he had left MSG at the wrong moment and nearly caused a security incident trying to get back into the building and away from the rush of people outside of the exit he’d stumbled through. He was still getting used to the subway, and preferred to walk whenever he could, since he only took his car out to get to the practice facility. 

But once he figured out his own rhythms, it all kind of settled into place. 

The streets were quiet when he left for his run at 5:45. It took a little trial and error to pick a route he liked, but once he found it, it was easy to remember to widen his angle around the corner where there was always a line at the coffee cart, to turn left at the right intersection so he could cut through his favorite tiny park. Sometimes he would hit the river at exactly the perfect moment and stop, just for a moment, to take in the view of the sun on the water, feeling the weight of the city skyline behind him.  

The thing was, he had learned that there could be something soothing about blending into the crowd. There was a sense of anonymity he’d never anticipated, as one of millions on the streets of Manhattan. The sounds and rush of the city became manageable when he let himself become part of the wall of sound, the blend of people. He stopped trying to get through it—he let himself fall into it, instead. It felt surprisingly okay. 

____

He texted Rozanov three weeks after the All-Star Game, after the Admirals were back from a run of roadies and Shane had recovered from a minor muscle strain that left him sore for a long weekend. 

He spent a full day and a half trying to figure out what to say, and finally forced himself to hit send when a look at the calendar reminded him that he didn’t have unlimited windows of time if he really wanted this to happen. 

Want to hang out sometime?

IR
I am in la 

Shane stared at his phone. 

There was nothing unreasonable about the response. Of course there wasn’t. It made perfect sense that Rozanov wasn’t in town, because he had his own life and his own schedule, which wasn’t public, like Shane’s. But it felt like some cosmic joke that the first time he finally worked up the nerve to reach out in New York, the guy was across the country. 

IR
Oh did you want to hang out in new york?
Sad for you
;) 

Shane had already raised the hand holding his phone to throw it onto the couch so he didn’t have to read this bullshit, when it buzzed again. 

IR
Back next week
Come over Thursday?

Shane checked the schedule, just to make sure, before replying. 

OK.

____

The other thing Shane had done in the weeks since Toronto—since his realization that despite the millions of eyes in New York City, most of them passed right over the other people around them just going about their normal business—was research. 

Shane was good at research when he needed to be. He had to admit that he didn’t try new things as often as he probably should. But when he was actually interested in something new, he was always going to make sure that he understood how it worked. He might not always get it the first time, but Shane worked very hard to make sure he never made the same mistake twice. 

His internet searches embarrassed the fuck out of him. But it had to be done to get his mind wrapped around what he needed to know. And then he had gone even further, by forcing himself off the internet for at least part of the task: to secure the… thing (he fucking hated the word dildo) he wanted to try. 

Buying it online might have made more sense, but all he could think about was having it attached to his credit card online, having it show up on his bank statement, a permanent part of his financial history. His mom technically had his login information, though he didn’t know if she was actually checking up on his spending. He didn’t want to test the question. 

So instead he’d found a place in the Lower East Side and gone there on a Wednesday afternoon because he had no idea what day or time it was safest to go into a sex shop. 

His heart had been racing the entire time, and he’d kept a hat on, and the only thing he could think about was whether the bored-looking woman at the cash register was a hockey fan. But she barely looked at his purchase, let alone at him, before it was bundled into a boring brown paper bag and he was ducking his head on the brisk walk home. 

He had never been more grateful for the anonymity of New York City. 

Practicing, after that, had felt weird. But also not weird at all. It had made it hard to stop wondering what the real thing would feel like. He had thought about that, about Ilya, about the weight and shape of him, a lot. 

The depth of this anticipation made him feel hollowed out by the time he found Rozanov’s apartment on the appointed Thursday. It was a non-descript brick building on the Lower East Side, a long enough walk from Shane’s that he’d had time both to second guess himself and to also talk himself out of the corresponding spiral. 

There was no doorman, and the callbox had no names. Shane texted Rozanov from outside, waiting only a moment for the door to buzz open and to receive an apartment number—4B. He let himself in, ignoring the sweaty smear of his palm against the door handle. The threat of another spiral was hanging over him again, but the elevator ride was too short, and then he was in front of 4B, and then the door was opening. 

It had been less than six weeks since he’d last seen Rozanov. He didn’t look all that different from when they’d been in Toronto—might have even been wearing the same shirt and pants, in fact—but there was a new quality to him, anyway. 

Maybe it was Shane’s imagination. Maybe it was just seeing him in his home, instead of inside a hotel. He looked soft, almost blurred at the edges. Maybe he was just tired. But something about the look on his face as he stood in the doorway set off a slow glow of warmth inside of Shane. It was hard to tell if it eased his nerves, or if it made them worse. 

“Wow,” Rozanov said, giving Shane a once over, a now-familiar smirk twisting his lips. “Is a surprise to see you here.” 

“Whatever,” Shane said, toeing off his shoes in the entryway without being asked. He lined them up along the row of shoes already there. “I’m the one who texted you.” 

“That is the surprise.” Rozanov turned, beckoning him into the apartment. 

Shane looked around with curiosity. It was small, in the way all New York apartments were small, but well laid out. The kitchen was in a separate room, which Shane hadn’t seen much when looking at places last year. The living room was surprisingly spacious, though dominated by a large couch. A doorway at the other end clearly led to a bedroom, which Shane tried not to look at already, to spare himself from the onslaught of another spiral at the simple sight of a bed. 

The decor was surprisingly tasteful, almost bland, which somehow didn’t match up with the man in front of Shane. But he didn’t know what he’d been expecting—or why he was expecting anything specific. 

He had only met him three times, after all. Which was apparently enough time, in Shane’s mind, to consider the possibility of having his dick inside of him, but not enough time to imagine how he’d decorate his apartment. 

“So.” Rozanov stopped in the living room, turning to face Shane with his hands in his pockets. “You want to order food? Play on Xbox?” 

Shane blinked. He opened his mouth, pausing as he tried to figure out what to say. He was pretty sure Rozanov was kidding—texting for the last three months had given Shane a decent sense of his dumb, shitty humor. But what if he wasn’t? What if Shane had misunderstood? A couple of hotel hookups were one thing, but the thing had always been about new friends in a new city, hadn’t it? Was Shane about to make this whole thing incredibly weird? 

A pulse of mortification beat through him, and he tried not to think about the research he’d done, the specific, careful preparation he’d gone through tonight before coming here. It was pretty fucking cringeworthy, if he’d been wrong. 

Enough of this must have shown on his face for Rozanov to drop the joke, because of course that was what it had been: a joke. He didn’t laugh, but he made a sound close to it as he took a large step closer to Shane. 

“No… I know why you texted me. Was not for Xbox.” 

He reached up, gently grasping Shane’s face between his thumb and index finger, the same way he had in Toronto. Shane held his gaze, ignoring the wave of heat it brought into his cheeks, into his stomach. “I cannot refuse you, when you came all the way here for my cock.” 

Shane rolled his eyes, twisting to pull his face out of his grip. It didn’t work. “You’re an asshole.” 

“Asshole is why we are here, no?” Rozanov squeezed his face once and let him go, dropping both hands to Shane’s waist. His fingertips danced under the hem of his shirt, sending an involuntary shudder up Shane’s back. 

“Fuck off.” 

“I am actually trying to do that, Hollander.” He smirked, sliding his hands flat, fully underneath Shane’s shirt, and skimming up towards his ribs. 

“Jesus,” Shane had reached the end of his rope, half out of annoyance, half from a surge of energy from the contact on his bare skin. 

He pulled Rozanov in by the back of his neck, kissing him hard. It was awkward—Rozanov was smiling, and for a moment their teeth hit as they fought each other for the right angle of lips. They figured it out quickly.

It was just movement after that. It was making their way into the bedroom, Rozanov shifting sideways to lead them, ensuring they didn’t stumble. It was undressing each other, Rozanov pulling Shane’s shirt and pants off and draping them carefully over the back of a chair. It was the touch of soft sheets under his bare back, the bounce of the mattress when they dropped onto it together. It was hands and mouths and the hard feeling of pressing into each other. 

Shane was conscious of being steered. Rozanov’s hands were steady when he moved him into place, when he held him down by the hips and took him into his mouth. Shane couldn’t stop himself from arching into the contact, the feeling of the other man’s strong hands keeping him fixed down into the mattress only sharpening his arousal. 

After what felt like ages and simultaneously no time at all, the hands moved lower, away from Shane’s hips, slipping around to his ass, keeping their solid grip as they spread him apart. 

“Okay?” 

Shane only nodded, not trusting himself to open his eyes. The sensations were already almost too much, and he felt his entire body jolt—especially his dick—at the feeling of Rozanov’s thumb lightly brushing over his hole. 

“Oh fu–oh fuck.” He had already been gasping out from the touch when Ilya replaced his thumb with his tongue, and the sound that came out of Shane was one he wasn’t sure he’d ever made before. 

He pushed his head back into the pillow beneath him, squirming under the improbably good new feeling. Rozanov shifted his hands to hold him still again, pushing his legs back towards his shoulders. The position left Shane feeling so vulnerable, already so open; he had to breathe slowly to keep his brain from feeling like it was drifting outside of his body. 

His eyes were still squeezed shut when Rozanov eventually peeled one hand away. The click of the cap of the lube bottle followed a moment later, echoing into Shane’s head. But he was too relaxed to tense up in anticipation, already too open to do more than take a slow breath in when he felt one finger pressing into him. 

Rozanov knew how to keep him distracted. He kissed his way upwards again, drifting across Shane’s inner thigh and the crease of his hip before detouring to his dick. Shane groaned loudly when he took him into his mouth again. 

His hands were still steady as he worked Shane open, first with one, then two fingers. It was when he added the third finger that he found the angle he was looking for. He only pressed down lightly, but it was enough to make Shane draw his legs in, his hips twisting underneath Ilya’s torso. 

He thought he said something, and that it was loud, but it was hard to keep anything coherent in his head, let alone keep track of whatever was coming out of his mouth. He was somewhat conscious of Rozanov letting out a breath that sounded both like a laugh and also a little bit like amazement. 

“Is okay?” He had pulled himself up level with Shane again, tracing his lips over his neck as he breathed into his ear. 

Shane nodded, babbling something like yes, definitely, yes, please, as he shifted his hips, chasing the sensation. It was genuinely shocking that he hadn’t come yet. 

“You are ready, I think?” Rozanov’s voice was low, though it lifted in question. When Shane didn’t answer right away, still too distracted, Rozanov gently pulled his hand away. “Are you ready?” 

“Yes,” Shane huffed. As if it wasn’t fucking obvious. 

He finally opened his eyes to see Rozanov looking back down at him, vaguely amused. 

“Do not give me that look,” he said, reaching over Shane to open the drawer of his nightstand for a condom. “Like little crab.” 

“Are you seriously calling me a crab right now?” 

In some other situation, Shane thought that maybe bickering—or being called a fucking crab—right now might bother him, maybe even dampen his desire. But there was something about irritating Rozanov, and being irritated by Rozanov, that only felt like it stoked the embers inside him. 

Maybe it was the look the other man got on his face when they went back and forth like this. His brow narrowed, a slight squint to his blue eyes, like he was tracking Shane. It was exactly the way he was looking at him now. 

“Yes, because you are being crab.” Rozanov looked away long enough to open the condom, shifting back slightly to roll it on. He moved back into place after, leaning over to smile down at Shane. Shane was starting to recognize the expression as his “shithead” grin. 

“Don’t worry, little crab, I will give you what you need.” 

“You—” Shane’s protest was stifled as Rozanov shifted down, moving his torso over him at the same time as he pressed forward, slowly pushing into him. 

His arms came down on either side of Shane, his forehead resting to the side of Shane’s head. The sensation seemed to have gotten to him, too, from the way he took in a deep breath, sighing out into Shane’s ear. “Okay?”

Shane nodded, exhaling a stuttering breath. It was okay, it was more than okay. He had actually never felt anything more okay in his fucking life.  

It was being full, being filled, it was the feeling of Ilya’s body boxing him in, the swinging gold chain just above him, the hot puffs of air as he panted into Shane’s ear. It was gripping Ilya’s strong shoulders and back, digging his fingers in when they started moving faster, it was the lurch he got when Ilya angled their hips to push into him at exactly the right spot again. It was turning his body around, bracing his knees against the mattress as Ilya pushed into him deeper than before. It was Ilya smoothing a hand over his shoulders as he tensed, getting used to the change in position, pausing together for a moment before they found their new rhythm. 

It was utter fucking bliss. When he came, it felt strong enough to push out all of the buzzing inside his brain. His head had never felt clearer. 

They sank down into the mattress together afterwards, Ilya first pressing his chest against Shane’s back, then rolling them onto their sides. They lay together, catching their breath. Shane wasn’t sure he could move even if he tried. 

After a long moment, Ilya shifted just enough to pull out. Shane winced at the odd sensation, but allowed himself to be distracted by being pulled back against Ilya’s chest again. They were both sweaty, and Shane was sticky both in the front and in the back, but surprisingly, he wasn’t bothered by the strange sensation. Instead he let himself rest, enjoying the rare, loose feeling in his shoulders and neck. 

“Hollander,” Ilya’s voice was a low rumble, just behind his ear. 

Shane smiled as he hummed in response, already hearing an undercurrent of mischief in the three syllables. 

Ilya moved his mouth closer, lips brushing against his earlobe. “Where the fuck do you live?” 

Shane laughed, ducking his head away from the tingling feeling, even as Rozanov gripped him around the abdomen to keep him close. “I’m not being weird about it. It’s not that far from here.” 

“How far is not far?” Ilya’s hands moved flat, one palm skimming up Shane’s chest to rest on his pec, while the other moved down his stomach. He leaned back into the solid touch, feeling grounded by the unfamiliar hold. 

“I don’t know. Twenty blocks?” Shane bit down on his own shithead grin when he felt the weight of Rozanov’s judgment at this vague, bullshit response.

Rozanov squeezed his pec. “You want me to get map and draw circle, find you inside of it?” 

“I don’t know why you’re being so weird about where I live, Rozanov,” Shane tilted his head back, smiling pleasantly at the man behind him. 

Rozanov squinted down at him, eyes tracking Shane. “Oh, I am the weird one.” 

He didn’t respond, because then they were kissing again. It was less heated than before, almost lazier, but it distracted them for several long minutes before they pulled apart again. 

The stickiness on Shane’s body was starting to make itself known to his brain. Rozanov may have felt similarly uncomfortable, as he slowly shifted away to sit up on the side of the bed. 

Shane did the same, wincing slightly as he moved towards the opposite side of the bed. It wasn’t pain—just a new tenderness that he’d never experienced before, even after a lifetime of muscle aches throughout his body. 

He sat up slowly, stretching his back out as he surveyed the room around him. It was a lot like the rest of the apartment: small, neat and clean, a bit impersonal. A curtain was drawn over the single window in the room, but judging from the layout—and if Shane had kept his sense of geography when he entered—he thought the window would look down onto the quiet street at the front of the building. 

“This is a nice place,” he remarked, gently rolling his head back and forth over his shoulders. 

“Mm,” Ilya said from behind him, shifting the mattress as he slowly stood up. “Yes. It was my friend Svetlana’s, but she is in LA half the time now.” 

“Oh, that’s cool. Where does she live when she’s here now?” He didn’t even mean anything by it—he was just curious, because it was a nice place, because he was interested in New York apartments after living here for half a year and starting to get a feel for the real estate options around the city. He was distracted, too, by the boneless feeling in his back and neck. 

“Here.” The response was absent, from halfway across the room. 

“Oh.” And there they were, his spine and ribcage, back again. He was so, so grateful that his teeth came back, too, biting down on the words but there’s only one bed before they could escape from his mouth. 

There was a long pause, and all he could think about was the ache in his asshole and the growing pain in his stomach, because the only explanation of a friend named Svetlana staying here while in New York was that they both shared this one bed, the one where Ilya had just fucked Shane. 

“Is she your girlfriend?” He was proud that his voice came out sounding normal, albeit far away from the rest of his body. He wasn’t sure full eye contact would be possible at the moment, but he turned over his shoulder, looking out of the corner of his eye at Rozanov. 

Rozanov didn’t laugh, nor did he scoff at the idea. He just shook his head. He was still naked, rooting around in the narrow bedroom closet for something. 

“No, is not like that. She is close friend, just fucking sometimes.” 

Shane let this sink into him like it was a normal explanation, like it was something he could relate to. 

Maybe he was supposed to. 

Because maybe this was a normal explanation. Maybe that was what Rozanov did with all his friends. After all, that’s what he had said from the start, right? Is hard to make friends in new city. So we will be friends. 

The come on his abdomen and the lube on his thighs and ass were now impossible to ignore. Shane shifted to get up. “I should…” 

But he didn’t move right away. He still felt tender, below and inside, and now he felt shellshocked, too. 

If Rozanov noticed, there was literally no way to tell. He waved his hand dismissively at Shane as he walked away from the closet, apparently unsuccessful in whatever he had been searching for. 

“Hollander, take a shower. Are you hungry? Do you want food? I am fucking starving, you made me work like professional athlete.” 

Shane was still, watching him leave and drift out to the living room, naked. The offer was unexpected, and he couldn’t decide how or whether to take it. Part of him wanted nothing more than to escape this place—Svetlana’s place—as fast as he could. The other part wanted to stay as long as Rozanov would let him. Shane hated that part, a little bit, because it was patently obvious that it could not be allowed to exist. 

Rozanov made the choice harder, or easier, depending on how he looked at it. He came back into the room, triumphant smirk on his face, and tossed Shane a clean towel. 

“I want Chinese food,” he announced, hands on his hips, dick out for the world to see. 

And when he stood there like that, with his hair wild and frizzy, shithead grin and all, it was impossible not to obey. Shane didn’t know if choosing to stay was actually a conscious choice at all, or simply the path of least resistance. All he knew was that he would do it. 

He took a deep breath, gripping the towel as he stood from the bed. “Order some fucking vegetables, please.” 

When he left later, after midnight, full of tofu with vegetables and brown rice and still aching with a new kind of soreness, he wondered if this was what being an adult was supposed to be like. Was that the right thing to call it, these acts of pushing against other people, and then leaving the difficult things unchallenged, the strange discomforts left unacknowledged? 

For months, since he’d left home, it had seemed like he was learning to pretend and to perform in new ways every day. Perhaps this was just the newest step. 

He’d done some of it himself, tonight, too: creating a discomfort that had been left unacknowledged. He wanted to think it wasn’t because of what had happened before, the residual unsteadiness after the shared bed revelation. But that probably would have been a lie. 

“Hey, you can’t tell anyone about this,” he had said, just before Rozanov ate a dumpling. His eyes had jumped up to Shane as he chewed, watching carefully as Shane dropped his own gaze to the coffee table. “I’m not… nobody can know about this, that’s all.” 

Rozanov waited a long moment to speak, even after he swallowed his food. “You think I would tell?” 

“No,” Shane said, though his shoulders shrugged. “I’m just saying. Just in case.” 

Rozanov nodded. They were both quieter, then, and for awhile Shane was mad at himself for the bad, blunt phrasing he had chosen. 

But still, it had been true—no one could know, and they’d never talked about that directly before. So it had been important to say it. It didn’t matter that his head also kept drifting back to the one bed, that maybe he’d been sharp because of the sharpness he had felt. 

And anyway, they’d been fine when Shane left. Rozanov had kissed him and squeezed his ass, which made Shane jump and punch him in the arm exactly as hard as he deserved in retaliation. Shane had agreed to text him when he was free, and Rozanov had joked about finding Shane’s apartment to steal his Rolex. All fine. 

Still, Shane found himself indulging in the childish urge for a wish, as he walked the roughly 20 blocks to his apartment. 

He wished he could go back just a little bit, just for a little longer, to the moment when they were pressed against each other, breathing together, Ilya’s hands gripped solidly around him, grounding him, keeping him. 

There wasn’t anything to wish on, though. He couldn’t see the stars. 

____

They hooked up twice more before the end of Shane’s season. Both times at Rozanov’s place again, both times as good as the times that came before. At least it was for him—each time, he thought he had never come so hard in his life, and the next time he was proven wrong. He thought it was good for Rozanov, too, judging from the sounds he made as Shane worked him deeper into his throat. 

But the second time, sometime in mid-April near the end of the regular season, Rozanov seemed different. Not during the sex, but before and then again, after. Shane knew his frame of reference was limited—he barely needed a second hand to count the number of times they’d been around each other in person. But there seemed to be more distance, less humor. He was making less eye contact. 

It hadn’t been like that when they fucked. Rozanov had gripped him tightly at the hips and shoulders, like Shane was the only thing grounding him. And there had been eye contact. A lot of it. 

But after, a switch had flipped. Rozanov had withdrawn into himself, even while holding Shane against him for a long moment as they both caught their breath. It was getting to be a familiar position, Shane’s back pressed against his chest, their chests rising in tandem, quick at first and then slowing down together. The hand holding him in place this time was lighter, just resting on his abdomen. 

And it was gone much sooner than Shane would have liked, as Rozanov rolled away first. He sat on the bed for a long moment before inclining his head towards the shower. 

Shane’s first, self-conscious thought was to wonder if he’d done something to change the mood between them. 

But then, he reasoned, maybe everything wasn’t about him. 

He thought about the buzzing phone in Toronto. He’d thought of it several times, since the night he’d seen a first glimpse of something secretly tucked away beneath Rozanov’s annoying jokes and the perfect symmetry of his face, both of which he obviously used to maximum advantage. Shane remembered the brief look he had gotten at the real part underneath. He still wondered why Rozanov had let him see it. 

And Shane thought about the commonalities in the lives they both led: the long flights, the busy days in new places, coming back tired to an empty apartment. It was a feeling he was growing used to, but sometimes the hollow feeling was hard to shake. He thought he sensed an echo of it in Rozanov tonight. 

They’d both finished showering now, and Shane was debating whether or not he should leave. Rozanov wasn’t rushing him out, but he wasn’t exactly inviting him to stay. He wasn’t doing much of anything, simply sitting on the couch and sorting through a pile of mail that had been waiting on the coffee table. 

Shane was hovering in the doorway of the bedroom, taking too long to pull his sweatshirt back on, running his hand through his damp hair. He couldn’t decide if it was better to give him space, or to try and erase it. 

He decided to leave the choice in Rozanov’s hands. 

“Are you hungry? I could run down and grab some food.” 

It was the first time either of them had spoken since groaning through their orgasms, which now felt like it had been a long time ago. 

Rozanov turned sharply at the broken silence, blinking at Shane. The expression on his face was tight, making him all cheekbones and furrowed brow. 

Shane was immediately aware that he had made the wrong decision. He opened his mouth to backtrack, stumbling on the words that would allow him to make a hasty retreat. 

But Rozanov cut him off before he could try. “I want McDonald’s.” 

“Wait, what?” Shane blanched. He thought he was getting used to the ways in which Rozanov could throw him off so suddenly, but every time, every single fucking time, it seemed like the man found a new trick to shake Shane all the way to his foundations. “Are you fucking serious? I am not getting you fucking McDonald’s.” 

If Shane had sensed any dullness in Rozanov’s expression before, it was gone, replaced by a familiar glint in his eye, the casual way his chin tilted up. 

Shane was already shaking his head at the bullshit he knew was about to come his way.  

“Oh,” Rozanov said, the sound heavy with drama. “You think because I am model, I should not have a burger? You want me to be only bones?” 

It was preposterous enough, offensive enough, that Shane could only sputter in response. Because of course he didn’t think that, of course Rozanov was just fucking with him, but Shane—who was meticulous about the plan developed with the team’s nutritionist, who knew that the control he exerted over what went into his body could easily dip the wrong way—hated the implication anyway. 

They had never talked about this before, but he had wondered once or twice what it was like to live in a body so focused on aesthetics instead of athletic performance. Rozanov made it look easy—his ass alone was probably only possible as a gift from some ancient deity. But Shane knew it couldn’t have actually been easy, at all. He thought that he would probably go to pieces under the pressure of it, if it had been him. 

“No, I don’t think you should have McDonald’s because it’s fucking gross,” he gritted out, leaving the rest of the conversation alone. 

Rozanov groaned, flinging himself back onto the couch. “You are going to get something disgusting, boiled chicken and salads.” 

“That would be better than fucking McDonald’s.” Shane kept up his end of the banter, but he felt oddly proud that he had managed to swing the pendulum of conversation, had managed to nudge Rozanov’s mood back into its rightful position as endearing dickhead. He had never been good at reading people or getting situations right, but it seemed that he was learning something here. “Where are your keys?” 

Shane compromised, and brought back tacos. They ate over the coffee table, the pile of mail shoved out of the way. When he left again later, this time to go home, the cloud over Rozanov didn’t seem as dark anymore. 

____

June 2011, Las Vegas

He won Rookie of the Year. 

Like with the draft, he never took it for granted. It had not, in fact, been granted at all—it had been earned, and not very easily. 

The past year had been the hardest one of his life so far. He’d always worked hard, but the words had taken new shape since the beginning of the season. The hours at the gym and on the ice, the miles logged in the air, the mental energy spent on analyzing plays and game tape, the reps he’d put in, over and over again. 

It had culminated in so much already, including the Admirals’ first appearance in the playoffs in two years, even if they’d just eked their way in, even if they’d lost in five games in the first round. 

Shane knew his stats, knew they would speak for themselves, but he still hadn’t counted on it. Other things could happen. Lemaire and Korogyi had had decent seasons, too. 

But other things hadn’t happened, and this trophy, at least, belonged to Shane. 

“I am so proud of you,” his mother had said when she squeezed him, hard, after the ceremony. 

He was surprised at the tremor of emotion he heard. His mom had always been the solid one—more prone to losing her voice from cheering at his games, sounding hoarse as she gave him her recap afterwards. 

His dad was the one who sometimes got choked up, needing to take a moment to clasp his shoulder as he kept the well of sentiment in control. Shane had always loved this about him. He was never self-conscious about it, only a little sheepish. But the easy way his father held his emotions out in the open had always made it easy for Shane to lean into him when there was a need for it. 

His mom held him together in a different way. It was stronger—and therefore harder, sometimes—but Shane never doubted the fierce love that drove everything that she did for him. It had been harder this year, with the distance. He could tell that she’d been holding herself back sometimes, maybe trying not to be overbearing, maybe out of a fear that pushing would push him too far away. He knew it had been difficult for her, even if he’d slowly found himself adjusting to the distance, feeling a slight release from the pressure of her attention. 

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, pressing his head against hers. He wished he had more words, better words, that would express the depth of his gratitude for them. That he missed her, too. 

Next to them, his dad sniffed once, and cleared his throat. 

The party was different from the atmosphere at the All-Star Game. It was both more buttoned-up—the suits and spouses were doing a lot of work there—and looser, with the season over, the summer coming, and most of the attendees riding the high of success. 

No one was more ready to celebrate than the Boston Bears. 

Shane couldn’t blame them. Winning the Cup was reason enough, but the performance they’d put in even after losing Hunter to a shoulder injury in Game 3 had been admittedly impressive. 

Hunter seemed fine enough tonight, wasn’t even wearing a sling. Shane wondered how he was feeling about the whole thing, or more accurately, how Shane would feel in his position. 

A Cup win was obviously what they’d all dreamed about since the prospect of joining the league had even entered into their minds as tiny hockey players. But was winning the Cup enough on its own, without putting in the individual performance of his life? Hunter had played well, sure. Not MVP level, but still good, until the shoulder. Shane just didn’t know how he’d feel, if it was him. He thought he might have been fixated on the things he could have done better. On getting a few more goals or assists, at least.   

Shane knew he was being shitty, probably jealous, too. Hunter had obviously helped get his team into the position of getting to the Cup finals in the first place (even if he hadn’t even been the points leader on his team). And it wasn’t like there was some competition or rivalry between the two of them. Hunter was actually an extremely nice guy, which he demonstrated again after the awards. 

“Hell of a season, Rook,” he said, resting up next to Shane against the bar. “Congrats.” 

“You too,” Shane replied promptly. “Sucks about the shoulder.” 

Hunter nodded, looking somewhat rueful. “Yeah. Can’t be too mad about how it ended up, though. I have a feeling you’ll see what I mean soon enough, too.” 

“Not about the shoulder,” he clarified, smiling at Shane. “I mean about the Cup.” 

It was a nice thing for him to say, and Shane felt bad again for being shitty about Hunter’s stats. 

“I don’t know if I’d be thinking about New York getting a Cup if I were in your position,” he said, evading the direct ray of Hunter’s compliment with a self-deprecating smile. “But thanks.” 

“You know what, good point. I take it back. Let me get you a shot, though? We can find all the rookies and gather up some other guys, too.” Hunter turned around to face the bar, looking for the bartender, simultaneously waving over a mixed group of players from Boston, New York, Chicago, and Minnesota. 

Shane hadn’t done shots outside of a handful of ill-advised parties in the summer before he left Canada, and he wasn’t exactly keen to do one now. But he couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. So he lifted his arm up to return the hearty back pat he got from Vaughny when he draped himself between Shane and Scott, and allowed himself to be drawn in by his teammate. 

He regretted it a little while later, when the two shots taken in quick succession had fully hit him. 

His head felt like it was underwater, and the tie around his neck suddenly seemed like it was constricting his airway. He excused himself from Hunter and Vaughn, who were mid-conversation about their offseason plans, which mostly consisted of Vaughn describing the various all-inclusive resorts he had considered before selecting one in Mexico. Hunter waved him off as he escaped from the conversation. 

He found his way on the roof out of instinct more than a clear plan, driven solely by the prospect of fresh air. No one was there when he emerged from the elevator, an empty expanse in front of the railing that separated him from the Las Vegas skyline. Shane carefully rested his arms against it, leaning down to touch his forehead to the cool metal. 

He had no reason to be weird about any of this. Literally no reason. 

He could not have asked for a better start to his hockey career. He had been drafted first overall. He liked his team. His team liked him. They had made it to the playoffs in his first year in the league, and despite the first round loss, the prevailing mood in the locker room had been sheer excitement for the future. He had scored so many fucking goals, he’d broken a record for most points by a teenager. He had taken home a major award at the first NHL awards he had ever attended. 

There was no reason to be freaking out, if only his brain would understand that. 

Because what was it for, he kept asking himself. What did it all mean, if he was just going to end up on a rooftop alone, trying to ignore the buzzing in his head that had only gotten worse with the two shots he’d somehow let Scott Hunter talk him into taking? 

What was wrong with him, that he always ended up here, alone, separating himself from the people who cared about him, who he cared about? Why did he always do that? 

He tried to breathe his way out of the sudden spiral—in and out, slow, letting the cool desert air settle over him. After a long moment, he felt the tension gradually loosen. When he was sure nothing would spin, he stood up straight. 

He almost didn’t see it when he lifted his head. It was partially hidden from view, at a weird angle relative to the rooftop. He had to crane his neck over the railing to see it more clearly, to make sure that it was really what he thought it was. 

But yes, it was. 

Shane stared at the ad. Ilya stared back, his chin tilted down, legs stretched out, in a pose that felt inexplicably familiar. He looked fucking perfect in the suit, or pants and shirt, or shoes, or whatever he was there to help sell. 

Shane’s heart was soaring, absurdly. It was pride, maybe, at seeing the tangible marker of the man’s success that had brought him here, to a giant Hugo Boss ad on the side of a building. It was more than that. It was feeling a little like Rozanov was here with him, on this rooftop in Las Vegas. 

He brought his phone up, holding it out steadily over the railing, and carefully snapped a picture. He opened the text thread with IR, dormant since the beginning of playoffs, and added the picture to a new message. 

Saw you in Vegas. 

Shane told himself that it was probably a timezone thing when there was no response by the time he folded himself into bed. But there was still nothing when he woke up. 

A reply finally came hours later, when Shane was at the gate waiting with his parents to board the first flight on the trip that would eventually take them back to Ottawa. He’d put the phone in his bag, trying not to fixate on the lack of response. 

But he pulled it out again when it buzzed. 

IR
I wish you did

Shane thought about this message a lot that summer. 

Chapter End Notes

This extra long chapter is a meditation on this line from HR:

We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together. We will keep climbing until no one can reach us, but it will always be together.

(Also, I stand by my belief that Shane, in the absence of having Ilya in the league, would seek out or create competition where he could—and that means he is kind of a shit about Scott Hunter.)

Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos much appreciated!

Chapter 4: it's just what you do

Chapter Summary

Gifts from Canada, slashing, secrets revealed, running, unpleasant finds in the top drawer, consolation and celebration with Carter Vaughn

Chapter Notes

Time jumps incoming.

I could actually write them in this early period forever, but there is much more to come, and I don’t want to get stuck in 2012—I lived through it in real time and I don’t need to go back.

IR
Reebok
So boring
Adidas is better.

You’ve never done anything for Adidas.

IR
How do you know?
Stalker
I would die for adidas if they let me :(

How’s your summer going?

IR
Busy
How is Canada?
I already know…
So boring

This is a fun conversation. 

IR
Obviously for you
You have nothing else to do.
Hey did you get free shoes?

Yeah. 
And socks. 

____

November 2011, New York City

Shane had been plagued by the idea that he would end up in a slump during his second year in the league. It had preoccupied him throughout the summer, to the point that he’d found a new trainer in Ottawa, had worked on his endurance and bulking up a little more than usual as fall approached. 

By the time he was back in New York, he had a new PR for his fastest mile, an even sharper backhand, and nearly ten pounds of added muscle. 

Rozanov slapped his ass immediately upon seeing him in September. 

“What is all of this, Hollander? You got this in Canada?”

Now it was six weeks into the season, and he’d held off the sophomore slump so far. If anything, he felt like he was just ramping up. They were still figuring out the right configurations of the first and second lines, but the chemistry between most of them was decent, especially with him and Vaughn. He’d gotten more comfortable with his teammates off the ice, too—it might have helped a bit, crossing out of his teens and into his 20s. Carter wouldn’t shut up about taking him to his favorite bars in the city, but Shane was still putting him off until he was actually legal to drink in the country they lived in. 

The other routines had settled, too. The early morning runs were back, as were the regular calls to his parents to check in. 

And there was Rozanov. It was a stretch to say they had any kind of regular cadence, but they had picked up on whatever had started last year—texting about nothing, finding common gaps in their schedule when they were both in New York to meet at Rozanov’s apartment. 

Shane had learned something about himself, the first time they saw each other in the fall. 

He’d second-guessed himself a lot over the summer, when there was distance from the whole thing, when he thought about what it would mean if anyone found out—or even without anyone else knowing about it, what the whole thing meant for him. The words rattled around in his head the whole time he was at home, the shitty ones he’d heard in the locker room his entire life, the ones that already made him feel sick and uncomfortable whenever they were used as weapons, even long before he’d ever thought about them applying to him. 

It got to the point that he thought about pulling back when he got back to New York. Back to the original plan: new friends in a new city. 

Then September came, and Rozanov was slapping his ass and talking shit about Canada, and Shane was pushing him against the wall and shoving his pants off before even making it down onto his knees. 

It was crucial information to learn about himself. First, even if he didn’t want to tell the world about it, he liked sucking dick too much to stop now. And second, the original plan had never been to just be new friends in a new city. 

Today had been an easy one—a late home game last night gave him the morning to himself, yoga and an easy run for recovery. He’d picked up smoothies before going over to Rozanov’s apartment. They hooked up on the couch first, while the cups waited on the kitchen counter, condensation dripping off the sides, the liquids and solids inside slowly separating. 

Shane was still annoyed at the consistency while he stirred the drink, fully clothed once again. They sat perpendicular to each other, Rozanov’s legs stretched out to rest on the coffee table; Shane with his back against the arm of the couch, legs stretched out towards the other man. The shitty smoothie hadn’t bothered Rozanov. His empty cup had long been abandoned to rest on the coffee table close to his feet. 

Shane was over-explaining hockey again. He genuinely tried not to—he knew it was an annoying habit. It was also bad for his tendency to fixate on minute aspects of his performances. 

But sometimes he couldn’t help it. And Rozanov always indulged him, always let him talk through something that had bothered him in a game or was giving him trouble in practice. He never really responded, though he loved the stories where Shane looked stupid. He always seemed to coax those out even when Shane was trying to avoid thinking or talking about them, which was fucking annoying. 

Today, Shane was fixating because the slashing penalty on him last night had been bullshit. Rozanov was indulging him while he over-explained, again, but Shane had no idea how much indulgence and over-explanation were actually happening until he paused to explain what “slashing” meant. 

“I know what slashing is,” Rozanov waved his hand absently, rolling his eyes at Shane. “Was definitely slashing, by the way.” 

“Wait, wha— no, it fucking was n— wait, what?” Shane stopped and started several times, immediately pulled out of his diatribe. “You do?” 

Rozanov shrugged like it was nothing. “Obviously.” 

When Shane said nothing, continued to just stare at him, Rozanov gifted him with another shrug and sidelong glance. 

“I played hockey for many years, Hollander.” 

He said it like it was common knowledge, like it was something Shane should have known about him already, like it was something that had come up at any point during the year and a half since they’d met, more than half of that time spent actively fucking. Like they’d ever talked about it during any of the times Shane had said anything about his life, his team, his games. 

Of course it had never come up before. And Rozanov knew it, Shane could tell. 

He was looking at Shane in that challenging way, like he sometimes did when he was daring Shane to call him out. But his body was still, braced for impact. Guarded, because he knew he had just given out a new piece of himself that Shane had never seen before. 

If there had ever been any hint of it, Shane would have remembered. 

(He remembered everything about Rozanov, latched onto every detail he had ever noticed, or picked up, or was gifted with. If there had ever been any hint about hockey, he would have seized upon it. The combination of Rozanov and hockey would have been impossible for his brain to ignore. 

As it was, he was having difficulty keeping his thoughts together.) 

“What the fuck?” He shook his head, still trying to process this world-bending new detail. 

And yeah, he was mad to not know for an entire year, and embarrassed, a little, because he was pretty sure he’d explained the icing rule once. But more than any of that, he was really fucking curious. 

“Until when?” It was the first question that came to mind, the first of about a thousand. 

“Fourteen, maybe fifteen.” Rozanov seemed to understand that giving up the admission also meant he would have to submit to at least some further questions. Shane planned to take full advantage of this indulgence for as long as it lasted. 

“What position?”

“Usually center.” He shifted, pulling his legs off the coffee table as he moved to mirror Shane’s positioning against the opposite arm of the sofa. “Sometimes wing. I could play anything, probably. Never played goalie but probably could.” 

Rozanov was just talking, like he was always just talking. And it was bullshit, like it was always bullshit, but also, it wasn’t. 

His posture was relaxed, arms draped along the back of the couch, legs sprawled out before him. But Shane could sense the tension in him. Shane had never felt more aware of him, actually, and he’d swallowed his load less than an hour ago. 

His body felt like it was tingling as he thought about it. Rozanov playing his position. In gear, big hands wrapped around a stick, the same squinted look tracking him from across center ice. Playing against him. Playing with him. 

“Were you good?” Shane was blunt, because he didn’t currently have the mental capacity to speak with any more tact. 

“Mm.” He inclined his head. “Very good.”

Shane watched him shift again, drawing his leg in so his knee rested against the back of the couch. There was only a hint of mischief in his expression. 

“So good I would have been number one draft pick.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said reflexively. 

There was something about the way he said it, though, with the silent, bone-deep confidence that so often filtered into Rozanov’s statements and his movements, the way he carried himself forcefully through the world. 

Shane actually believed him. And, inexplicably, he was kind of getting hard. 

“Why did you stop?” 

The change was minute, but Shane immediately knew it was probably going to be the last question. He watched the wall came down. 

Rozanov shrugged, shaking his shoulders into the motion, loose-limbed again. He didn’t answer for a long time, so long that Shane thought he might not answer at all. He clearly didn’t want to. 

“I was a very angry teenager,” he said finally. “Stopped following the rules. Didn’t want to anymore.” 

Shane let that sit between them, despite the other questions on the tip of his tongue. What did that mean? What rules? Didn’t want to follow the rules, or didn’t want to play? Did he decide, or did someone else decide for him? Shane was familiar with the authority figures that exerted themselves over young athletes, treating them like they were instruments to be pushed and pulled in any direction, regardless of their own choices.

He’d learned so little about this man over the past year and a half, about the life he’d had before New York, the life he went back to occasionally in Russia. Shane knew that modeling had come soon after, when he was sixteen, and it had set him off on a different professional journey.  

Maybe the two things were connected—one thing began, so another had to end. Maybe it had been the other way around. One thing ended, so another thing had to begin. 

It turned out there was one more question he couldn’t stop himself from asking. 

“When was the last time you skated?” 

Rozanov looked up at him, blinking, and held his gaze for a moment. “A few years ago.”

“Would you ever want to?” Shane didn’t know what he was asking, but he was going to keep going until Rozanov made him stop. 

The man across the couch snorted, and Shane saw his window of opportunity for more questions squeeze down to nothing. “Oh, are you going to take me to Rockefeller Center, Hollander?” 

Shane didn’t say anything, because yeah, he had been thinking about what it would be like to skate together. He knew he couldn’t say it, though. 

He didn’t know what to say at all. The information had been too earth-shattering, he didn’t think he had it in him to keep up the usual pace of their banter. Instead, he simply looked. 

Rozanov didn’t. He looked everywhere except at Shane, twisting himself around again to face the coffee table, grabbing his phone and touching his thumb to the screen to turn it on, even though Shane could tell there was nothing there to see. 

After a while, Shane found the words to break the silence. 

“Do you… watch hockey?” 

He had never really considered this. It was true that Rozanov had referenced his games before, sometimes even with specificity—but Shane had always assumed he’d caught a show or a clip on ESPN, maybe gone so far as to check the website. He had never actually thought about Rozanov sitting through a game and watching the whole thing. And certainly not watching as someone who knew what slashing was. Not as someone who said, as believably as Shane had ever heard it said, that they could have made it to the NHL. 

Rozanov dropped the phone into his lap, but still didn’t look at Shane. He shrugged. “Sometimes. If there is a good game.” 

He continued before Shane could ask what made a game good and how often one of them featured the Admirals. 

“Svetlana is the one who does. She knows everything about hockey. Her father is Sergei Vetrov, famous goaltender for Soviet team. He played in Boston for many years.” 

Shane’s shoulders shifted back at the sudden name drop, the sudden redirect of this already astounding conversation. If Rozanov had deployed it as a way of getting Shane off-balance, it fucking worked. 

He had done his best not to think about Svetlana in the several times he’d been in her apartment, though there had never been any sign of her any time he’d been there. Still, the worry occasionally resurfaced, the concern that he was doing something wrong when he came here, like he was intruding in a space where he shouldn’t have been. Her sudden appearance in the conversation didn’t help the feeling. 

“Oh, cool.” His voice sounded pretty normal, to his own ears. “I know who he is.” 

He brought the smoothie back up to his mouth, chewing on the straw instead of taking a sip of the lukewarm drink.

“She still follows Boston,” Rozanov continued. His foot knocked his own empty cup off the coffee table as he stretched his legs out. He ignored it, though Shane’s eyes followed the movement. “Not a fan of Scott Hunter. She says his style does not fit with the rest of the team.” 

Shane actually agreed with this, though the team’s recent Cup win was obvious and compelling evidence to the contrary. He hated that the observation piqued his interest about Svetlana, though. He hadn’t had this conversation with anyone else, couldn’t stop his curiosity at the reasons behind her take.

“But she likes you very much.” Rozanov rolled his head on his shoulders to look at Shane. 

“What?” Startled, Shane pulled his mouth away from the straw. He blinked at Rozanov, who smirked. 

“Don’t act surprised, is not a good look. You know your numbers.” He waved a dismissive hand at Shane. 

The idea that Rozanov had talked to Svetlana about Shane, maybe just about New York Number 24 Shane Hollander, but maybe also about Shane, was too much for him to grasp. Svetlana, the close friend with fucking sometimes, knew who Shane was, too. 

“Does she know that you know me?” He didn’t know how to ask what he wanted to; it was the best he could come up with. 

“No.” Rozanov said, simply. 

The single word swung the pendulum of Shane’s emotions hurtling in the opposite direction—because of course Rozanov wouldn’t have told her about the guy he hooked up with in her apartment. Why would he? Shane was also a friend with fucking sometimes, probably one of many, though it wasn’t like they talked about it, but he wasn’t stupid, he had eyes, and Rozanov was—

“You said not to tell.” When Shane looked up, Rozanov was still looking at him, eyes narrowed slightly this time. 

There was a thread in his voice that sounded almost accusatory, and Shane wondered if they were both thinking of the awkward drop in the conversation a few months ago when the subject had first come up. Though it couldn’t have bothered Rozanov that Shane had asked him not to tell anyone—why would it? It wasn’t like he would want everyone to know about this, either. 

Shane’s head was starting to hurt with the number of weird revelations that he’d been pelted with in the span of about fifteen minutes. All he could do was nod in response. He sat quietly, trying to process just some of what had happened today, as he chewed on his straw again. 

A moment later, though, something else occurred to him. 

“You clearly don’t know what slashing is if you thought that was slashing.” 

“Hollander!” Rozanov burst out, twisting to face him, slapping his hand down on his own thigh. “I love slashing.” 

He pointed at Shane forcefully. “That was slashing. Just fucking own it!” 

Shane huffed, draining the rest of his smoothie through the now-mangled straw. 

Rozanov watched him, brow still furrowed. “The smoothies were terrible.” 

“I know, I’m not going to this place again.” 

Shane dropped his empty cup onto the table, then got up to pick up Rozanov’s from where he had kicked it to the ground. Shane knocked his legs off the coffee table on the way, just to get him back a little for being such a fucking slob. 

“Hey, hey! Roughing! Two minutes!!” Rozanov yelped, immediately grabbing for him. 

Shane abandoned the smoothie cup to the floor, twisting around to pin him to the couch as he was pulled down on top of him. He kicked his own cup off the table a moment later.

____

IR
When is your birthday?

May 10. Why? 

IR
Oh, not 21

No, not yet. Why? 

IR
Wanted you to buy me vodka. 

That would be illegal. Also, I’ve seen your apartment. Someone is buying you alcohol already. 

IR
Yes, but I wanted you to do it, $$$$$ bottle
Rich athlete $$$$$

That’s definitely a no. 

IR
Lets go to a club when you are 21.

Pretty sure that won’t be my kind of thing. 

IR
Yes, that’s why, it would be funny.

When is your birthday? 

IR
June 15 

Guess I’ll go clubbing without you for a month, then. 

IR
ha you think I don't go to clubs now? 

Then buy your own fucking vodka and leave me alone. 

IR
$$$$$$$$

____

Rozanov closed the refrigerator with his elbow, holding out a cold Gatorade to Shane with the other hand. “Do you run outside?” 

Shane only hesitated for a second before taking it. “Yeah, usually, unless the weather is horrible.” 

“Where do you run?” 

“Um…” Shane was still studying the Gatorade. 

Frowning, Rozanov reached out to snatch the bottle back out of his hand. He opened the refrigerator again, exchanging the yellow drink for a blue one, holding it out in question. Shane nodded and took it. Rozanov rolled his eyes as he let the fridge door fall shut. 

Shane relaxed with the new bottle in his hand, twisting the cap off and taking a sip before he spoke. “Why, are you trying to figure out where I live?” 

It was a risky joke. The whole thing had stretched on for a long time now, probably too long. But even Shane understood that it was about protectiveness now—over himself and his space, his one meager attempt to keep a boundary from the man who had crept into his life and taken up residence in his brain. Maybe that meant that he was already everywhere important, and Shane keeping him out of his apartment was useless at this point. But he had held steady, anyway. 

Their banter about it had petered off into just the occasional barbed joke. It was an obvious sore spot with Rozanov. He brought it up rarely, now, and sounded more irritated than amused when he did. 

Today, he just rolled his eyes, turning back to the sink full of dishes. “I don’t care about your shitty apartment.” 

“Okay, then why?” Shane sipped from the Gatorade bottle again. 

“I want to go with you.” 

Shane paused, frowning at his profile. It was the first time this had come up—not just running, but, well. Doing something outside of an apartment or a hotel room. Together. 

He went with a question that hit on the first thing, not the second. “You run?” 

Rozanov gave him a withering look over his shoulder, shutting off the faucet before he had even wet his hands. He turned slowly, leaning back against the counter and stretching his long legs out between them, skimming his hand down his torso in an obvious way of drawing attention to his fit physique. 

Shane chewed on his lip, forcing himself not to let his eyes to follow the drag of Rozanov’s hand all the way down his body, because yeah, it was a really great fucking body. 

Instead, he used his sweetest, most guileless tone of voice. “You mean you don’t just look like that naturally?” 

Rozanov’s face twitched and he wrinkled his nose as he sniffed, a reaction Shane had learned meant that he was annoyed that Shane had made a good comeback. But Rozanov was just as quick with his own. 

“Look like what naturally?” He asked, looking at Shane expectantly. 

Shane stayed quiet. There was no way he was going to be baited into answering that question. 

Rozanov turned back to the sink, turning the faucet on and lifting a plate. After a moment, he spoke over his shoulder. “You don’t want me to run with you. Why?” 

“I don’t know.” It was an honest answer, because Shane didn’t know how to answer the question. He had a sense of why the idea made him uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure he could properly articulate it, let alone say it out loud in Rozanov’s kitchen. 

He wasn’t surprised, though, that Rozanov wasn’t going to let go without pushing a little more. Shane grunted as Rozanov kicked a leg out, foot making contact with his shins. Shane sighed, leaning against the wall as he tried to collect his thoughts. 

“I don’t know,” he said again after a moment. “We don’t do things like that… in… public together.” 

It was the best he could do to articulate it. Part of it was the fear of being recognized, but even Shane knew that was irrational, that simply being seen with a man in public wasn’t going to make everyone think they were having sex with each other. And Shane wasn’t even that recognizable. He’d only been recognized a handful of times since moving to New York, and all of those had been on game days and around Madison Square Garden. 

It was more about this thing with Rozanov, and what its parameters had been. Texting, using just their initials, meeting when it was convenient, first in hotels, now in Rozanov’s apartment. Only Rozanov’s apartment, because of the boundary that Shane had set. There had always seemed like there was another boundary, too: a mutual one, which kept them tucked away, inside, together only in private. 

“You think people will care?” Rozanov sounded disdainful as he haphazardly washed the dishes. “Hollander, actually famous people go running here. George Clooney. Matt Damon. Ben Affleck.” 

“You’re just naming celebrities. You don’t even know if they live in New York. Or if they go running.” Shane couldn’t help himself from arguing against the specifics of Rozanov’s contention, even if it meant evading his larger point. Maybe it would be easier to stay focused on the larger point if Rozanov didn’t always choose such absurd specifics. 

“I don’t care.” He sounded firm, more than irritated, though the side of his face said that he was irritated, too. “No one is going to notice. Wear a hat.”

“I go running early.” Shane knew that Rozanov would take the subject change to mean that Shane had given in. And he would be right. 

“Fine, I will get up early. When?” 

“5:45.” 

“Are you fucking kidding?” Rozanov spun around from the sink, flinging water in his direction. Shane flinched back, making a face at the dishwater that splashed on his shirt. “You are a psycho. Actual fucking psycho.” 

And yet, at 5:30am the next day, a text was waiting on Shane’s phone. 

IR
Meet at 6, where 

Shane checked a map first, mentally shifting his route to calculate the timing and distance that would work best for both of them while still getting him the run that he needed for the day. He texted back as he finished getting ready, naming a park close to Rozanov’s place. 

When he reached there at 6am, cheeks flushed from the chilly February morning air, Rozanov was waiting near the entrance. He was dressed in running gear, long pants and layered long sleeves on top, and a plain black hat pulled over his curls. He looked grim. 

He didn’t even speak to Shane as they started running. Shane figured it was out of protest at the early hour. He paced himself a little slower than usual, but it turned out he didn’t need to—Rozanov had no problem keeping up. 

Less than a mile in, he knew that Rozanov had been right. 

It wasn’t even clear they were running together. The streets were mostly empty at this hour and this time of year. But even where other people were around, he and Rozanov would simply stretch themselves apart, making more than enough room for anyone to pass between. 

And even if anyone could tell they were together, Shane realized there was nothing to tell. 

They were two men in close proximity to each other. At best, two friends enjoying a morning run—well, one friend enjoying a morning run, the other stubbornly going with it because he couldn’t stand to be wrong about anything even though he hated being awake this early in the day. 

No one would give a shit. It wasn’t like anyone would look at them and know that they would probably end up in the shower together afterwards. 

At least, Shane hoped they would. The thought of it kept him going for the entire back half of the run. 

____

How’s Paris?

IR
Bonjour.

Hi. 

IR
Oui oui.

That means yes. 

IR
Merde.

Are you just going to text me random French words?

IR
Merci!

OK, text me when you’re back. 
Osti d’cave.

IR
?????

Figure it out. 

____

Rozanov’s career was changing, too. The huge ad Shane had seen in Vegas was all over New York, in smaller form. There were others, too, that popped up in the subway or, once, staring out at him from a storefront in SoHo. 

He never got used to it, suddenly seeing Rozanov’s face in print, out in the world. 

It was the expression that always got to him. It was always a version of something Shane thought he had seen before—a little different, maybe a little distant, but similar enough that it felt familiar. Sometimes too familiar, like the world was seeing something that Shane couldn’t help but think of as his own. 

He tried hard to shut that thought away in a box, or to kill it all together. Privacy was one thing, but any hint of ownership was another. And it was really fucking stupid. Shane didn’t own any of Rozanov’s expressions, or any other part of him. The ads were literal proof of that. 

Rozanov’s career was growing beyond the ads, too. He was traveling more, to places other than just LA or the occasional other random city. He was flying internationally more often. He’d started talking about the upcoming Fashion Weeks for menswear, in New York, but also in Paris and Milan. 

Shane still didn’t really understand what Fashion Week was, or why the words had an implied capitalization, but he tried his best to be enthusiastic when Rozanov told him about the new opportunities and doors opening for him. He could commiserate about the interminable photoshoots, at least—he’d picked up a few new brand deals since his rookie season, which was great, but it sometimes made his off days feel more exhausting than a long stretch of away games. He got the sense that the travel, and the constant commitments, was wearing on Rozanov, too. 

Their schedules had been harder to balance lately, but they’d found a patch of time to meet when Shane was back from a week away and Rozanov was in town briefly between two trips. It had been a few weeks already, and with playoffs starting soon, it would probably be the last time for awhile. They hadn’t wasted any extra time getting started. 

Shane was flat on his back, laying with his head hanging off the side of the bed. Rozanov was busy between Shane’s legs, mouth on his cock, one hand creeping up to grip his pec. 

Normally Shane would let the sensation and experience of this unspool as slowly as possible, but he was too antsy after the time apart, already felt his breathing getting too ragged and the tightness building below his stomach. He knew he wasn’t going to last very long, and he needed more. 

One of Shane’s other boundary-setting rules was not to let himself dwell on evidence of other people. An important way he did this was by always letting Rozanov grab the lube or condom, so that Shane never had to take note of how much was left of either supply. 

(He’d created this rule the hard way, after one time last year when a new box of condoms had appeared. He was sure there had been some left in the old one, the last time he had been over. He couldn’t get the thought out of his brain for weeks.) 

But in the position they had ended up in today, Shane’s hand was inches away from the drawer, and Rozanov was sucking his balls, and Shane was ready for fingers. He lifted his arm up behind him, fumbling only slightly to blindly open the drawer. 

He reached in to grab the bottle of lube without looking, which was the sole reason his hand brushed against something else in plastic. He first assumed it was a condom, which was the only reason he let his fingers drift over it, feeling out its contours. A moment later, he twisted his body around to look properly, intending to grab the lube, but pulling out the tiny baggie of white powder instead. 

He sat up, pushing Rozanov away. 

“What’s this?” 

Rozanov’s head came up, bewildered by the interruption at first. But as soon as he saw what Shane was holding, his brow dropped into a defensive glower. “What do you think it is?” 

Shane had seen a lot of glares on this man’s face over the last year and a half, but never one that looked as stony as this one. But he didn’t really care how pissed off Rozanov looked—it probably wasn’t a fraction as pissed off as Shane felt. 

“Is this fucking cocaine? Do you do cocaine?” 

“I’m a fucking model, Hollander. I smoke cigarettes. I do coke.” Rozanov had pulled himself up, too, both arms planted on either side of Shane’s body. He was radiating fury, or maybe embarrassment. Shane thought he should be fucking embarrassed. 

“Well, I don’t,” he snapped in response. 

Rozanov replied in Russian. Shane didn’t need to speak the language to understand—it was clearly something along the lines of, yeah, no shit. 

And paired with the sneering, haughty look on Rozanov’s face, it didn’t feel like, no shit, you’re a professional athlete. It felt more like, no shit, you’re a fucking child. 

Or maybe that was just how Shane felt about it. He felt suddenly and strangely naive, that he had never considered the prospect of drugs in the drawer with the lube and condoms, had never even considered the thought that Rozanov—a professional model that openly talked about how much he liked drinking and partying and clubs—might partake in them. How silly Shane had been, to never think about these other facets of life that existed outside of the parameters of their texts and food and runs and boundaries. He wouldn’t even let himself think about the diminishing condom supply, how would he have ever conceived of something like cocaine? Maybe he was a fucking child. 

He dropped the baggie back into the drawer and grabbed the lube he had wanted in the first place. He handed it to Rozanov, along with a condom, before shutting the drawer decisively. 

Then he rolled himself onto his stomach. Because he still wanted Rozanov to touch him—he always wanted Rozanov to touch him—but he didn’t really want to look at him. 

If Rozanov wanted to say something, he didn’t. There was a long moment when Shane thought he might, but the only sound was the click of the bottle cap. And that was the only sound for awhile, until they had both lost themselves again. 

____

May 2012, Newark

They went into the playoffs as the highest seeded team in the East. The strong regular season felt good; earned. Shane felt the sweet satisfaction of their hard work paying off, but even as they hurtled into the postseason, he knew he was only delaying the weight of exhaustion and pressure slowly seeping in at the margins. 

The signs were there when it took them 7 games to beat Toronto, and then another 7 to beat Washington. He knew he was running on fumes, they all were, but he thought the sheer want would be enough to get them there. 

It wasn’t. The wheels fell off against New Jersey, who took it in 6 to beat them to the Stanley Cup Finals. 

Shane dropped low, resting his hands on his knees as the home crowd around him roared—all the louder since they had just beaten their rival from across the river. 

He had given everything this year, and it still hadn’t been enough. 

Vaughn hauled him up straight, pushing him towards the exit as the Demons swarmed the ice. 

“Get your head the fuck up, Holly,” Vaughn shouted in his ear, loud enough to be heard over the blaring music and the noise of the crowd. “We fucking killed it this year and we’ll fucking kill it next year.” 

Shane had no idea how someone could possibly be positive at a moment like this, but there was something special about Carter. He couldn’t believe him, yet. But he could allow the words to settle inside the back of his head, forming a tiny bead of hope, as they skated off the ice together. Next year. Next year. Next year. 

____

IR
Sorry.

?

IR
The playoffs.

Thanks. 

IR
Your goal in game 3 was hot. 

Wish there had been more of them. 

IR
New Jersey is terrible.

Obviously not that terrible. 

IR
No, I mean the place.
Hey Hollander

?

IR
I figured out where you live.
I think you live in New Jersey.

I don’t live in New Jersey.

IR
Good
Then you are already better than them. 

____

September 2012, New York City

He had turned 21 during the playoffs, between Game 6 and Game 7 against Washington, which meant Vaughny hadn’t been able to make good on his promise to take him out to celebrate before everyone had scattered for the summer. But Shane had agreed to go out when they were back for the preseason, at least for one beer. Vaughn had insisted on it—since they had something else to celebrate now, too. 

“Cheers to the motherfuckin’ A’s!” Vaughn held his beer up over the table. Shane smiled, touching his glass against it, taking a small sip. 

“Thanks,” he said after he had swallowed. “I hope I’m good at it.” 

Because it still surprised him, being named as the second Alternate Captain. It made sense for Vaughn, who was good at talking to people, friendly with basically everyone on the team. Shane felt solid about his role on the Admirals—he had spent two full years figuring out exactly how to contribute to the collective while pushing himself to his top performance level. The two things were definitely linked, he thought. 

But he didn’t know about this new layer. It wasn’t like he had a wealth of experience, leadership or otherwise. What would he have to give in that regard, especially to a team with more than its fair share of veterans? 

He could lead by example, sure. That’s what he’d talked about with Coach Murdock when they’d discussed the position, when Shane couldn’t hide his surprise even behind his polite acceptance. Maybe that was the point: to be the counterbalance to the experience that characterized Farraday’s captaincy, and Vaughny’s easy way of making people comfortable. Maybe Shane was just supposed to be the guy who put his head down and got stuff done. Maybe that would help other people do the same thing. 

“Of course you’ll be fucking good. You’ll be great. You know what’s coming next, right?” Vaughn mused, flipping the coaster that had come with the beer back and forth with his fingers. 

When Shane did nothing but blink, waiting for the answer, he continued. “The C, man.” 

Shane was genuinely startled. There was no way that made sense, especially given who he was talking to. “Why wouldn’t it go to you? You’ve been Alternate Captain for longer.” 

“It’s not going to be me, Holly. I’m telling you, as soon as Farraday retires, which is probably coming up soon, it’s you.” Vaughn was adamant, but Shane still didn’t understand why. He opened his mouth to push back, but Carter waved his hand. 

“No, don’t start that shit. You’d be a fucking awesome captain, man. You’re someone that people want to do a good job for, and you know how much that counts. It’s motivational stuff. I would love to be on that team—no,” he paused, correcting himself with a finger in the air. “I’m going to love being on that team.”  

Shane still wasn’t sure be agreed with this, or even believed it, but it was a nice thing to say, and Vaughn’s tone wasn’t leaving room for much argument. So he accepted the compliment with an awkward nod, and sipped from his drink again. 

To Vaughny’s credit, he had picked a good spot for an easy mid-afternoon beer, a quiet spot in the West Village with a mostly empty back garden. They sat at a table in the corner together, hats still on, sunglasses resting on the table. It wasn’t bad, actually—Shane was enjoying the leafy green atmosphere, and the gentle late summer sun. 

The conversation was easy, too, especially once they moved off the subject of Shane’s supposedly inevitable captaincy. Their discussion mainly revolved around the rookies and other new faces on the team, whose performances they were slowly getting a sense of through the preseason. Unsurprising to Shane—given the good chemistry he and Vaughn had built up over two seasons—they mostly agreed on the most promising prospects, particularly Cale Wagner. 

“I think he could make his way up to first line eventually,” Vaughn mused, tugging his baseball cap around to face backwards on his head. “He’d be fast enough for it, and we really need that. I can barely keep up with you most of the time, and Novak’s not even close.” 

They paused as a server came to collect their empty glasses. Vaughn ordered a second one with an easy smile, and Shane did the same after a moment. He still wasn’t big on beer, but he was having a good time with his teammate. He could handle a second one, especially since it was still preseason. 

The conversation turned to Vaughn’s new apartment, not far from the bar they were in, which he’d moved into a few weeks prior. Shane had been considering whether to make a change of his own this year. But the truth was that he still liked the apartment he’d moved into during his rookie year—he liked the location, the building. The only possible improvement could have been more space, but that was hard to come by in New York anyway. He figured he would revisit the subject next year, after he knew how his contract renewal with the Admirals would shake out. 

“Hey, man,” Vaughn said after a while, when they’d made a small dent in their second beers. “Are you dating anyone?” 

Shane lifted his eyes at the question. He didn’t speak for a second, simply looking at Vaughn, quickly trying to process where the question had come from, if there was some underlying meaning or implication. 

But he hadn’t asked it like he was assessing Shane, not in the way the subject had sometimes come up in locker rooms. Though, Shane had to admit, the Admirals locker room had never been as bad as he thought it would be, not even as bad as it had been on other teams when he was growing up—there were too many mature men on the team, with normal adult lives that they were used to keeping to themselves. They outnumbered the younger guys, who liked to trade stories, and jokes, and tips, and who sometimes got nosy about what the team’s star center got up to in his private life. 

But Vaughny hadn’t asked in that way. It had sounded like genuine interest, like the kind of thing a person would ask a friend when they wanted to know about their life. It was enough to prompt Shane into an answer. Kind of.  

“Uh, no. Not… really. Not dating, I mean. At all.” 

Whatever that meant. The truth was, Shane had no fucking clue how to answer the question, so this felt like the most honest response he could give. 

“Yeah, it’s hard with our schedule,” Vaughn commiserated, flipping the coaster in his fingers again. “It’s so tough to get to know someone. My last girlfriend just couldn’t handle going without seeing each other for weeks, and I couldn’t blame her for getting sick of it. I get it.” 

There must have been something on Shane’s face—he knew he had that kind of face, the kind that couldn’t hide anything, no matter how much he might have wanted to. Rozanov had read him like a book often enough. 

Carter’s eyebrows jumped up, his mouth hanging open slightly. “Oh, wait, it’s like that? Damn, okay, Holly.” 

“Wait, what?” Shane tensed, confused by the implication, confused by whatever he had done to prompt Vaughn’s sudden amusement.  

“No, no, I get it now, you’re not dating anyone.” His teammate leaned in, giving Shane an exaggerated wink. 

“No, it’s not like that,” Shane insisted, stuttering slightly. He could feel his cheeks flushing, made all the worse by the beer and a half he’d consumed. 

Vaughn had clearly picked up on his discomfort, and immediately backed off, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat again. “None of my business, man, I was just curious.” 

“Get yours, though,” he couldn’t resist adding, much to Shane’s continued mortification. 

“No, I mean, it’s…” And Shane had no idea how to end the sentence. He had no idea how to describe what was going on with him, or what Vaughn might even expect, based on whatever he might think he knew about Shane. 

It wasn’t like Shane had ever given his team much to talk about. He’d only gone home with a woman once, back in March of his rookie season, when he had been out with the team on a road trip in San Jose. There had been a lot going on in his head at the time, and he’d needed to do it, maybe just to show himself that he could. 

It was debatable whether he had actually shown himself anything. It surely hadn’t helped anything, hadn’t answered any questions. It had been a deeply humbling experience, actually. 

He’d expected to hear about it on the plane the next morning when they were all flying back to New York. But there hadn’t been much, just a couple of cracks about how good he still looked after a late night, and a few self-deprecating jokes about the vigor of youth. 

“It’s…” 

Vaughny was still being cool. He was looking at him sincerely, like he would be fine if Shane finished the sentence with whatever vague shit he wanted, or if Shane never said anything else at all. It was this absence of expectation that made Shane take a leap. At least, a tiny one. 

“It’s… we’re friends.” 

He wasn’t even sure if that was the right word for it. It was something both less than and more than a friendship. Less, because he didn’t go to dinner with Rozanov the way he occasionally did with Vaughn or the other guys on the team, or share the same easy familiarity of a casual conversation, and because sometimes Rozanov was an asshole in a way that Shane didn’t think he would ever accept from a friend. 

More, because he texted him all the time, because Shane thought he was maybe the funniest and most interesting person he had ever met, and sometimes when he saw him it felt like something had opened up inside of him and Shane couldn’t stop the feelings that poured out. Even when he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, think about what those feelings were, or what they might possibly mean. 

“Oh, like friends with benefits?” Vaughn listened with interest, leaning his elbows forward onto the table. 

Shane bit down on the words that came to mind, refused to say them: friends, fucking sometimes. Instead, he nodded, shrugged, and shook his head all at the same time. 

“I… guess.” He paused, trying to read Vaughn’s thoughtful expression. “...have you done that before?” 

“Back in high school, yeah.” Vaughn considered this, grabbing his beer and drinking down a big sip. “Tara, she was on the soccer team.” 

Shane stayed quiet. He wanted to ask more, wanted to ask how it went. But he also wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. 

Vaughn rocked back in his seat, bringing his arms up behind his head as he tilted his chair back. “It was awesome, actually. She was so cool, we had all the same friends, used to hang out all the time. Then we graduated, I got drafted, she went to college. I haven’t talked to her in a while.” 

Shane nodded, and sipped his beer. 

“It’s a good deal.” Vaughn rocked forward again, bringing his chair legs back to solid ground. “But it gets tough if one of you gets more feelings than the other.” 

He said this with something that almost sounded like sympathy, or a warning. Like Shane was the one that needed to worry about being on the receiving end of this. 

Shane just laughed, because what else could he do? 

“Yeah… no.” 

Carter laughed, too, but there was an odd look on his face as he picked up his glass again to finish off his beer. There was a pause as they both focused on their drinks, but Vaughn didn’t let the silence last for long. 

“Can I ask you something else?” 

“Sure,” Shane said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as wary to Vaughn as it felt coming out of his mouth. 

“Do you even like the nickname Holly?” 

“Uh… I mean, I don’t mind it.” Shane was caught off guard again, which meant that his face probably did what it always did, and displayed his honest emotion. Carter looked at him skeptically. 

“Okay, it’s not my favorite.” 

“I knew it!” Vaughn dropped his hand onto the table, thumping it lightly. “You should have said something, man. We have to find you something else.” 

“Holly is fine. Or Hollsy,” Shane insisted, shrugging as he considered the two most common variations that he heard. “I think my name is just bad for nicknames.” 

Vaughn didn’t seem inclined to accept this answer. “What about, like, Dutchy?” 

“Uh… yeah… I’ve heard that one before…” Shane hid his face behind his beer glass, focusing on the drink he still had left. 

“Yeah, it’s not good,” Vaughn agreed with what Shane was obviously not saying. He drummed his fingers on the table, clearly thinking through other possible permutations. “Hey, did you know New York used to be called New Amsterdam? You think there’s something there with that?” 

Shane laughed, and shook his head. “You know what, Vaughny, I’m going to let you guys figure it out.” 

Before long, the season was off again. The weight of the A on his chest took a little while to get used to, but soon enough it felt like it was supposed to be there. It didn’t turn out to be so bad. 

____

Busy today?

Hey

Let me know when you’re back in town. 

IR
Sorry, was gone.
Back now, come over?

I’m in Columbus. 

IR
Don’t know where that is.

I’m back on Thursday. 

IR
Leaving for LA on Wednesday 

Let me know when you’re back. 

IR
I’m back. You are in dc now, back to NY when?

Later tonight, we leave after the game. 

IR
Come over then. 

It’ll be late. Is that ok? 

IR
Yes, that’s fine
Whenever you are back.

See you then.

Chapter End Notes

I committed pretty early to making this only Shane’s POV—it fits the story I want to tell, which depends in part on Shane’s view of the world (and Shane as an unreliable narrator/reader of events!).

This chapter is the first one where I really wished I could explore what I see going on in Ilya’s head a little more. Because I can promise you, there’s a lot going on in that beautiful, tortured mind. I hope you’re able to see some of it even through Shane’s eyes.

[EDIT: I have no self-control, so Ilya's POV now exists. But finish this story first! Ilya's won't make sense otherwise!]

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 5: rhapsody

Chapter Summary

A snowstorm.

Chapter Notes

This is the chapter that made me want to write this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

February 2013, New York City

It had been snowing since six in the morning, the flakes hitting Shane’s face as soft droplets of water while he ran alone through the park. It didn’t stick, only leaving the sidewalks damp and dark as he circled back downtown. 

It had picked up by the time he was back from practice. It was the first real snow he’d seen since moving to New York—the drive back from Tarrytown almost reminded him of home, at least until he hit the city proper and the skyline was too distinct to compare to Ottawa. 

By late afternoon, it was a proper snowstorm, and the game had been postponed because the Tempests’ plane had been grounded in North Carolina. With nothing on his schedule until the Admirals were set to leave for Dallas on Sunday, he was suddenly looking at the prospect of his first weekend to himself in months. 

Like most spontaneous opportunities, the idea of it made him antsy. Rest wasn’t the problem—rest and recovery were important, he made sure to build them into his usual structure. But the structure itself was the point. Shane didn’t just thrive on structure, he required it. Especially at this point of the season, when he constantly felt like he was balanced on the edge of his skate, one wobble away from tilting and crashing down onto his face.

He hovered near the window, watching the snow drift past, settling down on the park below. He’d gone over all the possibilities, and there was nothing he needed to do. His fridge was full, there were no errands to run. He was here for the foreseeable future, and he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. But he had no idea what else to do with himself. 

An answer came four minutes later. And like the change in his plans for the weekend, it was unexpected. But it was not unwelcome. 

IR
What the fuck Hollander, what is all of this?

He hadn’t seen Rozanov much lately, though they were texting as much as ever. Their schedules had been fucked up, with essentially a month of alternating travel and near misses. 

The near misses had only been part of it, though. The last few times they’d seen each other, Rozanov had seemed quiet, different, a little tucked away inside of himself. Not when they were touching—he was all in then, sometimes almost too intense. 

But afterwards, he would drift away, become inaccessible again. It wasn’t the first time Shane had seen him like that, it had happened from time to time since they met. But it seemed to be happening more often lately. 

Shane didn’t know what to do about it. So like every time he was faced with something difficult, especially something to do with Rozanov, he had left it unacknowledged. He knew that was the wrong answer. But he couldn’t see the path towards the right one. 

Rozanov was supposed to be getting back from a trip this weekend, and Shane had assumed it would end up as another near miss. But now, with his phone buzzing and the two familiar letters flashed on the screen, he felt a spark of possibility. 

I thought you were from Russia. It’s snow. 
We get a lot of it in Canada.

IR
Are people here stupid? Why is the grocery store empty? 

When did you get back?
Do you have food? 

IR
No, that’s why I went to the store.
Got back an hour ago.
Took fucking forever for the cab
People are insane
I only wanted eggs
IT IS ONLY SNOW

Usually, Shane hated it when Rozanov sent multiple texts in a row, especially six of them. But he watched each line of text appear, the phone jolting in his hand with six successive vibrations, and the spark ignited into full-on anticipation. 

Spontaneity was a trap, and Shane was a rabbit. He spent a long minute debating the text—what to say, whether to send it—but he knew, already, that once the idea had formed in his head, it had already been decided. In the end, it was more spontaneous than anything he could remember doing, maybe ever. The snow didn’t even really feel like the reason for it. He just knew that it was time. 

Come over. I have stuff.

The response came back immediately, two quick buzzes. 

IR 
?
Really?

Yeah.

He carefully typed out the address, and sent it. 

There was a long pause, long enough that he had time to wonder if spontaneity was fatal, or even worse, if he’d need to saw off his own foot to get out of the trap he’d dropped himself into. When the phone buzzed again, it was the first time he’d ever felt relief at the sound. 

IR
I will bring dinner.

And suddenly, Shane had plenty to occupy himself with. He set off immediately, making good use of the time—double-checking that the apartment was clean (it was), taking his time in a long and thorough shower, and, most crucially, pacing nervously around his living room. 

Rozanov arrived just over an hour later. Shane buzzed him in through the intercom, getting in another lap of the living room as he waited for his guest to come through the lobby and up the elevator. Humiliatingly, Shane almost tripped over his own feet when the doorbell rang, socks sliding on the hardwood floor. 

He righted himself and padded carefully to the entrance. He paused, running a hand through his still-damp hair as he took a breath to steady himself. 

Rozanov was smiling when Shane opened the door. Like, actually smiling. Maybe the biggest one Shane had ever seen on his face before. It was enough to (again) nearly knock him onto his ass. 

“Twenty blocks,” he said. 

Shane needed a moment—but only a moment—to understand. He remembered the first time he had been to Ilya’s apartment, the arms grasped around him while they were still catching their breath, the question rumbled in his ear, where the fuck do you live, Shane’s glib response, I don’t know, twenty blocks? The fact that Ilya had remembered this for two years was almost as disarming as the smile. 

“Um,” he replied, trying to unstick his mind, and also recalling that he had neighbors who he might not want to witness him short-circuiting in his doorway. “Come in.” 

He stepped back to make room for Rozanov, who came in carefully. He was dressed all in black, like he usually was, a black cap pulled over his hair and ears and a puffy black coat zipped up over a dark hooded sweatshirt. He was carrying a plastic bag sheathed over a heavy-looking brown paper bag, the telltale sign of takeout. 

Shane took the bag from him, holding it at the bottom, to give him two hands to strip off his outer layers. His jacket and hat were covered in droplets from the melting snow. Shane noticed that he was careful to keep the water from dripping too far into the entryway, gently draping the coat over the handle of the front door to dry. 

His boots came off next, and Shane observed that they were absolutely not snowproof, which he assumed Rozanov would try to justify with some bullshit about Russians being able to walk in the snow in bare feet if they wanted to. 

This left him in damp socks and black jeans that Shane was sure were also wet and uncomfortable. 

“Do you want to borrow something dry? I can put your clothes in the dryer.” He offered, watching Rozanov pull off his hat and rest it on the long table against the wall. 

He shook his head, brushing his hand through his curls—damp at the edges, where they’d peeked out from under his hat—and led Shane towards the main apartment. Shane followed, overtaking him after a few steps so that he was in the lead. 

“Does not matter. I will not be wearing them for long.” Rozanov spoke absently, looking around the large space that held the living room, dining area, and kitchen, with interest. 

Shane, too distracted by the fact of Rozanov’s presence in his apartment for the first time, took a moment to register the words. He set the bag of food on the counter and looked up in time to see Rozanov turn to him. The look on his face made Shane think of a shark. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he said, but he didn’t mean it, and anyway, Rozanov was on him in two large steps. 

Whatever protests Shane was considering were pushed out of his head by the feeling of two ice-cold hands slipping down the back of his pants. He yelped—actually yelped—and tried to squirm away, but Rozanov drew him back easily with a squeezing grip. Shane was caught, both physically and metaphorically, because now Rozanov knew that he hadn’t bothered putting on underwear after his shower. 

Rozanov pulled their bodies flush with both cold hands planted firmly on Shane’s ass, bringing them eye-to-eye. Shane could feel that he was already getting hard, knew that he could tell the same about Shane. He held his breathing steady, keeping his eyes on Rozanov’s, allowing the assessing blue gaze to track over him. 

“Where do you want me, in the kitchen? On the floor?” 

Shane’s laugh huffed into the inch of space between their faces. “You’re ready to go, just like that? The food you brought is going to get cold.” 

Rozanov rolled his eyes, but didn’t move a centimeter. “You have never heard of re-heating? It is already cold from walking here. Give me a tour.”

He squeezed Shane’s ass again for emphasis. Shane twisted out of his grasp, and this time Rozanov let him. 

It clearly made the most sense to start the tour of his one bedroom apartment in his bedroom. He led the way, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Rozanov followed. 

He did, a half step behind Shane. He was still looking around with interest at the apartment, taking in the view from the large living room windows as they passed into the short hall. He didn’t comment on anything, which was a first. But he was smiling to himself, so Shane braced for some kind of snarky observation. 

Shane paused as soon as he crossed into the bedroom. Rozanov kept walking, bumping into his back and immediately encircling him again. Shane turned in his grip, expecting direct eye contact again, but Rozanov was busy taking in the room around them. 

Smirking, he finally looked back at Shane. “I knew your bedsheets would be blue.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” Shane said, eyes dropping to his lips before he could help it. It had just occurred to him that they hadn’t even kissed yet, which was an absurd expectation to set when Rozanov had only arrived like five minutes earlier—but it still seemed like a first. 

“It means you are so boring, dark blue sheets and nice little houseplant in the corner. Predictable.” Rozanov notified him, backing him up slowly so that the backs of Shane’s legs hit the foot of his bed. He let go, pushing Shane lightly. 

Shane let himself drop back onto the bed, sitting up on his elbows as he watched Rozanov strip off his sweatshirt, t-shirt coming with it, and then move his hands to the button of his jeans. 

“Wet jeans harder to take off than you want them to be?” He observed as Rozanov struggled to free his legs. 

He was rewarded with a sound that was half laugh, half growl, and the weight of a Russian man falling down on top of him. 

“Talking, always talking, and always saying the same thing,” Rozanov said, holding himself up by an arm boxed out next to Shane’s head. 

“I’m the one always talking?” Shane clarified. He was starting to get distracted, though, with Rozanov only in his underwear and his hard cock pressing against Shane’s again, with only a thin layer of black boxer briefs and grey sweatpants separating them. 

“Yes, always finding new ways to say ‘I told you so,’” Rozanov seemed to know the effect he was having, judging from the way he rolled his hips against him and smirked at the groan he drew from Shane. 

“Maybe stop giving me reasons to be right,” Shane mumbled, eyes dropping shut as he lifted his hips into the contact. 

“Okay, no more talking,” Rozanov instructed, collapsing his arm and letting his weight drop down so their torsos pressed together.  

And there it was, finally, his lips against Shane’s, the familiar taste of cigarettes on his tongue as he licked into his mouth. Shane kept his eyes closed and didn’t say anything else. But his sweatpants were way easier to take off than wet jeans. 

❄️

He let Rozanov shower first, both so Shane could gather some clothes for the other man to borrow, and to give himself an extra moment to break out of his daze from getting fucked so hard they’d knocked a lamp off the bedside table. 

He fixed it as he considered the state of his bed. He stripped the sheets, too, and was in the middle of putting on the clean ones when Rozanov came out, lower half wrapped in the towel Shane had left on the counter by the sink when preparing for his arrival. He immediately grabbed the other end of the new navy blue fitted sheet, tucking it carefully around the mattress, smoothing his hand over to ensure that it was even. He grabbed a pillow, too, holding his hand out for a new pillowcase. 

Shane said nothing as he handed over the folded rectangle of fabric. But something about the quiet, reflexive, easy assistance to the mundane task had worked its way into a very deep corner of his chest. 

He quickly excused himself, pointing at the pile of clean clothes he’d left out as he headed to the bathroom. 

Rozanov was in the kitchen by the time Shane came out, bent into the cabinets and rummaging through the pots and pans. He had unpacked the takeout bag, leaving at least half a dozen small containers on the counter. 

“Can I help?”

Shane surveyed the food and the cooking implements, trying to focus on anything other than the sight of Ilya in his sweatpants and sweatshirt, a thick pair of Shane’s socks on his feet. Everything fit him differently than the way the clothes fit Shane, and even though they had just finished, like, fifteen minutes ago, Shane could feel his body quietly responding to the sight. 

Rozanov waved a hand over his shoulder, backing out of the cabinet with a pot grasped in the other. “No, I am doing it. Go away, get out.” 

Shane opted not to listen this time. He settled at the kitchen island instead, letting Rozanov handle the preparation. He only swooped in to assist him with finding a couple of other pots and pans, and once a wooden spoon. He got away before Rozanov could hit him in the ass with it, because Rozanov was fucking predictable, too, and Shane had seen it coming from a mile away. 

It turned out that Rozanov had brought Russian food with him, from the place he called his favorite in Manhattan. They ate at the kitchen island, perched on stools. 

Shane wasn’t a picky eater, just a strict one. But whether it was because the strange, unexpectedly free evening felt like he had been sent to another dimension, or because his head was still blissfully blank after the intense orgasm from earlier, he reached for the food without hesitation, maybe for one of the first times in his life. 

It helped that, intentionally or not, Rozanov had brought an assortment of easy choices for Shane. Two kinds of soup, borscht and mushroom with potatoes and barley; pelmeni and vareniki; cold beet salad and marinated mushrooms that Shane kept helping himself to, until Rozanov smiled and pushed the bowl all the way over to him. 

Rozanov was judgmental about the amount of sour cream Shane used with his meal, but like, same. He wrinkled his nose as Rozanov dolloped another huge spoonful onto his plate, shaking his head resolutely when the Russian tried, insistently, to offer him more. 

Shane did the dishes. Rozanov accepted being chased away, drifting from the kitchen into the living room. Shane tried not to track him as he wandered through the apartment, pausing to examine things, like a photo of Shane and his parents from their cottage a few summers ago, or the shelf that held Shane’s most important mementos, like his Rookie of the Year award and the puck from his first goal in the NHL. 

It had been dark for a while now, but the snow was still coming down, swirling past the window in white clouds. 

Hands dry, Shane suggested a movie, and they ended up on opposite ends of his couch, legs stretched towards each other. They weren’t touching, but Shane could feel the suggestion of his foot just a few inches away, the heat of it and the change in the air when Rozanov wiggled his toes every so often.

He didn't realize until later that they’d both just automatically shifted into this new phase of the evening. Feeling full from dinner, contented and warm, it hadn’t occurred to him that Rozanov might leave now that they’d finished with the stuff they usually did together. Rozanov showed no inclination to leave, either, head resting on a throw pillow, the hood of Shane’s sweatshirt pulled up over his damp hair. 

Somehow, between the odd cadence of their schedules, they’d both missed The Dark Knight Rises when it came out the summer before. It had seemed like a good pick, and was in fact a good movie, but Shane realized it had been a terrible idea as soon as Rozanov started imitating Bane’s voice and refused to stop through the rest of the fucking movie. 

He tried to ignore him at first, then groaned and told him to shut the fuck up, then tried kicking him, then finally resorted to shutting him up by sitting on top of him and trying to smother him with a pillow. 

That had turned into something else entirely. Shane ended up stretched out on his stomach, legs dangling over the arm of the couch behind him, the borrowed sweatpants bunched up around Rozanov’s knees as Shane blew him. The wind rattled the glass as snow came down outside through the window behind them, the only light in the room coming from the TV screen. 

Rozanov was nudging him up before Shane had even finished swallowing. He pulled him so their bodies were level again, slipping his hands under Shane’s shirt. He skimmed his hands flat against his sides and back a few times, before pulling the material up and over Shane’s head. 

They stayed like that for a while, bare chests pressed together as they kissed, slow, long, and lazy. 

Rozanov’s hand had slipped into Shane’s sweatpants, lightly gripped around him, stroking him slowly, like he was trying to unravel him. Shane shivered at the sensation, because it was working, because the night had been a series of small unravelings, because Shane was overwhelmed with it. 

Ilya laughed quietly between his mouth and his ear. 

“Cold, Hollander?” He asked, his other hand gently running down Shane’s arm, trailing lightly over the goosebumps that now peppered his skin. “I knew this, Canadians cannot handle winter.”

Shane breathed out slowly. He let him have the joke, because he didn’t want to say that the goosebumps weren’t from a chill. 

“Come,” Ilya said, gently nudging them apart and removing his hand from Shane’s pants. 

Shane, seeking the warmth of the hand and the contact between them again, let himself be led back to his room. 

They ended up between the clean sheets, sweatpants and sweatshirts abandoned, twisted together in the dark. Ilya took his time kissing Shane from his neck to his thighs, before finally putting his mouth on him and guiding him to another release. 

They breathed together afterwards, limbs tangled, quiet as the snow swept past the window in gentle white spirals. It was late, now, and the exhaustion had slowly settled into Shane, keeping him still and heavy in the soft bed with navy sheets. 

It was later, still, when Ilya spoke. 

“Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Shane said softly into the dark. “It’s cold.”

It wasn’t, though, for them. It was warm, and got warmer as Ilya shifted his body around Shane’s, arms moving in tighter under the covers, nudging his head closer. 

“Too cold to walk twenty blocks,” Ilya agreed, lips pressed against the skin under Shane’s ear. 

❄️

He had forgotten to put the blackout shades down before falling asleep, and the windows faced east. The bright morning light streamed over them, shining into the back of Shane’s eyelids. He was an early riser, and probably would have been awake already on his day off even without the direct attention of the sun. But he was warm, and comfortable, and so he kept his eyes closed, allowing himself to stay half asleep as his cheek gently baked in the sunshine. 

He could tell Ilya was awake, too, from the tiny shifts behind him. Because of jet lag, maybe; he knew Ilya only woke up early on days when they met to run together. He knew because Ilya had told him often enough while bitching through a run. 

The subtle movements behind him slowly became less subtle, turning into warm, wet kisses at the back of his neck. The sensation made him shiver. He pressed himself backwards, feeling Ilya’s bare skin behind him, erection pushing insistently against his back. 

Shane was already hard, too, had woken up that way, and now it was starting to get almost uncomfortable. All he wanted to do was turn around, but his mind had thrown up one of those roadblocks that was impossible to find his way around. 

“I really want to brush my teeth,” he mumbled, even as he arched against Ilya. 

There was a pause, and Shane felt Ilya exhale against the back of his neck, gently dropping his forehead to rest against the back of Shane’s head. 

“And I really want you to, too.” 

Ilya groaned aloud this time, a quiet, aggrieved rumble into the base of Shane’s neck. But after a moment the arms around him loosened their grip. 

Shane slid out immediately, already on his way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth faster than he ever had before—he tried not to think about it, that it was definitely not the dentist-recommended two minutes—while simultaneously pulling out a new toothbrush for Ilya. 

He was almost finished when Ilya came in. His eyes were lidded with sleep and his dick was still hard, neither of which stopped him from regarding Shane disdainfully. 

Shane handed him the toothbrush while spitting into the sink. He had washed out and wiped his mouth a moment later, leaving Ilya at the sink, already heading back to bed. 

Ilya returned quickly, too (definitely sooner than two minutes), draping himself over Shane as he climbed in under the covers. Really, it wasn’t that long of a break, but Shane refrained from saying that out loud. 

“You wake me up, make me go out into the cold,” Ilya said, pouting as he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Shane’s. “And for what?” 

Shane didn’t say anything to this either. Instead, he lifted his hips to push up against Ilya’s, enjoying the vibrating hum it drew out of him. 

Ilya covered Shane’s mouth with his own, the taste of mint passing between them as they kissed. Shane relaxed into it, opening his mouth wider, hooking an arm around Ilya to pull him closer. 

Some time later, they were in the same position, Ilya buried inside of him, pressed together tightly as they fucked in the bright morning light. Shane tilted his head back as he groaned, too loud, as he gripped a fistful of Ilya’s hair in his hand, legs crooked up around his hips. 

When he opened his eyes, Ilya was looking back at him, brow furrowed, mouth open. 

Shane held his gaze for a long moment, before it was too much. He closed his eyes again, leaning his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder. He felt Ilya breathe out against his neck, felt him reach up to slide his fingers into Shane’s hair, mirroring his own grip. He pulled lightly, tilting Shane’s head back. Shane leaned into the motion, exhaling shakily as he felt the slow, warm kisses on his neck again, their hands cradled in around each other. 

After, Ilya sent him to the shower first. 

“I am going back to sleep. What you so rudely took away from me.” He attempted to glare in Shane’s direction, but the impact was blunted by his closed eyes and the contented way he rolled into the pillow. 

“I took away from you? Pretty sure your dick was already wide awake before I was,” Shane smiled, easily avoiding the pillow Ilya tried to half-heartedly throw at him. 

Shane took his time in the shower, letting the hot water run over his sore muscles, which had gone through a run, hockey practice, and other assorted physical activity in the past 24 hours. He realized he hadn’t even looked outside yet to see what it looked like—he’d almost forgotten about the snow altogether. He’d been too distracted. 

Ilya was still in bed when he came out of the bathroom. He turned towards Shane, peeking one eye open. 

The single, narrow slit was enough to let out a blaze of pure mischief. Shane rolled his eyes at whatever bullshit was incoming. 

“You know, the bed is dirty again,” Ilya said casually, rolling over and stretching his arms above his head.  

He actually hadn’t been thinking about it, but now he definitely was. 

“Thank you for that,” Shane grumbled, pulling out a new pair of pants and slipping into them. 

“You will probably not be able to stop thinking about it, right?” Ilya kicked off the duvet, looking down pensively at the wet spot they’d left behind. 

“You are such an asshole,” Shane pulled out a second pair of pants and launched them in Ilya’s direction, feeling some satisfaction when they smacked him in the face. 

Ilya swiped them away, keeping hold of them as he rolled off the bed and stood. “Changing sheets every time you fuck is… what is the word? Useless?” 

“Inefficient,” Shane guessed, because he could assume what Ilya was trying to say. Even if he didn’t really care. It wasn’t like he’d ever had to think about it before—he’d never had anyone else over at his apartment. He just hated the idea of getting into a bed that wasn’t clean. 

“Yes, inefficient. Is very inefficient.” 

“I don’t like knowing that they’re dirty.” Shane pulled a sweatshirt on. When his head popped through, he opened his eyes to see Ilya stripping the sheets off the bed. 

“Yes, I know.” 

Shane held his tongue around the warm feeling inside of him as he watched Ilya tug a pillow out of a pillowcase. It was unusual, to be anticipated. It was bewildering for Ilya to be the one to anticipate. 

But maybe these were just the things that happened, as people spent enough time together. Maybe Ilya knew he hated dirty sheets, the way he knew Ilya liked oranges but not limes, and acted like a giant baby about a paper cut but would reach for something burning hot without thinking twice. 

“Here,” Shane said after a moment, holding out a sweatshirt. “Shower. I’ve got it.” 

“Okay,” Ilya took the top from him. “And then eggs. You promised me that you have them.” 

“I know you didn’t come over here for eggs, you fucking liar,” Shane muttered as he gathered the dirty sheets for the washing machine, intending to pull the clean ones from yesterday out of the dryer. 

He smiled at the laugh he heard before the bathroom door closed. 

❄️

Shane made eggs, but he also made his usual morning smoothie. Ilya regarded it like it had personally harmed him. 

“You drink this every day? This is worse than I thought,” Ilya grimaced. 

“The smoothie is worse than you thought?” Shane didn’t think it was that bad, but in any case, he drank it for the nutrients, not for the taste. 

“No, your bad taste. It is criminal.” Ilya gingerly lifted the glass to his month, drinking slowly. 

“Yeah, lots of evidence of my bad taste around here,” Shane said pointedly. Ilya looked at him out of the corner of his eye and sniffed.

“If you are talking about your refrigerator, yes. Horrible. Nothing but rabbit food.” 

“Healthy food,” Shane corrected. This had become a common argument for them when eating together, with Ilya harshly judging Shane’s careful attention to his nutritionist’s plan—he had a whole a fridge full of new material, now that he had seen Shane’s. For his part, Shane wondered how Ilya actually survived on the shit he put into his body. There had to be a trick, and he still hadn’t figured it out. 

“Mmm.” Ilya squared his shoulders and picked up his drink. He finished the smoothie in one large sip, putting the glass down firmly, like it was something he had conquered. “We should go outside.” 

Shane turned over his shoulder to the window. It wasn’t snowing anymore, but it must have gone through the night—when he’d looked outside, the park below was blanketed in snow, as were the cars parked along the street. A few people had been visible from above, shoveling the sidewalks and trudging slowly through the snow. It was the quietest he’d ever seen the city. 

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed. 

They washed the dishes first, Shane hand washing the blender, and Ilya stacking things haphazardly into the dishwasher like a fucking goblin until Shane caught him putting a small bowl on the bottom rack and chased him away. 

Shane had thankfully had the presence of mind the night before to dry the wet jeans and socks Ilya had arrived in. This gave him clothing to change into, but as Shane had observed the day before, it was pitiful in terms of snow readiness. His boots weren’t even fucking waterproof. 

“I will be fine,” Ilya insisted, scowling at him as he piled on his layers. “This is not Moscow.” 

“You keep telling me how good you are at the cold, and all I keep seeing is the opposite,” Shane shot back, digging his snow boots out from the hall closet. Not the really thick ones that he’d use for a hike, but the ones that would be suitable for a walk around the city and keep his feet warm. He would have offered his other boots to Ilya, but despite their general similarity in size, their feet were one area in which they were mismatched. 

“Just take a thicker pair of socks.” He held them out to Ilya, waving his hand emphatically until the stubborn Russian finally took them. 

He bullied him into taking a pair of gloves, too. At least his feet and hands would be slightly warmer. 

The air outside was crisp and bright. Shane breathed deeply as they left his building, crossing the street towards the park. 

Over a foot of snow had fallen. It was piled higher in the places where it had been cleared from the sidewalk or from the pathways through the park. Shane and Ilya walked shoulder to shoulder through the entrance, heading towards the southeast corner without speaking. 

It had been a good idea to come out. He had been perfectly happy cocooned inside the apartment, but he felt clearer, lighter, outside in the fresh air.

There were barely any people around. It was strange, different from snowy days back home—he was used to seeing kids tumbling into snow drifts, and people just going about with their normal business. Maybe it was because Ottawa got more snow, more often. This was the most he had seen since moving to New York two and a half years earlier. There were probably kids in other neighborhoods, playing in parks with more open space than this one. And it was a Saturday, an easy day to ignore normal business. He couldn’t blame people for staying curled up inside, enjoying a short reprieve from reality with the winter weather safely held at bay through their windows. 

It gave the streets an empty, unreal feeling. He didn’t need that, exactly—he didn’t feel the same stress at being outside with Ilya, the way he had when they’d first started running together last year. But it was different, walking together slowly in the middle of the day, instead of their early morning runs. He was much more aware of the man beside him. 

It was nice, then, that it felt like just the two of them. They wandered aimlessly, first south on Broadway, and then, eventually, east, when Ilya nudged his shoulder a few blocks before Houston. Neither had spoken, but the silence felt as comfortable as the cool air. 

Shane’s attention was broken by the phone buzzing in his pocket. He quickly drew it out, checking the name on the screen before removing his glove to open the text and respond. He slowed down his pace as he typed. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Ilya doing the same to wait for him. 

“Sorry,” he said as he finished, slipping the phone back into his pocket and wiggling his fingers back into his glove. “Just my parents checking in.” 

Ilya shook his head at the apology. He didn’t look bothered, only a little curious, as they resumed their walk. “You are close with your parents. You talk with them a lot.” 

“Yeah, most days,” Shane agreed, looking both ways as they crossed the empty street. 

“You miss them?” 

Shane was somewhat surprised by the question, not because it was strange on its own, but because it wasn’t the kind of thing they usually talked about. It wasn’t that they didn’t talk much between the other stuff they did together—Shane thought he probably talked to Ilya more than a lot of people, except for his parents and the teammates he was closest to. Probably more than most people, actually, when he counted the texting and the random shit they talked about while running and eating together. That was a weird realization, too. 

“Of course. Well,” he paused, thinking through the question and the best answer. It was easy to just say yes, but there was more to it than that. And if they were going to talk about it, he might as well really talk about it. 

“They’ve always been really supportive of me,” he said, pausing again at an intersection. Ilya tried to move forward anyway, but Shane held him back, even though there were no cars. Ilya exhaled, but stayed still. “Which is great, obviously. And my mom does so much for me.” 

“She does everything with my brand deals,” he continued as the walk sign blinked on, and they crossed. “Which is—” 

“Which is why you have so many, fucking Rolex,” Ilya rolled his eyes, but smiled. Shane laughed, a cold puff of air between them. 

“Yeah, I guess. It can be…” He trailed off, not sure how to articulate the prickle of anxiety he had every time he thought about the sponsorship commitments stacked onto his calendar, the unending cascade of photoshoots in the summers when sometimes all he wanted was to sit by a lake and exist without being perceived for a little while. 

But it was good, it was objectively good. It was the reason he had enough money in his account, combined with the new contract already in process with the Admirals, to buy the apartment he really wanted soon. He knew his mom did it because she loved him and cared deeply about his career, and he was grateful that she handled it rather than a manager who didn’t understand him at all. 

He took a deep breath, changing the subject. “When I was getting drafted, I really wanted to play for a Canadian team. I wanted to be closer to home. Maybe Montreal, if not Ottawa. Toronto.” 

“But,” he said, finally making his way back to the thought that had sparked this long explanation in the first place, the one he had needed to talk around for a while before he could articulate it. “I think it was good that I ended up in New York. Even though I was kind of freaked out about being in a whole different country at first. I miss them, but I think it was good for me to figure some of it out on my own.” 

Shane stopped there. He was a little embarrassed to have said so much, given so much detail that Ilya had definitely not asked for with his simple, three-word question. 

But Ilya didn’t look bothered. He had been looking around at the buildings surrounding them while Shane talked, glancing over at him every so often. He was examining a storefront now, a darkened window which contrasted with the bright children’s books and toys on display. 

“You are lucky,” he said after a moment, smiling at Shane. Shane took in the expression, wondering why he had never considered how lethal it would be for him to see Ilya Rozanov smiling at him outside on a clear winter day. 

“Mostly to play for New York, not Ottawa,” he continued, helpfully breaking the moment for Shane. “But also to have family that you miss.” 

Shane lifted his head slightly at the implication tucked away in the statement. It wasn’t surprising, necessarily; he’d picked up enough over the years since Ilya had let slip the detail about his brother always calling to ask for money—Ilya’s moods darkening after a series of incessant staccato vibrations of his cell phone, gruff conversations in Russian that he took in the bedroom while Shane occupied himself on the living room couch. Not exactly signs of a family being missed. 

But the subject had always felt too big to crack. Even now, with this new openness between them, momentary though it may have been—Shane didn’t know how to do it. He was so, so bad at finding the right words. 

They walked for another block before he figured out something that he could ask, though it wasn’t exactly the right thing. But maybe it was adjacent. 

“Will you tell me about why you stopped playing hockey?” 

Ilya looked at him. For a second, as Shane saw only brow and cheekbones, he was furious with himself for asking, for ruining the haze they had been drifting through together. 

But Ilya turned away again, drawing in a deep, slow breath, and looking up at the snow piled on the stoop of a townhouse as they passed. 

“My mother died.” 

Whatever story Shane had built in his mind since their first conversation about hockey, whatever answer he had expected today—this was not it. 

“Oh,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.” 

How had he never known this before? How had he never asked? It was incredibly fucked up, actually, especially after he had gone on and on about his own mom helping him with sponsorships. It was astonishingly conceited of Shane, to have never bothered to learn about the most basic facts of his friend’s life. 

Ilya must have read some of this on his face—of course he did, because Shane’s face was as  transparent as glass and Ilya was incredibly perceptive. He tilted his head in acknowledgement of Shane’s quiet apology. 

They kept walking in silence, long enough that Shane thought that might be the end of Ilya’s explanation. Which would have been understandable: it was explanation enough on its own as a seismic life change. 

But as they turned north again, trudging up Avenue B in a wide, directionless path, Ilya spoke again. 

“I did not… manage well. Behaved badly. Partied, messed around. And I was very good at hockey, so it was a big deal.” 

Shane knew what meant. He remembered what it had been like when the scouting started for real, for the national team and as a potential player for the professional leagues. It had been a precarious time, and skittering off the rails—no matter how slightly, and this didn’t sound slight—would have had massive effects. 

“My coach was angry, my father was angry. It was punishment, more punishment.” 

Shane was rapt. It was easily the most Ilya had ever said shared about himself, at least about something serious. And whether he was doing it as a measure-for-measure response to Shane, or if he had also found himself spellbound by the snowy streets of the East Village and the remarkable past 18 hours—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was hearing it. 

He wanted to ask for more clarification—understand what punishment meant—but he didn’t want to speak and break the spell. 

“I was benched. I think they meant it as more punishment, only temporary. But then…” Ilya shrugged. “I met Svetlana’s agent, started modeling. Not temporary anymore.”

“That’s how you started? Svetlana’s agent?” Shane could find the words for this question, of course, because the tiny, ugly creature that lived inside his chest could not resist a chance to absorb more knowledge about Svetlana Vetrova. He already knew she was a model, knew that she was outrageously beautiful, because he had looked her up online a year ago after learning her full name. 

Ilya remained in ignorance of the creature living inside of Shane. “Yes. It was a chance to travel. To be… away.” 

Shane was quiet for a moment, chasing away the creature, processing this new information. “But you still go back to Russia sometimes, right?”

“Yes. Because of visa. And to see them.” 

“It must have been hard to go that far when you were young.” Shane had billeted, himself, when he was a teenager. And it had been hard. But he hadn’t been far from Ottawa, had actually been close enough to see his parents regularly. Not continents away, forced to adjust to a new language and a new place without the strength of a full support system backing him. 

“Mm, it was,” Ilya agreed. His face was tilted upward, looking at the sky. “I was lucky. Had Svetlana, a good agent. Other people are not so lucky with agent, I think. It has made a difference, especially with opportunities.”

They had looped back north enough to reach the southern edge of Tompkins Square Park. There were more people here, a cluster of children making snow angels, and another group that looked like teenagers, building a snowman. Shane and Ilya were still level as they walked, cutting in through the southeast corner, heading west. 

“What did your family think about the whole thing?” It didn’t feel like the right question. But it was the only one he could find. 

It was met with a dark, sardonic look, the grimmest Shane had seen on Ilya’s face since he’d arrived the day before. But he was already answering before Shane even had a chance to regret asking. 

“They like the money, especially now there is more of it. But I think,” Ilya squinted, observing the teenagers as they passed. “They did not think much of me when I played hockey. Maybe it doesn’t matter what I do, they will not think much of me.”

Shane was shocked into silence. He understood, from everything that had been said so far, that Ilya had a bad relationship with his family. But he could not conceive of this, when there was so much to think of this person in front of him—when Shane sometimes did nothing else but think about him. This maddening, smart, funny, charming, annoying person. 

How was it fucking possible that someone could encounter him and not think about how lucky they were to even get the smallest glimpse? 

And, also: the realization that Shane himself had a family who thought about him all the time, who would do anything for him. He had never realized until just now how much he took that for granted. 

He was staring at Ilya. Ilya had still been looking at the snowman, but turned his head to Shane when a moment went by without a response. 

Whatever he saw must have been too much. Shane saw it happen in real time: Ilya backing away from the subject, back to safer ground. 

He halted in the middle of the park. Shane’s brain was still stuck, to the point that he simply watched Ilya bend down and grab a handful of snow, packing it into a ball. He was still just watching when Ilya threw the snowball at his head. 

It was an aggressive way to change the subject, even for Ilya. 

But Shane had yet to meet a competition he couldn’t rise to. It took him a moment to shake the snow off—time enough for Ilya to pack a second snowball, pelting it at his stomach—but he bent down, rolling a compact ball of snow to quickly throw back. 

A few more exchanges, and it was all-out war. Some of the kids even abandoned their snow angels to join in, and Shane spent one single minute gratified at the sight of four children peppering Ilya with snowballs, until the minute was over and all five of them turned on Shane. 

They were both slightly more damp when they left Tompkins Square Park, heading west. They walked for nearly another hour, through Washington Square Park and into the West Village, before winding their way back up and east, towards Shane’s apartment. It never occurred to him to ask Ilya if he wanted to come back with him or if he would rather head home. They moved easily, on autopilot, like they often did together. 

The conversation was easier now, too—on subjects much less intense, like stories from Ilya’s recent trip to London, the hat trick Shane had scored in Philadelphia last week. 

They picked up Chinese food on their way home, Shane waiting inside and glaring Ilya through the window while he stared back brazenly, cigarette in hand. 

He made Ilya brush his teeth again before they showered to warm up. The hot water was painful on Shane’s cold skin at first, but it was easy to forget while pinned with his back against the wall, a strong hand gripping his chin while they kissed and stroked each other. 

The exhaustion crept up on him as they ate, cleaned up, and watched the Vancouver-Minnesota game. By the time they gravitated back to his bedroom, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to find the energy for anything other than falling immediately asleep. 

Ilya found a way to prove him wrong, as he often did. 

❄️

When they lay together afterwards, Shane stayed on the left side of the bed to avoid the wet spot. Ilya was spread out across the rest of the mattress, head resting on Shane’s stomach, limbs splayed out contentedly. Shane’s fingers moved lightly across his scalp. 

“Hey,” Ilya said after a long time, the first either of them had spoken a real word in what seemed like hours. Shane grunted to indicate he was listening. “You remember last year, when you found cocaine in my drawer?” 

Shane paused, his hand also stopping with Ilya’s hair threaded through his fingers. They hadn’t ever talked about that weird moment several months ago. Shane had tried not to think about it again, either. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

“You were right. It was a bad idea.” Ilya nudged into Shane’s hand, a clear directive for him to keep massaging his head, but Shane stayed still. 

“Did something happen?” 

“Mm, no, not for me, not in that way.” And Shane felt a flood of relief at this response, slowly resuming his motions through Ilya’s hair. 

Ilya continued. “But my brother, Alexei, he does a lot of cocaine. It makes him awful, and he is already very awful. I don’t want to be like him. Don’t think it is for me.” 

There was so much in this, and for at least the third time today, Shane wished that the path between his brain and mouth was smoother, that he could find a way to vocalize the things that seemed to only come to him in flashes and fragments. Or maybe his brain was the problem—maybe the real path he wanted was between his chest and his mouth, and his brain was the thing that got in the way. 

Either way, there was so much he wanted to understand, but the only thing he could find the words for was: “Is that why he asks you for money?” 

He knew that Ilya might not have answered this question at another time. But cocooned in together like this, in the strange dimension of time and space they had created for themselves amidst the snowy city, Shane had a feeling that he would. 

“Yes. Also for my father.” He watched Ilya’s eyes slowly close. 

“Is he okay?” Shane murmured. 

“Mmm.” 

Shane didn’t push this time. Instead, he took the opportunity he had been given with Ilya’s eyes closed to look at him, more closely than usual. He looked at the gentle frown creasing his forehead, the perfect lips, the familiar mole on his cheek. 

“You should be careful with yourself,” he said quietly. 

He was thinking about the drugs, yes, but also the other things—the things that made Ilya quiet and tired sometimes, too often lately. The things he couldn’t identify, but knew were lurking there, out of sight to Shane but visible to Ilya. 

He quickly looked away when Ilya’s eyes opened, the steady blue gaze finding him immediately. But he hid from returning it, too worried about what Ilya would see on his glass face.  

But Ilya only smiled. 

“You too,” he said. “With concussions.” 

He lifted one hand to clumsily pat Shane’s head. Shane squinted his eye shut under the palm pressing against his face. “Brain cannot take much more damage.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane replied, his hand still sifting through golden curls. 

Later, they had gravitated into a new configuration, Shane flat on his back with his head on his pillow. Ilya sat up on one elbow, curled around him so that Shane had to tilt his head back slightly to make eye contact. 

The conversation had moved around, too, in the same wandering paths they’d been taking all day. Now, Ilya was complaining about the thick makeup they’d put on him during a recent shoot, how it had been hard to wash off and left his face irritated for days after. 

“I hate wearing makeup for commercials. It makes my skin itch.” Shane agreed. 

“Yes, and they are stupid to cover up your freckles.” Ilya smirked, running his knuckle across Shane’s cheek. The gentle motion made him twitch, but he didn’t move away from it. 

“My freckles? They’re… fine.” 

They weren’t, actually. Shane didn’t like them. He thought they made him look like a little kid, which was already an impression that was a struggle for him to break out of, between his actual age, his overprotective mom, and all the shit assumptions and stereotypes that came with being one of the only Asian players on the ice. He was constantly struggling to be taken seriously, not to be seen as weak, fragile, juvenile. A face full of freckles never helped his case. 

But Ilya shook his head, still touching Shane’s face with the back of his finger. “They are more than fine.” 

The soft gesture was building something hot in Shane’s stomach. He breathed out slowly through his nose, watching Ilya from below. 

“I didn’t know you thought that.” 

“Of course,” Ilya said. “Why do you think I like to come on your face so much?” 

“Fuck off.” Shane batted Ilya’s hand away as he exhaled, more loudly this time. He could feel the red flush creeping across his cheeks. 

Ilya was smirking, of course, unbothered by the smack. “I mean it, I like them. First thing I noticed about you.” 

“Really?” This made Shane think of something he had been wondering about for a long time. They’d talked about it once, but it was right after they met, before they’d gotten familiar with each other, the way they were now. 

He thought he’d leave that part out when he asked—he was pretty sure Ilya would have something to say about how familiar they were with each other now. But he was curious about what Ilya would say to his actual question. 

“Hey,” Shane tilted his head back, finding eye contact again. “How did you know? Before the first time?”

Ilya squinted down at him, eyes tracking across Shane’s face in tiny movements. “You have asked me this. I told you before, I saw you looking at my dick in the gym.” 

“Shut up,” Shane said, shifting to pull himself up. Ilya moved away, giving him room, and Shane rested back against the headboard next to him. “That can’t be it.” 

“Listen to me,” Ilya said, with an air of patience that Shane knew very well was mockery. “I see you in the gym, in these tiny blue shorts, peeking at me over your shoulder, and I think, that boy wants my cock.” 

He squeezed Shane’s thigh, looking at him earnestly even in the wake of Shane’s exasperated glare. “And then I see freckles, and I think, I want his, too.” 

He tilted his head to the side, considering. “Tiny blue shorts also helped.” 

“That is bullshit, Rozanov,” Shane said, biting down on the smile that threatened anyway. 

“Okay,” Ilya looked at him with raised eyebrows. “How could you tell with me?” 

“You kissed me.” 

“Mm, no,” Ilya was already shaking his head before the sentence was fully out of Shane’s mouth. “That does not count, you came to my hotel. You knew something then.” 

Shane knew he had a point with this, but still, he resisted. “You texted me.” 

“That was bullshit, I texted you about nothing,” Ilya insisted, waving his hand to dismiss this explanation. 

Shane didn’t have an answer, though. He knew there had been something, something hovering in the air between them in Los Angeles, the suggestion of a question and a wisp of an answer. But how had he taken that as certainty, to the point that he had gotten in a car and shown up at a hotel in a city he had only been to twice? He had thought about that often, and he had never understood it. He always felt that Ilya—perceptive, direct—knew something he did not. 

Ilya was still watching him, contemplative. Shane had seen this specific look before: he could see that Ilya was working through the language, searching and translating, trying to find the words to capture something he already knew he wanted to say. Shane had picked up on this process some time ago—he didn't notice it often, mostly because Ilya was still so quick with his words, even in his second language. But it was enough for Shane to admire it, how much extra processing he did every day and how hard it had to be. 

“Maybe it is not about ‘telling,’” Ilya said finally, resting back against the headboard and regarding Shane. “Maybe just wanting. I wanted, you wanted.” 

“So, what, then it was just luck that we ended up both wanting the same thing?” Shane asked, mirroring his pose by leaning his head back. 

“Maybe luck, maybe something else.” Ilya paused, searching for the right word again, or maybe just letting Shane fill it in for himself. 

But then he leaned forward, eyebrows lifting, and smirked. “Or maybe we could just tell.” 

Shane reached back for a pillow, and hit him with it. 

The positions changed again as the hours went on, as the lamp turned off and the conversation drifted. The night sky looked blue in the light coming in through the window. It was snowing again, not the swirling storm from the day before, but in thick flakes gently floating by. Shane felt warm again, like the night before, though now the feeling went all the way through him, inside and out. He dozed on the pillow tucked underneath his head, listening to the quiet breathing on his left. They weren’t touching—maybe for once they didn’t need to. 

When Ilya finally spoke, it was late, and the silence had gone on for so long that Shane almost wondered if he was asleep and dreaming. 

“Why didn’t you let me come here before?” 

Shane breathed slowly. If he was sleeping, he hoped that the answer would somehow reach Ilya anyway. 

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “But I’m glad you’re here now.” 

After a moment, he felt the mattress shift as Ilya moved his foot, resting it lightly against Shane’s under the covers. 

❄️

The sun was in his eyes when Shane woke up. He blinked it away, shifting an arm to cover his face. His phone buzzed on his nightstand, and he realized he hadn’t put it in its usual place to charge. He reached for it, expecting to see that it was nearly dead. Instead, the first thing he found was a calendar notification reminding him of the time he’d need to leave for the team’s flight to Dallas. He hadn’t even packed yet. 

In fact, he realized slowly, he hadn’t even thought about hockey since Friday. Not really, at least. Not with purpose, or focus, the way he always did. It was probably the first time in his life that he’d gone a whole day without really thinking about hockey. The thought rattled him. 

He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Rozanov still asleep. 

He wasn’t. Cool eyes tracked over Shane, assessing him, the way he did so often. 

“Morning,” Shane said, awkward under the attention. 

Rozanov blinked at him, letting the word hang between them for a moment before he answered. “Good morning.” 

“I forgot to charge my phone. And I have to pack. The flight is later, but it’s probably going to take extra time to get there, I don’t know what the roads are like.” Shane didn’t know why he was explaining all of this, or saying it in this way, this strange, abrupt way. He could feel Rozanov squinting at him even without looking at him. 

“Okay,” he said. Rozanov waited a beat, then rolled towards the edge of the bed. “I should go.” 

Shane nodded, even as his stomach panged with a little ache of disappointment. It was a dumb reaction, considering he had basically just verbally pushed the man out of his bed. But he stayed quiet, and let Rozanov head to the bathroom first before he hauled himself up. 

He plugged his phone into its charger, then regarded the bed. He’d need to strip the sheets and drop them into the washing machine before leaving, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it yet. 

Instead, he pulled on the clothes he’d left in a neat pile on a chair the night before, and waited for Rozanov to come out of the bathroom so he could go in and brush his own teeth. 

Once he’d washed up, he went into the kitchen to start his morning smoothie while Rozanov finished getting dressed. 

“Do you want one?” Shane asked, when the other man emerged from the bedroom, looking only slightly rumpled in the clothes he’d worn the day before. Shane had forgotten to offer to wash them for him a second time. 

Rozanov eyed the blender on the counter and shook his head, grimacing. “I will get something.” 

Shane nodded, still standing in front of the open fridge. As he glanced at the carton of eggs on the shelf in front of him, he remembered the conversation that had sparked this whole thing, and Rozanov’s incomplete grocery store mission. He almost wanted to offer them to him, but how would that sound when said aloud? Here, please take my eggs, and think of me when you eat them? 

He didn’t say it. He closed the refrigerator door instead, and moved to the hallway, where Rozanov was pulling on the rest of his winter layers. 

“I hope you can find stuff at the store,” Shane said, leaning against the wall to watch him lace his boots. 

“I will be fine,” Rozanov finished tying one, then pushed his foot into the other. “If not today, tomorrow. There is lots of food to eat in the city.” 

“Yeah. For sure.” Shane thought about how time had felt yesterday, how the day had slowly unwound in front of them. Today everything was moving at lightspeed, fifteen minutes undoing the careful shell they had built together. The bed was probably still warm from where they had been laying side by side and Shane didn’t want him to leave. 

But there was something else, another feeling that was pushing its way to the top: relief. 

This was so different from how it had ever been, and if it kept going on like this, Shane knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He could keep it contained if it stayed as an anomaly, one incomprehensible weekend in the rest of his structured, straightforward life. Rozanov was too big to be contained in any single box, Shane knew that well by now, but it would all be fine if Shane could keep it the way it always had been. 

Rozanov was finished with his boots now. Shane reached into the closet and found his black coat, handing it to him as he straightened. 

Ilya looked him in the eye as he took it. “Thank you.” 

Shane heard it as he knew it was meant—thank you for handing me my coat, thank you for this weekend. He nodded. 

He held his breath as Ilya leaned forward, pressing a gentle, light kiss against his lips. No other part of their bodies touched, but Shane thought he would remember this kiss for a very long time. 

“Bye,” Ilya said, quietly, as he pulled back. 

Shane could not say anything as he drew away, shrugging into his coat and heading for the door. Ilya paused with his hand on the handle, turning to glance over his shoulder. 

“I am sorry that I did not find your Rolex.” 

Shane laughed, letting the banter finally bring him back to earth. “Go buy food. And get something green.” 

Rozanov waved him off. A moment later, he was gone. 

____

They didn’t spend the night again for the rest of the season. Shane couldn’t feel bad about it because he was partially responsible—every time he was at Rozanov’s place, he would make sure to promptly remove himself at the end of the evening, after they’d cleaned up, or finished eating, or when the movie ended. 

Distance had crept back in, both physical and metaphorical, as their schedules bounced them around the country—in Rozanov’s case, occasionally across an ocean. When they were together, the conversation stayed in familiar places, never straying too far off the well-trodden paths they’d walked before. 

Shane didn’t let himself mourn anything, because it was silly to mourn the loss of something that never was. Especially not with playoffs coming up, and when thinking about it too hard made him feel off balance. 

He let the relief take over, instead, and focused on all of the good things. The physical stuff, yeah, but the friend stuff, too: zoning out together over a video game, running, the easy give-and-take. All of that was stuff he would mourn, too, if it ever went away. 

And what else was he hoping for, anyway? Something that would give people—the media, fans, everyone all around the league—more of a reason to hyper analyze him, even more so than they already did? Teenage phenom had been enough, number one overall had been enough, Rookie of the Year, role model, Alternate Captain, Canada’s Shane Hollander—it was all enough. He couldn’t take anything else. 

Especially when the thing he was hoping for was itself a remote fantasy. It was never going to happen. And if he ever tried to bring it up, it would probably ruin the best friendship he’d ever had.  

But there was one change after the snowstorm: Rozanov kept coming over. They’d built it into their routine together without acknowledgement, and now it happened as often as Shane went over to his place. Shane still felt a small thrill every time he saw him there, on his couch, leaning against his kitchen island, in his navy blue sheets. 

He allowed himself to enjoy the feeling. He told himself that it was enough—and it was, because it was safe, and private, and it kept on going. That had to be enough. 

Chapter End Notes

…a couple steps forward, a couple back. Please don’t be mad at them (or me!) when they back away from things... it’s too much for two 21-year-old boys who are still figuring their shit out. But it’ll be a weekend that’s hard to forget.

Chapter 6: precious metals

Chapter Summary

Focus, fixation, and distraction, Instagram, Apartment 1217, Russia generally and Sochi specifically, and husbands, boyfriends, and Captains.

Chapter Notes

September 2013, New York City 

Shane was fucking sick of losing. He was sick of platitudes, he was sick of next year, he was sick of dropping to the bottom of the ladder just to climb it again at the start of a new season.

The saving grace at the end of the last one was that he’d been healthy enough to play in the final two games against Boston. At least he had been able to contribute something to earn their first win in the series before the Bears took the fifth and last game, and with it, the spot in the Eastern Conference Final. It had made him want to crawl out of his skin, watching half of the playoffs in street clothes, sidelined by a fucking concussion of all things. But at least he’d been on the ice at the end, smiling politely at Scott Hunter as he congratulated him on the win before heading back towards the visitors locker room at TD Garden. 

He was not going to lose to Scott Hunter this season—not in the league, and not in Sochi. 

So he’d come out of the summer with more focus, more intensity, and more ways to channel it into getting the Admirals, and himself, where they needed to be. 

Vaughn had been right about one thing: with Farraday’s retirement, Shane got the C at the start of the season. Shane still felt weird about it—part of him thought that it had only happened because he was also captaining Canada now. But he’d known some of those guys since they were kids. 

It was different with the Admirals. He genuinely loved his team, he loved being in the locker room with them. Leading them was a different thing, though, and he didn’t know if he was the right person for it. They were still largely a team of older guys, with years of their own experience to back them. And even the younger ones were confident, with solid senses of themselves. 

Shane thought they could have used someone louder, someone more outside of himself, to take control of the room when he needed to. Shane was good at hockey and he was good at listening. He was good at control, when it came to himself. He wasn’t sure that translated to good leadership. 

At least there was still Vaughn, and now, Greg Huff, coming in from Chicago. Shane knew Huff from Team Canada, and had always liked his steady, understated presence. He was a veteran, already with multiple Cups—exactly the kind of guy they needed to help bump them over the edge. He fit in immediately in the room, too, and easily slotted into his role as an Alternate. 

Selfishly, he’d been happy to have Huff around because it helped them get in more time on the ice together ahead of Sochi. He didn’t know for sure that either of them would be on the roster, but barring any crazy unforeseen circumstances, it was a pretty good bet. 

It was hard to juggle both desires at once: an Olympic medal and the Stanley Cup. But the intensity of both wishes together had set a fire blazing inside of Shane. 

There were a couple of things he knew about himself and his focus, though. The first was that focus, for Shane, could quickly turn into fixation. The second was that he didn’t get easily distracted. 

Instagram had become a fucking fixation, and Ilya Rozanov could always fucking distract him. 

It was crazy, actually. He avoided social media as much as he could. He had a Twitter account that he never used, which his mom and agent, Farah, had access to if he actually needed to post anything. He’d never had any interest in delving into any of the other sites that might have contained any discussion about him. 

(Which was kind of a shame, because Shane had been a pretty prolific poster on some obscure parts of the hockey internet as a teenager. But he’d had to stop when his own name started popping up, and he’d never gone back.)

Instagram, though—he’d been curious. His mom had mentioned it over the summer, asking if he wanted her to run an account for him. This had turned into a conversation about whether it was time to fully switch over to a dedicated PR team, and whether to get some recommendations from Farah. Between the shifting topics, Instagram had gotten lost.

So he’d made the idiotic mistake of just downloading it and signing up himself.  

He’d had one thing in mind, and he found it right away. Rozanov’s career had steadily been climbing, and his notoriety and social circle had apparently expanded with it. Once Shane knew the right places to look, he suddenly saw Ilya everywhere, with all kinds of people, all the time. Svetlana Vetrova, yes, but others too—other hot people. Models, actors, rich people who didn’t have jobs at all, people hanging on. 

He knew that Rozanov had a rich social life, in New York and everywhere else. He talked about it enough, how much he liked to party and go to clubs. But it was different to see the photographic evidence of it. 

Ilya was usually in the background, not the featured object of most of the photos or posts. But he apparently had tons of famous friends (at least judging by the commentary on Instagram; Shane’s own understanding of pop culture was abysmal). And apparently once he had been photographed enough with his famous friends, their fans became familiar with him, too. And apparently, they had opinions. 

Shane was a public person. He knew very well not to read the comments. He still read the comments. 

It blew his mind to see strangers tossing around Ilya’s name so often, linking him with other models, actresses, or pop stars, basing their hypotheses on whoever he had been photographed with at a club in LA, or leaving an event in Paris. 

omg imagine bagging emmy johnston AND arizona fletcher, I just know this man’s dick is magic

Was he not just hooking up with Sylvie Bacque in Europe??? 

Svetlana looking like a goddess at 6am straight out the club, what elixir of life is she having and where can I get it

Girl, I think it's his jizz 
 

For all he knew, they were right. It was another side of Ilya that he had never seen before, one that had existed the whole time alongside the one who spent a few hours with Shane every few weeks. He’d always known Ilya was sleeping with other people, it was just putting faces to the shapeless ideas that had existed in Shane’s brain for years. Extremely perfect faces along with equally perfect bodies. 

He knew he should stop looking. But the fixation being what it was, he couldn’t. So he kept scrolling, and kept thinking about how much of Ilya they—the friends, the photographers, the commenters—were all getting. Not that he had any right to claim anything for himself. 

Instagram had led to other forms of distraction, too. He had a sense that deep down, the app was probably the reason that Shane had agreed, on a warm night in early September, to let his inner world with Rozanov expand a little further outwards. 

It had been nice, the kind of late summer night that foretold a hint of autumn. Rozanov’s windows were open when Shane arrived, a cool breeze drifting in along with the sound of gentle chatter from the restaurant at the corner. Shane had put a lot of effort into keeping his own voice down while they messed around on the couch, paranoid they would be heard through the open window. 

Afterwards, while he was putting his clothes back on, Rozanov had surprised him by asking if he wanted to go to a bar. 

Shane’s first reaction had been to resist, but the cool night air, bringing in a quiet peal of laughter from below, stayed his automatic refusal. It was late, and it was dark, and he was still in pre-season. 

And, if he was truly honest with himself, he was still thinking about the photos he’d seen of Rozanov leaving a club in LA the week before with a blond model’s arms draped over his shoulders. The ugly creature living in his chest had lifted its head at this small promise of competition—of possibly proving that Shane could be fun and interesting, too. 

So they had ended up in a small, dark bar a few blocks away, where Rozanov claimed he could get decent vodka. Shane had been nervous at first, sipping his beer and trying to stay in the shadows, until it quickly became clear that literally no one gave a shit about two guys sitting in a corner of a quiet bar. They’d had one drink to end the night and then parted, Shane walking the sixteen or so blocks back to his apartment. 

A few nights later, they met at a place closer to Shane’s, each having one drink in the dark back room, before they went to Rozanov’s. 

They didn’t do it often—especially once the season started and Shane cut back on alcohol—but it had become an occasional addition to their usual rotation of activities. And Shane got to see one more part of Ilya with his own eyes, instead of through Instagram, as they sat elbow to elbow, a glass of ginger ale and a tumbler of vodka on the table in front of them. 

_____

November 2013, New York City

The first time Rozanov showed up running next to him at 5:50am without texting, Shane was surprised and kind of pleased. Mostly at the idea that they’d been running together for long enough that Ilya had formed the habit, and at the unexpected, but welcome, company. 

The second time it happened, on a different street, at 6:10, Shane was mostly just surprised. It wasn’t that he switched up his route very often (or ever), it was just that Rozanov managed to catch him at exactly the right place, at the right moment. 

The third time, on yet a different block, at yet a different time, Shane almost ran into a trash can. Rozanov laughed, looping around the receptacle to overtake him. 

“Are you tracking my location?” Shane asked as he righted himself, instead of saying hello, even though it had been more than two weeks since they’d last seen each other. 

“No, Hollander. You are so fucking predictable.” Rozanov rolled his eyes under his black baseball cap. “I could track your movements around this city with just an Admirals calendar.” 

“Sounds like I need to start carrying pepper spray.” Shane picked up the pace again just to make Ilya groan, which he did. 

A second later, he sensed him at his shoulder and sprinted even faster, racing him to the end of the block. 

They kept up the competition for the rest of the run, until Shane was left panting and wondering why he always took the bait with this guy, the one who had started racing him on a fucking stationary bike the first time they met. 

They walked, cooling down, for the last few blocks to Shane’s apartment. He nodded at the doorman as they entered the building together, heading straight for the elevator. He hit the button—the new one, for the 12th floor, rather than the 8th, where he’d spent his first three years in New York. 

Rozanov thought it was hilarious that Shane had bought a new apartment in the same building as his old one. But Shane had jumped at the opportunity, with a newly-remodeled two-bedroom unit for sale on a higher floor. He’d obviously thought about finding something else, but the truth was that he liked where he lived—the neighborhood, the building itself, all of the routines he’d created. He didn’t see a reason to change anything, especially not when he had plenty of other things to focus on this year. So he’d purchased it over the summer and gotten everything settled before the season started, and now it already felt like home. 

He let Rozanov leave the elevator first and lead the way to apartment 1217. This gave Shane the opportunity to study him from behind a little bit. 

Rozanov had had a long summer of new campaigns and Fashion Weeks; he’d done all of the big ones last year, New York, Paris, Milan. He was working more than ever. And he looked different to Shane now. His cheekbones seemed sharper, his expressions tighter. His body looked different, too, more defined. His upper body was bigger than it had been last spring, and his waist seemed smaller. Shane noticed all of the differences, but he never commented on them. 

Until, at least, Shane let them into the apartment, and Rozanov pulled off his hat. 

“Holy shit,” Shane said, stumbling slightly with one foot half-slipped out of his running shoe. All he could do was stare at the close-cropped hair on Ilya’s head. 

“Oh, you like it that much, huh?” Rozanov laughed a bit, running one hand over his head. 

“I…” Shane didn’t hate it, that was for sure, though it was a shock to see his head shaved, the familiar curls suddenly gone. But it made his features seem starker, bolder, more expressive. He looked a little older, too. 

Really, when it came down to it, Shane had thought he was done discovering ways that he could be stunned into silence by the abyss of his attraction to Ilya. But here was a new one. 

Shane swallowed slowly, getting ahold of himself. “It’s not bad.” 

“Don’t worry. It will grow back.” Rozanov was still smiling. Shane watched as he unzipped his sweatshirt and let it drop to the ground, t-shirt quickly following. 

A moment later, Shane was being pressed back, tasting sweat and Rozanov’s tongue in his mouth. He groaned into the kiss, lifting his hands immediately to Ilya’s head. The strange feeling under his palms made his insides feel like they were fizzing, and he kept his hands there even as Ilya pulled Shane out of his top layers and shoved his running pants down to his ankles. 

“I’m all– I’m—” Shane was stuttering, too, as he tried to kick off his other shoe. He was trying to say he was sweaty, disgustingly so, as was Rozanov, but he was already so hard his tongue had stopped working properly. 

“I know,” Rozanov agreed, already on his knees and pushing Shane against the wall by his hips. “I don’t care.” 

Shane let his head thump against the wall at the feeling of Rozanov’s mouth on his dick, at the feeling of his shaved head moving back and forth under Shane’s hands. He felt insane, filthy, so fucking good, way too fast. 

“Wait, I don’t—can we—” he gasped through the fragmented sentence after a few minutes, pushing Ilya away to try to convey his meaning without words. Rozanov complied, pulling himself up and immediately leaning in to kiss him again. He tasted salty, disgusting, and Shane pushed his tongue further into his mouth, wanting more. 

Shane made a noise in the back of his throat when he felt hands wrap around the backs of his thighs, lifting him up as they moved away from the wall and stumbled down the hallway. It still made his brain skip every time Rozanov did this, the realization that he was strong enough to lift Shane, despite being a professional athlete, despite the pounds of muscle he’d put on over the years. He found his own footing as they made their way into the bathroom, practically shoving Rozanov inside and into the shower. 

Shane didn’t bother staying quiet under the running water, groaning as loudly as he wanted with his hands back on Ilya’s head while he took Shane deep into his throat, a couple of fingers lightly tracing around the rim of Shane’s ass for the added sensation. 

He felt way better when he was on his knees a little while later too, with the sweat washed away, Rozanov own groans—fuck, yes, keep going, more, Hollander, more—swallowed up by the water pattering down around them. 

Shane was late by the time they finished up and dried off. He quickly retraced their steps to the front hallway, grabbing his dirty clothes from the floor to deposit in the hamper. He had just enough time to make a protein shake before he needed to get on the road. 

Rozanov was behind him, naked. Shane stopped in his tracks when he realized what was going on, when Rozanov bent down to grab the sweat-drenched pants he’d gone running in. 

“Are you really going to put those clothes back on after you took a shower?” Shane demanded, watching in horror as Rozanov shoved one leg, than a second, into the pants. 

“Try not to think about it.” Rozanov said calmly, winking at him. “It will only make you upset.” 

He was absolutely right about that. But Shane had no choice but to listen, since he had to get on with the rest of his day. 

He darted forward for a moment, though, before Rozanov bent down to grab his t-shirt and sweatshirt. Rozanov met him halfway, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his mouth. 

“See ya.” Shane turned his back so he didn’t have to witness the atrocity happening behind him, heading for the laundry basket first, and then the refrigerator, while Ilya let himself out. 

_____

IR
I miss your cock. 

Don’t send me shit like that while I’m traveling.
There are people everywhere. 
Actually, could you just delete that text? 
I’m serious, please delete it.

IR
Does that mean you don’t miss mine? 
😢

Did you delete it?

IR
Yes.

I didn’t say that.

IR
I knew it
I will send you 9 pictures so you can remember us

Don’t send me any pictures. 
Why 9?

IR
One for every inch you are missing.

You do realize I’ve seen it, right? I know that’s a lie. 

“Hollanderrrrrrr!!!!” Shane almost dropped his phone as Vaughn, yelling, launched himself into the seat next to him. He quickly clicked off the screen, shoving the device under his leg for good measure. He ignored it when it buzzed. 

Not that Vaughn had noticed anything. He pounded his fist down on Shane’s thigh, sending him cringing away towards the window of the plane. 

“Ow, Vaughn, what the fuck—” 

“The fucking roster, man! Fucking Captain Canada right here!” Vaughn continued his walloping, finally getting a laugh out of Shane as he kicked out in the narrow space between them to get him to stop. 

“Okay, fine, thanks!” Shane had almost forgotten about the Olympic roster announcement the day before, only because he’d had a few extra days as a heads up before it went out into the world. He hadn’t seen Vaughn or the team since then, though—he nodded to a few of the other guys as they congratulated him while passing down the aisle. 

“We’re gonna kick your ass, dude,” Vaughn notified him, stretching his legs into the aisle and ignoring the yells and protests from the teammates he almost tripped. 

“Not a chance, Vaughny, but you’ll look great in silver, don't even stress.” Shane smiled, accepting one more lighthearted thump to his thigh before he shoved his shoulder out between them, angling it to block any more hits. 

Vaughn couldn’t stop talking about Sochi for most of the flight to Chicago. Not that Shane could blame him; he was pretty excited, too. The USA’s roster had come out the week before, on January 1, and Vaughn was there (exactly as he fucking should have been) along with two other Admirals. Three other guys had gotten the call, too, for Norway and Sweden. Shane couldn’t wait to play against them. 

Huff—who was also on Canada’s roster, as one of Shane’s Alternates—had settled in the seat across the aisle. Since he had actually played in the Olympics before, he was patiently weighing in on Vaughn’s questions with answers based on his experiences in Vancouver and Turin. 

Wagner was in front of them, listening in from his seat next to Eric Bennett. Wagner hadn’t made the USA’s roster this time, but Shane thought he probably would in the future, especially if he kept building on the performance he’d put in since joining the Admirals last season. 

“And Russia, man. Who the fuck knows what that’s going to be like.” 

Shane’s attention was drawn back to Carter at this, watching as his friend shook his head and leaned back. 

“It’s a bummer. My moms really wanted to go, but they don’t want to risk it, you know?” 

“Wait, ‘moms?’” Wagner said loudly, peering around his seat at Vaughn. 

Shane looked at Cale. He had hit on this, too, but he hadn’t planned on actually saying anything. Bennett’s head popped up between the seats, cutting a swift glare at Wagner. 

“No, no,” Cale added quickly, spotting the look he was getting from Bennett. “That’s cool! I just didn’t know if I heard you right!” 

“Yeah, man,” Carter said, eyebrows raised. “I’ve got two moms. You didn’t know that?”

“No!” Wagner was still shaking his head at whatever implication he thought was being read from his question.  

“I have a gay brother-in-law, do you need to know about that too?” Huff piped up from across the aisle. Shane’s eyes flicked at him, taking in the quietly assessing look on his face. 

“Dude, no, I’m not being weird about it,” Wagner insisted. His usually pale face had turned beet red, and he looked like he would be willing to fling himself out of the side of the plane, if only to escape this interaction between himself, the two Alternates, and the team’s solid, longtime goalie. Shane stayed quiet. 

“I swear,” Wagner added, twisting over his shoulder to look at Bennett. “I just didn’t know.” 

Shane hadn’t known either, and it was the second time within a year that he was forced to reflect on how little effort he had spent at learning some basic facts about his friends’ lives, and specifically about their mothers. 

But his selfish nature was further confirmed by his focus on how comfortable Carter had seemed with sharing this fact about himself. Like it was nothing weird or unusual—and actually, that Wagner was the fucked up one, for questioning it. 

It also gave him new insight into what growing up must have been like for Carter: Black, in North Dakota with, apparently, two moms. Maybe it helped explain why he and Shane had always gravitated to each other, even besides the fact that they were on the same line and had great chemistry on the ice. They both knew what it was like to be different. Both, maybe, with more than one thing that made them different. 

“What do you mean?” Shane said, finally speaking up, cutting through Wagner’s continued protests in defense of himself. “About not risking it?” 

Carter looked at him, surprised. “Dude, there’s all this news about Russia’s anti-gay laws. They’re calling it a ‘propaganda’ law.” 

He turned his fingers into quotes, grimacing as he continued. “Basically saying, like, gay people are dangerous to children, and people who are gay or who support people who are gay are promoting propaganda. So yeah, Russia is not safe for people like them.” 

“It makes you wonder,” he said, stretching his legs out into the aisle again. “About the gay athletes that are going. Because you know there are some.” 

Shane let this sit with him for a moment—all of it, the laws, the implications about safety, the comment about the athletes going. His throat suddenly felt dry, and he groped for his water bottle, uncapping it to take a quick sip. 

The guys around them had quieted down at Vaughn’s comments, so at least Shane’s reaction didn’t stand out. Wagner looked even more uncomfortable, if it was possible. 

After a moment, Bennett broke the silence. 

“Is that cool with you, Wag?” He said dryly. 

“Dude, shut up, I’m not homophobic!” Wagner yelled, groaning as his volume caused heads to turn from in front of them. Vaughn cracked up, and the conversation moved on enough to let Shane withdraw, leaning his head against the side of the plane to try and process. 

He didn’t know, actually—about the propaganda laws, or if Wagner was homophobic. Well, he didn’t think he was—Wagner had just said he wasn’t like eight times—but Shane was less certain that everyone on the team was as accepting as Vaughn, or as Huff might be about his gay brother-in-law. 

It was a good locker room, obviously. It wasn’t a team that would tolerate slurs of any kind, not with Coach Murdock at the helm and players like Shane and Carter in leadership. He didn’t take that for granted, not after some of the locker rooms he’d been in when he was younger. 

But that didn’t mean it was perfect. There were still plenty of jokes and coded comments. And Shane knew that there were still guys on the team who would probably be perfectly comfortable using slurs, all kinds of them, if they knew they had a more receptive audience. 

And in any case, Shane also knew that it was one thing to support a guy with two moms, and another thing entirely to share a shower with a guy who you thought might check you out. 

The thought sat in the pit of his stomach. He pulled his phone out, swiping away the text notification, and connected to the plane’s WiFi. 

He spent the rest of the flight reading about the propaganda law. It definitely didn’t help him feel any better by the time they got off the plane in Chicago. 

_____

It ate away at him over the next few weeks before Sochi. Not to the point of distraction—the Admirals went into the Olympic break with a fucking bang—but enough that he thought about it every time he thought about arriving in Sochi. 

He’d known for a long time that Ilya was weird about Russia, but he’d figured it was personal, about his own family and situation back home. He hadn’t understood the additional layer—that Russia was complicated for Ilya, too. Shane had taken to beating himself up for never asking about it, even after any of the times Ilya had alluded to being in or coming back from Moscow over the past three years. 

Shane finally brought it up the last time he saw him before Sochi, when they were laying on opposite ends of Shane’s couch. The TV was on in the background, though neither were really watching. 

“It’s weird that I’m going to Russia.” 

He kept his eyes fixed on the wall somewhere to the left of the television. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Ilya look up from his phone and turn his head. 

“Why?” Ilya’s expression was inscrutable when Shane darted a glance at him. 

“Because,” Shane paused, wondering why his brain hadn’t supplied him with a follow-up to his idiotic opening statement. “You’re Russian.” 

Ilya sniffed, turning his head back forward as he looked at his phone again. “Yes. I also feel weird when I have to go to Canada. Mostly because Canada is so fucking weird.” 

Shane let this go without comment, but he knew already, from the moody looks and snarky response, that if he wanted to have this conversation with Ilya, he was going to have to push through it. 

He sat up on the couch so that he wasn’t slouching anymore, and forced himself to turn to Ilya, his arm balanced along the back of the couch. “I was reading about the propaganda law.”

Ilya said nothing, but he cut a look towards Shane out of the corner of his eye. 

“Is that kind of thing hard for you?” Shane asked. He regretted the words as soon as they were out. What a brilliant fucking question, is the anti-gay law hard for you, since we like sucking each other’s dicks?

“What kind of thing?” Shane knew he had been pressing on a tender spot, but still, he flinched at Ilya’s tone. “Nobody knows about this, Hollander. Thought you were aware of that.” 

He still refused to look at Shane, which Shane would have usually taken as a sign to back off. But he’d done that too many times—not just with Ilya, but with other people in his life, too—and had missed out on too much important information because of it. 

“I know,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “But I’m asking about you specifically.” 

“No. It is not hard.” Ilya spoke resolutely, but he said it in a way that made Shane think that it was actually incredibly fucking hard. 

“Your family…” 

“My family what?” Ilya snapped, whipping his head around to stare incredulously, and Shane couldn’t blame him. He knew he was going too far, but still, he went further. 

“They don’t know. Right?” 

“Of course they don’t fucking know.” Ilya bit down on the words, his voice getting louder and harsher. Shane could see how tensely he was holding his jaw. “My father is police, my brother is police, what the fuck do you think?” 

Shane shifted back slightly as he took this in, another new piece of Ilya that filled in some of the spaces. The murkiness around leaving hockey, the punishment, the unhappy phone calls, the money. He felt suddenly and intensely guilty for having goaded him into this confession, this anger, and for what? Just for Shane to understand a little better? Why did Ilya owe him that? 

“I’m sorry,” he said after a beat. “That was a stupid thing to say.” 

Ilya had relaxed in the span of the quiet pause, too. He waved his hand, then brought it to rub his forehead, not quite looking at Shane. “No, I am sorry. It is…” 

Shane waited him out. Not because he expected an end to the sentence, but because he didn’t know what to say, after the way he’d botched this entire conversation in the first place. 

But after another few moments, Ilya spoke again. He rested his phone on his leg, tilting his head back towards the ceiling. Shane watched him try to find the English words that fit the meaning of what he wanted to say. They came, slowly. 

“Something is wrong with my father. Not the way it was before—there has always been something wrong with him. Something else, I mean. I think he is sick. Forgetting things.” 

Shane was absorbed, the same way he always was whenever Ilya gave voice to the quieter and more private parts of himself. He shook his head when he finished, finding nothing better to say than simply repeating, “I’m so sorry.” 

“I don’t always want to go back,” Ilya continued quietly. “But I have to. It is home.” 

He sounded tired, but he also sounded angry, and sad, and on edge. There were even more layers here, Shane suddenly saw, than he had ever realized. And he was an asshole for dredging them up when they were sitting on a couch together on a quiet night in New York, thousands of miles away from Russia. 

He moved across the couch, shifting his body so that he was sitting directly next to Ilya, their shoulders touching. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, hoping that the words would truly find their purchase the third time. “I shouldn’t have brought it all up.” 

Ilya finally looked at him, and smiled. It wasn’t a happy expression, and Shane kind of hated it, even while it pierced him straight into his stomach. 

“It’s okay,” Ilya said, placing his hand on Shane’s thigh. “I understand why you did.” 

And Shane felt he had no choice but to leave it at that, even though he wanted to know what Ilya meant, when Shane himself wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. But he let it go, staying side-by-side on the couch with their arms gently pressed together until Ilya finally got up to leave. 

Shane walked him to the door, chewing on his lip. He was still fixated, now that he actually saw it: how much it cost Ilya to go back to Russia every time. But Ilya had apparently moved on from the subject, at least for the moment. 

He smiled at Shane in the entryway, placing both hands on his face as he kissed him goodbye. 

“Good luck, Hollander,” he said, patting his cheek, not lightly. “Show me your bronze medal when you return.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane said, but he smiled as he pulled him back for a second kiss. 

He was still thinking about the cost—to Ilya, and to himself—when he landed in Sochi two days later. 

_____

February 2014, Sochi

It was easy to immerse himself in the Olympics. The fervor around the games, the insanity of the Olympic village, the immediate intensity of practices—the constant presence of his team, in general. He was rooming with Huff and J.J. Boiziau from the Montreal Voyageurs, who was a great guy, if a little loud and overbearing at times. Shane had a sense he might be playing that up a bit, to compensate for Shane and Huff being more lowkey. 

All of it meant, though, that when he had a little down time, he tried to slip away to find time and space to recharge on his own if he could. 

Today he’d managed to find a break in the middle of the day. He’d decided to walk along the beach, just for some air and to take in the view of the water and lightly pebbled shore while he tried to clear his head. He wasn’t doing so well on the last part, as he stared down at the text on his phone—his mom reminding him to wear his Reeboks. Again. 

“CAP!” He knew the voice as soon as he heard it, and looked over his shoulder to see Vaughn several yards behind him with Scott Hunter, hands cupped around his mouth as he bellowed in Shane’s direction. 

He waited for them to catch up, watching Hunter say something to Vaughn that made them both laugh. 

“Did you hear him?” Hunter said, as soon as they’d come level. “He called you Cap. Right in front of me.” 

Shane snorted, while Vaughn shrugged unabashedly. 

“I feel like the belle of the ball,” he said, draping one arm around Shane and the other around Scott. “Just me here with my two captains.” 

“I don’t know,” Shane agreed with Hunter, which wasn’t his favorite feeling. “That feels kind of weird, Vaughny.” 

“You might be right,” Vaughn conceded, squeezing them both around the shoulders. “Like being with my husband and my boyfriend in the same place.” 

“Which one is your husband and which one is your boyfriend?” Scott asked, fixing Vaughn with a stern look, which he then turned on Shane. “And keep in mind which one comes with the everlasting union.” 

“Isn’t the question, which one pays the bills, and which one has my heart?” Vaughn joked, winking at Shane, who shook his head. 

“I mean, which one is the permanent bond, and which one is just a fling for now,” said Scott. 

Shane had a feeling that some of this wasn’t just Team USA bullshit, that maybe Hunter still harbored a little bit of resentment at the Admirals for not wanting to pay his bills anymore, so to speak, and for sending him on his way to Boston. By contrast, though, Carter was only a couple of years into his long-term contract with New York—which was hardly a “fling for now,” Shane thought. But he held his tongue. 

Vaughn laughed it all off, like he always did, dropping his arms and turning around to look at the beach instead. 

“Weird fucking place, right? Like, a fucking beach in Russia, are you serious?” 

Shane followed his gaze, shrugging at the open sky and the wide expanse of water. “I like it. It’s a good break from the village, you can actually breathe out here.” 

“I know. The black mold,” Hunter agreed. Shane shrugged again, because that wasn’t what he meant, even though he had also been a little perturbed by the weird smell in their rooms.  

“We were going to go and watch the figure skaters later. You want to come with us? Those are some brave guys, to be honest.” Vaughn raised his eyebrows meaningfully, and Shane knew they were both thinking about the conversation on the plane. 

But for some reason, now, it felt a little different. There was a strange edge of defensiveness in him—if not for Russia, exactly, maybe for the people who actually lived there, the ones who dealt with the weight of the laws in earnest, and who didn’t get to board a plane in a few weeks and go back to their home country.  

“I don’t know,” Shane said, a small strain of standoffishness clear to his own ears. “It’s got to be harder for the people who are actually from here, I think.” 

He barely stopped himself saying the next words, and all of us are going to get to go home and not have to come back. 

“Oh, for sure,” Vaughn agreed readily, ignoring Shane’s tone if he even heard it. “I can’t imagine how they deal with it. It fucking sucks, man.” 

Hunter, though, looked over at Shane, quickly and thoughtfully. Shane ignored him, embarrassed at what he had just let out of his mouth, especially when Vaughn was the last person who needed chastising about any of this shit, and because he was thinking about Ilya. Again. 

He pushed the thought away long enough to take Hunter and Vaughn up on their invitation to watch the men’s short program, even though he thought it was objectively weird for the US and Canadian captains to be hanging out in the middle of the games. But anything to get his mind off Ilya—for a little while, at least. 

Because really, everything here made him think about Ilya. He wished he was here, so badly. He wished he could talk to him about it, ask him what he thought about all of it—Sochi, the beach, the food, the Games, the black mold, the people, the media, the hockey. 

Sometimes he thought about what it would have been like if Ilya had never quit hockey. It was hard not to think about it now, in Russia, the place where he had actually played, his former teammates probably in the tournament right now. In that way, of course, Shane was glad Ilya wasn’t here, on the Russian team that didn't even make it to the quarterfinals. 

But it was something he considered from time to time. The memory of what Ilya had once said—that he’d been good enough to be drafted first overall—sometimes worked its way into Shane’s odd and intricate fantasies about other universes.

Ilya had said it glibly, probably to fuck with Shane, like half of the shit he said. But Shane knew to his very core that there was something true in the statement. That Ilya had been good, and would have been better, if he’d been given the time. 

Somehow, this thought settled within him as he buckled down over the distractions, pushing through the extraneous thoughts as he lost himself in the frenetic rhythm of the games. He let it become part of the foundation of his growing confidence as they pushed on and on and on, all the way to the gold medal game. Because he was here, and he owed it to himself, and everything it had taken him and all the people who had helped him along the way, to keep going to the end. 

And then they did it. 

All it took was one goal—his—in the second period, and the hardest defensive work of his career. His team played like a single stick attached to two skates, working together as one glove. It was the best fucking performance he had ever been a part of. And then they were there, over the line, pushed up to the highest podium. 

The sound was just a roar over him as he shook Hunter’s hand at the end, hugging Carter next, a quiet word in his ear before Shane let him go back to his team. And then rest: the elation, the hard and clutching embraces from his teammates, O Canada, the medal around his neck. Gold. 

He wasn’t hungover the next morning like everyone else. He’d tried to let loose a bit, but had only made it through half a beer before his brain quietly reminded him that the Admirals would play Chicago at home in four days, and that even if nobody expected him to be there, he wanted to be. He still stayed out late celebrating with the team, but skipped the alcohol. 

It meant that when the text came in, there was nothing clouding his mind, nothing to buffer against the feeling in his chest when he saw the message on the screen. 

IR
Gold medal.

_____


March 2014, New York City 

When he saw him a week later, Rozanov said it again. 

“Gold medal.” 

He was standing in Shane’s hallway, taking his shoes off and lining them up on the shelf against the wall. “I think I will fuck you while you are wearing it.” 

“Not a chance,” Shane was startled into laughing, even as the idea outraged him. At least, he assumed the feeling prickling up the back of his neck was outrage. 

“You’re right,” Rozanov responded, hanging his coat over the handle of the front door. He strode past Shane into the main room, smirking over his shoulder. “I should be the one who wears it.” 

“You’re not fucking touching it!” Shane followed him in quickly, shoving him from behind. 

But he did. Not to fuck—obviously. But Shane carefully took the medal out of its commemorative case, and let him hold it. Ilya took it with gentle hands, carefully cradling the heavy gold medallion as he studied the delicate designs etched on either side, the Russian, French, and English script along the edges. 

With Ilya’s attention on the object he was holding, he was oblivious to Shane studying him. There was something strange on his face, an expression that Shane hadn’t seen before. It almost looked like hunger. But it also looked like pride. 

And suddenly Shane wondered if Ilya ever shared any of his odd and intricate fantasies, if he sometimes thought about a universe where the medal had been his and he was the one showing it to Shane. For just an instant, Shane wanted to tell him about how much he had wished he’d been in Sochi—to ask if Ilya had wished he’d been there, too, if he ever thought about what his life would have been like if he had kept playing hockey. 

But Shane had broken enough moments with his sloppy questions. He stayed quiet this time, watching Ilya soak in the gold medal in his hands. 

Ilya spoke then—something that sounded a lot like an English word, but was clearly Russian, the consonants wrapped smoothly in his accent, a different emphasis and inflection. 

Shane blinked at him. He wanted to ask what it meant, but nerves held him back. He never asked Ilya to translate himself from Russian, even when he was mocking Shane. It didn’t seem like mockery right now, though. 

After a long moment, Ilya placed the medal back into the case in the same position Shane had taken it out. He stepped back from the kitchen island, waiting until Shane had safely tucked the medal away before he pressed in again, turning Shane’s body to face the counter. 

“Wha—” Shane was cut off by Rozanov reaching up to grab his face, twisting it over his shoulder, a long and filthy kiss crowding into his mouth. The tongue was gone as soon as it had arrived, and Shane felt his pants shoved down over his hips. A strong forearm pressed him forward, leaning his torso onto the kitchen island. Rozanov was already on his knees behind him, already biting into the right side of his ass. Shane reached back to push him away, but a hand swiftly slapped him down in turn.   

“Oh holy fuck,” Shane breathed out as he felt Ilya spread his cheeks and immediately press his tongue against him. He leaned forward, letting his head hit the counter as he braced himself forward on his arms. 

It had only been a little more than three weeks since they’d seen each other. But Shane felt like he was crackling with anticipation at the promise of relief, waiting for it to wash away all the stress and adrenaline that had built up inside of him. 

His fingers grasped at the glossy marble countertop as Ilya licked him, pressing his tongue inside slowly but insistently. The wet sounds echoing into the kitchen were making him even harder, already almost painfully so. He pushed his hips back against Ilya’s mouth, both to get closer and to make more room for his dick against the side of the kitchen island. 

He reached down to grasp it, just for a little relief, but Ilya quickly slapped his hand away again. Shane made a sound he hadn’t heard before, something like a whimper, and leaned his head down to the countertop again as he grappled to keep some control over himself. 

The cool marble contrasted against his flushed face, the same way Ilya’s soft tongue contrasted against the sharp bites he pulled back to press into Shane’s cheeks every so often. 

Shane knew that these fleeting pauses were Ilya’s efforts to cool down and get control over himself. He had shoved his own pants down at some point, and Shane could hear him, breathing hard and stroking his own cock.

The idea that he was this turned on—that Shane could make him so aroused—was overwhelming. Shane felt hot all over and he was aching to have more than just Ilya’s tongue inside of him. His hole was getting soft and open from the attention and Ilya’s fingers were starting to press in just lightly at the rim, but it still wasn’t enough. 

“Fuck, please, more,” he gasped out finally, stretching his arm out across the kitchen island. He scrambled his hand into the drawer at the side, barely reachable from his position, with Ilya’s strong arm holding him solidly in place. But he managed to find the small travel size bottle of lube that had been placed in this drawer for exactly this scenario, which had happened once last fall. 

He passed the bottle back to Ilya, who squeezed him, a quick grasp of fingers, as he took it. Shane listened to the click of the bottle cap, squirming with need and impatience, wincing when his painfully hard dick made contact with the side of the kitchen island. He breathed out slowly when he felt Ilya’s thick, strong finger finally press inside of him. 

Ilya pulled back a bit, removing his other hand from Shane’s hip to swipe his arm across his mouth. He rested his head briefly against Shane’s ass, breathing slowly, controlled, as he worked his finger farther in. 

He took his time, stretching slowly. By the time he added a second finger, Shane could feel him searching, circling his fingers in, crooking them and rubbing down for the right spot. 

Shane jolted when Ilya found it. He jerked his head up from the marble, crying out a short, choked-out sound as he braced himself down on his arm. 

“Jesus Christ,” he moaned.

“Yes, Hollander,” Ilya purred from behind him, his voice low and guttural. “Look at how much you fucking love this.” 

Shane shuddered as Ilya pressed his fingers down on his prostate, rubbing the spot firmly, thoroughly. He squirmed, one foot kicking out at the kitchen island as he struggled to keep himself from coming. 

“Come on,” he managed to get out of his mouth. “Please let me touch myself.” 

“Not yet.” Ilya pushed his fingers in deeper, and Shane moaned again. “Not until I am inside you.” 

“Then fucking get inside me,” Shane bit out, glaring over his shoulder. Ilya laughed, leaning his head against his ass again. Shane could feel him breathing harshly against his skin. 

Ilya added a third finger soon, stretching lightly, then moving in tight circles over his prostate. Shane’s legs were shaking now and his cock was so hard and wet that he thought he might die. 

“Please,” he panted into the kitchen, his voice quaking the way his muscles were. “I need you.” 

He heard Ilya take in a sharp breath behind him, and he stood up so fast that Shane almost stumbled at the absence of pressure against his trembling lower body. Ilya held him with a steady hand on his hip, leaning forward to kiss him between his shoulder blades. 

“Condom,” he said, his voice gravelly. 

Shane rushed for the drawer again, but realized immediately that he wouldn’t find one—because he’d only had the foresight to put the lube in there, not a condom. 

There was an instant where they both paused, staring at the empty drawer, and Shane could feel the same thought passing between them. A shiver ran up his back, sending him trembling against the countertop again, at the thought of Ilya inside of him with nothing between them, what it would be like to feel him come. Shane had suddenly never wanted anything more badly, but he knew there was another barrier, a necessary question that had to come first—one he did not want to ask right now with his hips grinding against Ilya’s hand and the gold medal in its commemorative case in front of them. 

Ilya made the decision for them, pulling carefully away from Shane and slipping out of the kitchen as quickly as possible. 

Shane shivered again, feeling open and wet and wanting in the empty room. The wait couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds. It seemed interminable. 

Ilya was already opening the package as he strode quickly back into the kitchen. He stood behind him again as he rolled the condom on, eyes trained on Shane, who hadn’t moved from where Ilya had left him. 

“Stayed right where you were.” Ilya stroked his hand down Shane’s side, rumbling against his skin as he leaned in to kiss his shoulder blade, the back of his neck. “So good for me.” 

The words shot straight through Shane, producing a shudder of pleasure. He didn’t have the brainpower to understand why that felt so fucking hot to hear—his head was too crowded with the overpowering urge to keep doing it, keep being good. For Ilya. 

“Please fuck me,” he said, his head turned to look at Ilya over his shoulder. 

Ilya groaned in the back of his throat, lightly biting down on Shane’s shoulder, and straightened again. 

“You are so sweet, asking me so nicely,” Ilya said gruffly, rubbing the head of his dick over Shane, pushing in gently, too slowly. Shane pushed himself back, forcing a grunt from Ilya, who took his cue and moved himself forward with more purpose. 

He seemed to understand that Shane didn’t need him to start slowly. He obliged, pumping himself in, hips thrusting forward. They picked up a bruising tempo right away, Shane meeting him with every motion, groaning down into the countertop. 

It felt fucking amazing, but the edge of the marble countertop was digging into his abdomen, and he was banging his ribs against it each time Ilya fucked into him. Eventually Shane found it distracting enough to put his hand back against Ilya’s hip. Ilya stopped immediately, allowing Shane to pull away and twist around from the kitchen island. 

They stumbled to the couch together and Shane shoved Rozanov down onto it, immediately climbing on top of him. They had only done it like this once before and it had felt insane, and all Shane could think about was grabbing on and riding Ilya until they both came. 

He reached back, grasping Ilya’s dick, shifting himself until he found the right spot again. Ilya held him steady, hands on Shane’s hips as he stared up at him, lips slightly parted. 

Shane pushed backwards and watched Ilya’s head tilt over the back of the couch, a string of words—half Russian, half English—tumbling out of his mouth. Shane blocked them with a kiss, the fingers of his free hand pushed through Ilya’s soft, short hair, the curls already coming back. 

He sank back slowly, giving himself only a moment to get used to the sensation and the new angle before he whispered to himself, fuck, and started moving. 

“Oh God,” Ilya groaned, and Shane was fucking proud of that, proud that he could make him sound like that, look like that, feel like that. He rolled his hips forward with more purpose, leaning in over Ilya, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of the couch to give himself leverage. 

And Ilya finally did as promised, moving one hand off Shane’s hip to clasp around his dick, finally touching him. Shane was soaked with precome, but for once Ilya didn’t comment on it. He stroked up and down instead, leaving Shane stuttering with pleasure. 

Ilya felt so much bigger, so much deeper like this, and when he thrust his hips up into Shane, it hit him so hard that his mind went blank. He dropped his head, pressing the side of it to Ilya’s, mouthing incoherent words, just noises at this point. 

When Shane came, it felt like everything inside of his body rushed out of him, weeks of closely held tension and emotion pouring forth. He slumped forward, arms draped over the couch and head down as Ilya fucked into him four, five more times, holding Shane still as his own orgasm followed. 

They stayed where they were, pressed together tightly, drenched in sweat and everything else. Shane had Ilya’s hair in his mouth, and he felt Ilya’s lips in the crook of his neck, gently mouthing at him, not quite kisses. 

After a very long moment, Ilya mumbled into his shoulder. 

“You were right not to wear medal.” 

Shane pulled back slightly to look between their torsos, and saw exactly how much he had come. It was all over their stomachs, even their chests. Ilya was sticky almost all the way up to his neck. 

He couldn’t help it. A small laugh bubbled out of him, and then another one. Ilya was already laughing, too, arms clasped around his waist. 

Shane remembered, then, the Russian word that Ilya had said before, when he’d put the medal back in the case. He remembered the way Ilya had looked when he’d said it. It was the way he looked right now. 

He kept the word in his head all the way through the next several hours together, which were the perfect celebration of Shane’s success. 

Ilya left well after midnight, chastising Shane for fucking him into dust in the same breath that he congratulated him for gold again. When the apartment was empty, and Shane had showered away the sweat and saliva and lube and come, he tried to look up the word by its phonetic spelling, carefully typing out the syllables he had kept in his head. 

It turned out he had heard exactly what he thought he did—the word sounded basically the same in Russian and in English. 

Champion. 

_____

June 2014, Los Angeles

The Admirals lost the Stanley Cup Final in Game 5 against Los Angeles. 

He wanted to say that they played hard. Because they had played so fucking hard on their way to getting there. They had set themselves up beautifully before the Olympics, then blasted back after the break. Huff had been precisely the missing piece they’d needed, Wagner had risen to the occasion exactly the way Vaughn had predicted he would, and Bennett had literally set a save record at Madison Square Garden, only to break it a month later. 

Shane himself had been buoyed by the Olympics. He’d never played better hockey in his life, his mom had told him that several times in the lead-up to the series against the Queens. Even his harshest critic—his own brain—had agreed. 

But it wasn’t fucking enough. 

The worst part was being in LA for the loss, having to go back to the fucking visitors locker room, onto a fucking bus, back to the fucking hotel to wait several sleepless hours before they could get on the plane. 

He hadn’t wanted his parents to come—not when they were 3-1 down in the series going into the night and it could have been the deciding game. But he wasn’t a strong enough force to prevent Yuna Hollander from watching her son play for the Stanley Cup, even if she had to watch him lose. 

Still, they’d understood when he couldn’t see them after the game for more than a quick hug and commiseration. He’d needed to speak to his team, the usual platitudes—which were harder to force out of his mouth than they’d ever been. Still, he made it through, forcing himself to look each of them in the eye even as the thought rolled over itself in his head: I let you down. 

And then, though all he wanted to do was find a quiet space to curl up and never speak again, he’d needed to take a moment alone with Carter. He’d never seen his friend anything close to this upset before, nearly inconsolable. Shane couldn’t blame him, after getting so close two separate times in the span of a few months. Silver to show for one, and nothing from the other. 

Shane stayed with him until late, sitting together on the balcony of Vaughn’s hotel room, mostly in silence. 

By the time he got back to his room, all he wanted to do was sleep. But the adrenaline still hadn’t left his system, or it had mixed together with his fury and disappointment to create a toxic sludge of self-loathing that had spread all throughout his body. He lay on top of the covers of his hotel bed, still in the clothes he’d worn when they left the arena. He couldn’t bring himself to get undressed. 

It was well after one in the morning when he realized his phone was ringing. 

He sat up when he saw the name on the screen, quickly hitting the button to answer before he could think twice. 

“Hi?” 

“Hi.” Rozanov’s voice was quiet on the other end. Shane had no idea where he was, what time zone he was making the call from. For all he knew, it was four a.m. in New York, or almost noon in Moscow. 

But that was only part of the shock. The bigger one was hearing his voice at all—they had never talked on the phone before. They’d never had a reason to. If Shane thought about it, he supposed he would have only ever called him in an emergency. Was this an emergency? Shane’s spectacular, inevitable failure?

He realized he hadn’t said anything. But he didn’t know what to say. 

“You went to overtime in three games,” Rozanov said after a moment of silence. “Double overtime, twice.” 

Apparently those were the words Shane needed to hear, the words that activated him like a fucking sleeper agent. He pulled himself up, hunching over the bed into the phone as he started talking. About Leberg’s elbow, which he’d played on for way too long into the playoffs, about how Vaughn’s discounted goal in Game 2 should have been allowed, about the utterly avoidable penalties they’d racked up at great cost at multiple points in the series. 

He talked, and Ilya let him talk, only interjecting when the talk shifted away from the objective issues with their performance and the team issues that any commentator would be talking about tomorrow, and instead, drifted into the kind of self-castigation that Shane usually didn’t allow himself to speak aloud. He couldn’t stop tonight, though, not after holding it in for hours as he tried to be the steady presence that he needed to be for the rest of his team. It poured out of him, all of the ways he could have done better, all of the ways he’d been too slow, too weak, too distracted. 

“Hollander,” Ilya cut in, voice gentle. “You are one person, even if you are big star.” 

Shane paused to take a breath, trying to decide if he believed this. It was a simple statement of fact. It felt like the farthest thing from the truth. 

He realized that his cheeks were wet, and he tilted his head at the ceiling, steadying himself, hoping like hell that his tears couldn’t be heard through the phone. 

“You give everything you can for the team, but that does not mean you can be everything. If you were, you would win the Cup every year.” Before Shane could take this in, Ilya said it again: the Russian word, the one he had said after Sochi. 

Shane breathed slowly, in and out, twice, before he asked. “What does that word mean?” 

He could tell that the request had caught Ilya out—that he expected that Shane wouldn’t ask him to translate to English when he said something offhand in Russian. He never had before, after all. In the moment of silence that followed, Shane wondered if he would tell the truth or just brush him off. 

“It means champion.” Ilya’s voice was clearer when he spoke again, like he’d moved the phone closer to his mouth. 

“Because you have a gold medal, Hollander, which you won in Russia so it counts as two. You didn’t win stupid silver cup this year, but you will—more than one, probably more than anyone ever. You are going to beat them all. I know you can do it, I have seen you fucking do it. Because you are Shane Hollander. You are the best hockey player in the league. In the world.” 

Shane felt each word land inside of him like it had been aimed and discharged with perfect precision. Because they had. They were the words of someone who understood him, who knew what he needed to hear to pick it all up again tomorrow and keep going. Keep climbing. 

“You’re really good at pep talks,” he said after a long silence. “You would be a good team captain.” 

“Ah, Captain.” The smile was obvious in Ilya’s voice. “You should remember to call me that another time.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane said. But impossible though it was, he was smiling, too. 

A few more breaths of silence went between them. Shane was coming back into his body now, feeling itchy from the clothes he’d thrown on after his post-game shower, feeling the exhaustion from the adrenaline crash creeping up on him. He rubbed his forehead with his knuckle, trying to stave off the headache that was forming. 

But Ilya had something else to say. 

“Also, you are going to win MVP.” 

“How do you know that?” Shane took a moment to register the change in subject, startled by the certainty. It wasn’t something he’d allowed himself to think about—he was too superstitious, too worried that thinking it would be tempting fate. And maybe he had been right, because it was difficult to imagine winning any award after a loss like tonight. 

“Don’t—what is the phrase? Look in the water, like person with big ego?” Ilya sounded wry. 

“Fish for compliments?” Shane supplied automatically. 

“Ah, so you know you are doing it, Narcissus. Yes, you are going to win MVP. You know how good you are.” 

The praise sat heavy in Shane’s stomach. It was good, but it still felt like too much to hope. 

“I’m not as confident as you are, I guess,” he said finally. 

“I will make you a deal,” Ilya said, his voice full as he spoke clearly into the phone. “If you win MVP, I will give you a special reward next time I see you.” 

“Oh?” Shane’s brow furrowed. He felt a small spark at the word reward, not arousal, exactly—not tonight—but the hint or the possibility of it. Ilya always knew exactly what the fuck he was doing. 

“Yes. Something to look forward to.” 

“Okay.” Shane didn’t know what that meant, but figured he wasn’t supposed to. Still—the words had their intended effect. He was curious. 

They didn’t stay on the phone much longer. Shane got ready for bed slowly, with half as much care as he usually put into the process. But when he finally slipped between the hotel sheets, he was amazed to find that he was smiling again. 

There was, it turned out, a reason to look forward. 

Chapter End Notes

Does Carter Vaughn canonically have two moms? Doubt it, but I disregarded that he canonically entered the league after Shane, so I’ll take this other liberty, too. Maybe Carter being raised slightly earlier in time by two women in North Dakota was actually the first step in the butterfly effect that led to Ilya quitting hockey, Scott getting traded to Boston, and Shane winning a gold medal! Guess we’ll never know.

P.S. the phonetic spelling of the Russian word is chempion. Shane… you knew what he was saying.

Chapter 7: manhattan / vegas / phones

Chapter Summary

Interlude: Penthouse 1 and Apartment 5H.

Chapter Notes

This was too long to fit into the last (also too-long) chapter, but we couldn’t very well skip it, could we? It is 60% sex, sorry/you’re welcome.

June 2014, Las Vegas

“…Shane Hollander.”

Shane blacked out while on stage. He was confident that he made all the appropriate thank yous—to his parents, his coaches, the front office, his team—but he could not have recalled the actual words he used. 

The only thing he remembered was the part he said at the end, the part that hadn’t come from the notes he’d written just in case he won. 

“And, uh, for anyone else I haven’t said…” He swallowed slowly, looking up over the dark expanse, so grateful that the stage lights were too bright to see more than the first few rows of faces. “Thank you for your support. And, uh, believing in me.” 

He was flooded with relief when the applause started—he could hear Vaughny in the crowd, yelling louder than everyone—and lifted a hand awkwardly as he left the stage. 

It sounded dumber and dumber, the more he thought back on it. “For anyone else I haven’t said.” “Thank you for your support.” 

It was doubtful that Rozanov would listen, other than to make fun of Shane for giving the most media-trained speech possible. And even if he did, it was doubtful that he would identify anything aimed at him in those bland, empty, boring words. 

But Shane had thought about their conversation constantly over the last ten days. It was the reason he’d been able to get out of bed and onto the plane the morning after the game, and the reason he’d started writing down what to say if he did win MVP. 

And he had. 

He hadn’t talked to Rozanov since the night they lost. He doubted he would any time soon, since it was Ilya’s busiest time of the year. He’d probably be in Europe when Shane went back to New York for a few days before going up to Ottawa, which was a bummer. Shane was still curious about whatever he had in mind when he’d mentioned a reward. But it seemed like he’d have to wait until August or September to find out, if Rozanov even remembered he’d said it by then. 

Shane tried to focus on the Awards and the party afterwards, even though it would have been a lot more enjoyable if they had actually won the Cup. But Carter and the other Admirals in attendance didn’t seem bothered as they celebrated the end of the season with a shocking amount of alcohol, doing their best to get Shane to join them. 

He mostly held off, going between his teammates and his parents, occasionally pausing to chat with other players or officials from around the league who stopped to congratulate him. 

He missed exactly when the texts came in, but it was sometime between a conversation with his mom and the Deputy Commissioner, and declining—for the third time—to do a shot with Wagner and some of his friends from college. 

He couldn’t do more than read the messages before Vaughn converged on him again with a group of guys from various teams across the East. Somehow, he let them rope him into an after party at a nearby club. 

It really wasn’t his thing. He felt stupid in the suit he’d worn to the awards ceremony, and the place was loud and stifling. They ended up in some kind of VIP area, a private space with its own bar and lots of seating. The couches were filled with other NHL players and their guests—wives or girlfriends, or eventually, women they had met at the club itself. 

He spent most of the time talking to Carter, but gave him space after he hit it off with a tall woman in a short sparkly dress. Shane shifted his attention to Berzins, the goalie from Colorado, and smiled politely at the blond woman, and then the brunette, who briefly tried to cut into the conversation. He nursed the same drink over the whole night, enough to make it look like he was drinking, without actually needing to do much of it. 

It was late when he finally got back to his room. Once he was settled, bowtie undone, jacket off, he pulled out his phone. He brought up the texts from earlier, reading them over again, and finally replied.  

IR
I told you.
Congratulations. 

Thank you.

He didn’t expect a response any time soon, let alone immediately. But the words appeared on the screen in front of Shane’s eyes. 

IR
Enjoying the party?

Yeah, you know me.
It was fine. I’m going to sleep soon.
 

The phone immediately started buzzing, and Shane almost dropped it when he realized a video call was coming in. That was a fucking first. 

He scrambled up from the chair, pacing for a moment around the expanse of his large hotel room, before answering. 

“Where are you? What time is it?” The words flew out of his mouth before he could help it. In his defense, a spontaneous video call in the middle of the night was worthy of a little alarm. 

“Calm down, Hollander, I am at home.” Ilya smirked at him from a brightly lit room, looking perfectly awake. 

Shane squinted down at the screen, trying to identify the room behind him. It wasn’t Ilya’s familiar bedroom in the Orchard Street apartment. Besides the strong lighting, all Shane could see beyond Ilya were honey-colored hardwood floors and maybe a door. It looked empty. 

“What? Like Moscow?” Shane asked, confused. 

“No, New York.” The phone bobbed as Ilya walked through the room, still smirking. “I am in my new apartment. Do you like it?”

All of a sudden the camera flipped, showing, as Shane had thought, an empty room. He brought the phone closer to his face, trying to see what he could while Rozanov walked around, holding the camera out. It was hard to see much—he was moving too quickly—but Shane caught a glimpse of modern finishings, sleek cabinetry in the kitchen, what looked like a sliding glass door on the far side of the room. 

“Wait, seriously? You got a new place?” He had never even mentioned that he was thinking about moving out of Svetlana’s apartment, let alone that he was actively looking at new ones. 

“Yes, bought it.” The phone turned again, and Ilya looked at him directly through the camera, bringing it close to his face. 

“Ten blocks, now.” 

Shane pressed his lips together, wondering how two eyes could grab ahold of him so tightly through a camera lens. But then, looking at the camera was literally Ilya’s profession. Of course he knew how to do it well. 

Shane didn’t know how to respond, and in the end didn’t have any time to before the camera flipped back to show the apartment again. 

It was nice, from what he could see—one large living space with high ceilings, good appliances and fixtures in the kitchen. One side of the room had tall windows, though it was too dark to see the view, and he’d been right about the sliding glass door. He couldn’t see what was on the other side, but assumed it was a balcony or small enclosed patio.

As Ilya led him through the rest of the spacious one-bedroom, Shane reflected on how perfectly on brand this was for Ilya: to suddenly drop into a new apartment and call Shane at four in the morning to show him.  

They didn’t talk about money, obviously—it would have been weird even without Shane’s multi-million dollar contract and the tension of Ilya sending his asshole brother money for drugs and their father’s care. Shane had never judged him for staying in Svetlana’s apartment for as long as he had, because New York was expensive and he had no idea how much money Ilya actually made, or had. It never came up naturally, since they only ever spent money on takeout or drinks. When he wasn’t wearing plain black or something Adidas, Rozanov was always impeccably dressed in a rotation of designer clothing which Shane assumed was often gifted to him. 

But it didn’t surprise him to find out that, between the more frequent and increasingly higher-profile jobs, Ilya had been quietly putting money away for something like this. Actually, it made him pretty proud. 

Shane had also recently made a purchase he’d been thinking about for a long time—he’d finally pulled the trigger on a plot of land 10 minutes away from his parents’ cottage. He was going to try and get all the plans finalized in the next few weeks so construction could get started as soon as possible, so it would be ready for him to use next summer. 

Rozanov had paused by a large window frame in the bedroom, which was set deep into the wall, a wide ledge in front of it. “And here, also, is nice window. Lots of room, will also fuck you here.” 

Shane snorted as he heard this for a third time on the tour. 

“Yeah, sure,” he said, because that was definitely never going to happen. 

“I will,” Rozanov insisted, dropping down towards the floor. “When you are back in New York. I told you, reward.” 

“Now,” he said, bringing the phone close to his face again. “Take off your clothes.” 

“What?” Shane barely had time to register the word—reward—before the sudden whiplash. 

Rozanov was already setting the phone down, leaned against the wall, perhaps, clearly propped up on top of something. He backed away from the device as he stripped off his shirt. Of course he knew how to get his fucking angles to look perfect on the first try. 

“Wait, are you serious?” Shane was still sitting on the chair in his hotel room. He watched as the man on the screen nodded, smiling as he pushed down his pants. Shane shifted in his seat when Ilya’s perfect dick came into view, only half-hard for the moment, but getting harder as Ilya wrapped his hand around it. 

Despite his growing arousal, Shane’s brain still hadn’t caught up. They had never done anything remotely like this—he had never done anything remotely like this. What was he supposed to do? Just… jerk… off? At the camera? Where would he put his phone so he didn’t get come on it? Was it easy to wipe come off a phone screen? 

“Hollander,” Ilya’s hand stroked up and down slowly as he watched him through the screen. “What is going on?” 

“Hang on,” Shane tried to concentrate, not on the sight of Ilya touching himself or the fact that Shane’s mouth might actually have started watering at simply seeing his dick. “You really want to—”

Ilya cut him off, frowning. “I can hang up and finish without you, but would rather have you there.” 

And oh shit, if those weren’t exactly the words that made him scramble up from the chair to get this figured out. 

He went into the bedroom—too many windows in the sitting room of the large suite—and debated his options. Eventually, he hovered near the bed. 

He fumbled with the set up, propping the phone up on the bedside table and swearing when it immediately slid down, tilting the camera up at the lampshade. 

“God, you are so bad at this,” Ilya’s voice came through the phone speaker. 

“Fuck off.” 

Shane tried again, using the room phone and the clock on the nightstand to help anchor his cell phone against the base of the lamp, smiling triumphantly when it worked. He knelt on the bed, assessing the angle, trying not to focus on Ilya’s slow, methodic strokes. 

“Why are your clothes still on?” 

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane said, but he started unbuttoning his shirt. He folded each item carefully as it came off, placing it in a neat pile at the far end of the bed. 

“Can anyone see you?” He asked, eyes still on Ilya. “The room is really bright.” 

“Do you like that idea?” Even though Ilya was farther away from the camera now, Shane could see his smirk, the half-lidded eyes. 

He didn’t know if he did. Part of him, yeah, was a little turned on at the thought of someone looking out their window—or up from the street—in the middle of the night in Manhattan, catching sight of this insanely gorgeous man touching himself. But there was also the other part of him, the possessive part, which he desperately tried to lock away when it came to Ilya. 

“Shade is down,” Ilya continued when Shane didn’t answer. “You couldn’t tell?” 

“I was distracted,” he said, finally getting down to just his underwear. 

“I didn’t have my cock out then.” But Ilya fell quiet, squinting into the camera, when Shane pushed his boxer briefs off, carefully folding them for the top of the pile of clothes. 

Now fully naked, Shane shifted his position to sit on the bed, back against the headboard. The angle of the phone still worked—it was clearly visible, how hard he’d gotten through this process. Ilya had moved his hand away, kneeling with his legs wide, letting Shane look at him. He could see him perfectly, in the brightly lit, empty room of an apartment Shane hadn’t been inside of yet. 

Shane exhaled, trying to settle himself, as they both regarded each other. 

“Did you drink tonight?” Ilya asked. 

“A little.” Shane rolled his shoulders back, trying to push them away from his ears, trying to relax. 

“What did you drink?” 

He almost didn’t want to admit it, but he didn’t have the mental capacity for a lie. “Vodka.” 

“Oh?” Ilya’s eyebrows raised and Shane prayed he didn’t probe this further. It would probably be too easy for him to get Shane to admit that tasting it made him think about tasting Ilya. 

“It was horrible,” he said, hoping this would be enough to redirect. 

“It was probably shitty vodka.” Ilya slipped his hand over his abs, then down to grasp himself again. “Touch yourself.” 

But Shane still didn’t know how to just… start. He took a deep breath, chewing on his lip, trying to find the way around the wall that was going up in his brain. 

“Come on,” Ilya coaxed, dropping his voice. The shift in tone was familiar, and Shane closed his eyes, letting himself lean into the sound. “Show me what you do when I am not there.” 

The phrasing made the back of his neck prickle. He didn’t let himself dwell on it, but he already anticipated hearing those words replay in his mind at a later date, some other time when Ilya was not there and Shane was thinking about him anyway. 

He let his hand slowly start to drift over his upper body, touching himself slowly, delts and pecs and abs, feeling the muscles that had built up over the season but were shrinking again, exhausted by the exertion of playoffs. He let his hand move lower, below his stomach. The slow start helped, he was already shifting his hips on the bed, getting harder, ready to be touched. 

“Do you have lube?” Ilya asked from the phone. 

He did, in the drawer of the nightstand. He turned to get it, ignoring Ilya’s soft ha, because it wasn’t crazy to masturbate in a hotel room, so obviously he had put lube in the drawer. 

He squeezed out a small amount into his palm. When he finally reached down to touch himself, the relief of it made him suck in a quiet gasp. 

“Does it feel good?” 

He nodded. He palmed his dick, moving his hand slowly up, then down again. It was already hard to keep himself steady with Ilya’s voice filtering into the room. 

“You look good, Hollander. You should see how good you look.” 

His eyes were still closed, lost in the sensation of his hand and the floating feeling of pride from Ilya’s words. Until, a moment later, when he realized what he was missing. He quickly opened his eyes, whipping his head back towards the phone. Ilya was smiling, touching himself again. 

“Do you want me to tell you what I would do if you were in this apartment right now?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed out. 

“I would put you here, against the wall, and let you suck my cock.” 

Shane exhaled again, his skin tingling at the idea of it. On his knees in the empty room, Ilya above him, silhouetted by the bright lights, pressing slowly, insistently into his mouth. He swallowed harshly, his hand speeding up. 

“I know how much you like it, how good you are at taking me into your mouth. So good at taking me deep.” 

The words were, without a doubt, helping. Shane was touching himself more easily, drifting down from his dick to touch his balls, his left hand occasionally squeezing his pec. He could see from the screen that it was having an effect on Ilya, too, from the dark, hazy expression on his face. 

“Would not leave it at that, though. Would need to fuck you,” Ilya said, his breathing starting to get more shallow. “In the window.” 

“Ugh,” Shane grimaced, but it was a groan more than anything else, and Ilya laughed, but it was a panted breath more than anything else. 

They were silent, both stroking themselves, eyes fixed on the phone screens. Shane could see that Ilya was gripping himself harder, moving faster. Shane’s dick was hot and throbbing in his hand and he was more turned on than he ever thought he would be alone in a hotel room and staring at an iPhone. 

“Do you know what I would do if I was there?” Ilya’s voice was low, a rumbling vibration. Shane could almost feel it in the back of his neck, the sensation traveling down his spine. 

“What?” He choked out. 

“Ask me nicely.” 

“Tell me?” Shane tried again, his voice sounding more constricted as the feeling below his stomach grew tighter. “Please.”

The “please” did it, Shane could see from the way Ilya’s back stiffened and his head tilted back slightly. He made a soft noise in his throat, exhaling into his empty apartment. 

“Nothing,” Ilya said, eyes boring into Shane’s through the camera. “I would make you sit on the bed and show me what you are doing right now.” 

Shane couldn’t help it, he groaned aloud at the thought—the idea of Ilya watching him from three feet away instead of three thousand miles. The tantalizing closeness of him, doing nothing but looking on as Shane touched himself. 

“You wouldn’t touch me?” He asked, trying to keep his voice free from any hint of the desperation he was starting to feel. 

Another sound pushed out of Ilya’s throat as he adjusted his position on the floor. “No. Not at first. Make you show me how you want me to touch you.” 

Ilya paused for a moment, for emphasis, or to regain control of his voice. “Make you show me how you want to be filled.” 

“Oh fuck,” Shane gasped. His entire body felt like it clenched at the thought of it. He was stroking faster now, feeling his orgasm building. He arched away from the bed, shifting involuntarily. “I’m not going to last long.” 

“I can see that,” Ilya’s tongue darted out to swiftly lick his lips. “Been too long since you were filled up, mmm? So good during playoffs, following your superstitions even though you wanted it so badly.”

Shane didn’t want to stop watching but he had to close his eyes before he completely lost his shit. His hips were rolling up towards his hand as he stroked himself, heels digging into the soft mattress. Because Ilya was right, of course he was right, Shane had done everything he needed to keep focus during playoffs, even when it meant suppressing the bottomless pit of want within him. 

“You needed it, didn’t you?”

That was a better word than want. Shane could only groan in response. 

“Tell me what you need, Hollander.” Ilya’s voice was a purr, it was a caress through the phone. Shane stuttered through a breath, wishing he was feeling it on his skin. 

“I need—shit!”

Shane’s eyes flew open at the sharp clattering sound. The phone, which had been sliding forward without him noticing, suddenly tilted all the way, falling flat on the table again. Shane seized it in his left hand, holding it above himself so he could see Ilya, attempting to tilt it down his torso so that Ilya could see him, too. 

Ilya seemed unfazed by the change in angle. His eyes were fixed on Shane, brow furrowed in concentration. 

“Come on,” he urged. “Tell me what you need.”  

“I need…” But bringing Ilya closer to his line of vision was making it harder to keep ahold of himself, and he could feel it building faster and faster, pushing him closer to the edge. 

“Tell me.” Ilya had started to pitch forward slightly, leaning over himself, and Shane could tell he was close, too. 

Shane had said it once before, months ago. But he said it again, would say it as many times as Ilya wanted it. “I need you.” 

“Fuck, Hollander, you are so fucking good.” Ilya made the sound Shane was used to hearing echo through the air between them. 

He didn’t know who came first. He felt himself spilling over his hand and stomach just before he watched Ilya come across the floor in front of him. The image stayed on the back of his eyelids as he squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering through it. 

When he opened them again to look at the phone, still in the air above him, he realized he’d been holding it at the wrong angle. The small picture showed that he’d mostly been aiming at his face. He quickly moved it away, tilting it down so that it showed his body instead, the come pooling on his stomach and abs. 

He heard Ilya let out a deep, slow exhale. Shane mirrored him, in and out, trying to blink through the post-orgasm crash. 

And he was looking at Ilya’s floor. “Do you have something to clean that up with?”

“Don’t start your bullshit.” Ilya tilted himself to the side, wiping his come-covered hand on his bare stomach. 

“I’m just saying,” Shane tried not to stare at the sweat glistening all over his body, glinting under the bright lights. “You don’t have anything in the apartment.” 

“If you were here I’d make you lick it up.”

“Fuck off, that’s disgusting,” Shane said, but he stifled a shiver, as he always did when Ilya said something outrageous that pierced straight into the back of his mind. 

“Why are you so awake at 4am, anyway?” He asked, just for the subject change. 

“Mm, jet lag.” Ilya reached somewhere beyond the camera, and Shane was relieved to see him come back in frame with a towel. “Flying back again later tonight, anyway. No need to fix it.”

“Oh.” Even though Shane had assumed this, he still felt a pang at the confirmation that Ilya wouldn’t be in the city when he got back. Tomorrow, too—they’d practically cross paths in the airport. “Where?”

“Berlin.” 

Shane watched as he cleaned himself off. “I guess I won’t see you until next season, then.” 

Rozanov snorted, dropping the towel onto the floor in front of him. “I don’t have seasons. At least not the same ones you do.” 

“Right.” Shane flushed slightly—the phrase had just popped out his mouth. “Sorry, I’m just—”

“I know, you always get so sleepy right after you come.” Rozanov smiled, lifting his eyes to the camera again. 

“Shut up.” But it was true, he was sleepy. “It’s one in the morning,” was what Shane actually said. 

What he wanted to say was, I wish you weren’t leaving tomorrow. I wish these phones weren’t between us. 

Ilya heard none of this, thankfully, so he only gave Shane a small, quiet laugh in response. 

“Get some sleep, Hollander.” His voice was soft through the phone, and sounded as far away as he was. “See you in New York.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “See you.” 

He hung up quickly and let his arm drop onto the mattress next to him. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, even as the come dried on his stomach, his right hand wet and sticky. 

He had been with Ilya in a few different places over the four years since they’d met, but it was twice now that he’d ended up in Vegas alone. The want was so overwhelming it was suffocating. The wish for him to be here, in this hotel, in this room, in this bed, close enough to kiss. 

Shane breathed out slowly, pushing his head back into the pillow. It was getting so much harder. 

Chapter End Notes

I genuinely cannot be bothered to remember what technology was used for video calls in 2014. Let’s agree not to think too deeply about it.

Next time: a hot [long-awaited] bombshell enters the [East] Villa[ge bar]!

Chapter 8: looking in windows

Chapter Summary

Calvin Klein, Mr. Real Estate, translation issues, close encounters, the jock inside, and game analysis with Svetlana Vetrova.

Chapter Notes

August 2014, New York City

The ad was literally two stories high, which meant that his dick was the size of an entire window. 

Shane almost ate shit on the concrete when he looked up and saw it. He caught himself just in time, his running shoes actually squeaking on the pavement as he came to a halt. He took several steps back, staring up. 

The ad placement itself wasn’t unusual in this part of SoHo, and Shane was pretty sure there was always a big picture on the side of this particular building. 

But nothing could have prepared him for forty feet of Ilya Rozanov in just his underwear. 

It was the expression that got him: his face half hidden by his palm, chin tilted down, eyes boring into him. How many times had Ilya looked at him like that, leaning back against a headboard, turned towards him on the couch? Half of those times he’d been naked, maybe with a sheet carelessly tossed over his bottom half. The white boxer briefs weren’t really all that different. If anything, it felt more obscene, maybe because there was more suggestion in the garment at what was barely concealed underneath. 

Shane had to start running immediately, because he was already getting hard.

He made it three blocks before he stopped again, because he had no self control. 

You kept that CK ad quiet. 

IR
Jealous?
You saw it on your run, yes? 
Surprise!

Why would I be jealous? I don’t need my dick to be the size of a building.
I think some people would call that overcompensating. 

IR
Come over tomorrow and I will show you compensation.

That doesn’t even make sense. 
I can be there at 3.

_____

He loved Ilya’s new apartment. Shane understood immediately why he had chosen it—not only because of its desirable location, tucked away on a small street just north of Houston—but because of the excellent natural lighting, the high ceilings, the modern appliances. The sliding glass door he had spotted on his phone tour turned out to lead to a small patio in the back, a unique little oasis in Manhattan that Ilya was obviously just using to smoke. 

It was smaller than Shane’s two-bedroom, but each room was more spacious. It was as neat as Ilya’s previous apartment had been, with comfortable furniture, lots of dark browns and leather. There were red and gold throw pillows on the couch, and a strange painting with multicolored geometric shapes on the wall that Shane couldn’t decide if he liked, but somehow always found himself looking at anyway. There was a dark orange rug in his bedroom. 

Ilya had found wide, soft cushions to put in the deep windowsills. And, yeah, they’d had sex on the one in the bedroom—with the shade down—but that wasn’t what Shane usually remembered when he thought about the big windows. 

Shane had seen him once as he’d approached the building. He was sitting in one of the window sills in the living room, looking down onto the street, leaning his head against the glass. It was too far away to see the expression on his face, but it had been like catching sight of a phantom. Afterwards, Shane found himself looking up every time he came or went, just for a glimpse, just in case.

There had been nothing wrong with his old place. It had clearly served him well during his first years in New York. But this one felt like Ilya. 

And it was 10 blocks closer. 

_____

The first time Shane met Svetlana had not been an ambush, as much as it felt like one. 

In reality, it was the opposite: it had actually been Shane’s suggestion, though calling it that still felt like a stretch.  

It happened in the early fall, preseason games still weeks away. Shane was more relaxed about being out late, at least relative to his attitude later in the season. In truth, he had still been adjusting to being back in New York, the rhythm and sounds of the city after the sedate pace of Ottawa and the quiet tranquility of his parents’ cottage. 

And he was still getting used to the proximity to Ilya, the ready physical access after another summer of texts and distance. He was allowing himself to take advantage of it. 

Shane was talking about hockey, because of course he was. Rozanov was being contrary, because of course he was. Shane knew that he was right, and knew that Rozanov was only contradicting him to get a rise out of him. Unfortunately, Shane was rising.   

It popped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I should ask Svetlana. I know she has better takes than you.” 

Rozanov had looked at him like he was genuinely startled, which, in turn, had startled Shane. He wasn’t sure he’d ever actually seen that reaction before—he didn’t really do a lot to surprise Ilya, as evidenced by how often he called him boring and predictable.

“What?” Shane asked, perturbed by Ilya’s sudden silence, the lack of a snap reaction. 

“Do you want to?” Ilya’s face was carefully, purposefully neutral, but he was looking at Shane with his full attention. 

“What?” Shane repeated, not entirely sure what he was being asked. 

“Do you want to ask Svetlana?” He had not moved since Shane had word-vomited the statement that had brought them to this moment. His arm was resting on the back of his chair, the other on the table in front of him, but Shane could see the tension in his shoulders through his thin t-shirt. 

“I…” Shane wasn’t even really sure he knew what was happening, so he asked the first question that came to his mouth. “She’s in New York?” 

Ilya nodded. 

Though Shane had thought about Svetlana’s presence essentially every time he had gone over to Ilya’s old apartment, for some reason he had never actually thought of her as being in the city at the same time as him. Though of course she must have been, dozens of times. It was unnerving, realizing that she was probably staying at the Orchard Street place right now. 

“Do you want me to meet her?” 

He only asked because Ilya was watching him, and waiting. Because it had literally never come up before—and to come up now, there must have been a reason. 

“Do you want to?” 

Of course it was a fucking stand-off. Shane was tempted to take them for another round, to ask again, do you want me to? But he knew that he would lose the stand off. He always did. 

“Okay?” The word came out sounding mostly normal, but pitched up at the end. The verbal equivalent of something placed on the edge of a table, just waiting to be jostled and fall to the floor. 

But it was clear that it was the word Ilya had been waiting for. He picked up his phone immediately. 

Shane, sitting next to him, watched him open to a text chain and type into it. He tried to read it, too, but of course it was in fucking Russian. 

“What did you say?” He was pretty sure his hands were going numb. 

“I said to come meet my friend.” Ilya turned to him again, frowning, and replaced the phone on the table. He picked up his glass instead, taking a sip of the clear liquid while he stared back at Shane. “Why are you squinting at the phone like that? Do you need vision checked?” 

Shane was thinking about the word friend. He was thinking about Ilya’s friend Svetlana, coming to this very bar, putting her eyes on his face and applying the word friend to it. He was thinking about Svetlana, seeing him and Ilya together, friends. 

He was starting to panic, more than a little. It was one thing to do things together when they could blend in with the rest of the faceless city—slipping through quiet blocks, posting up in quiet corners of bars, taking the elevator up in each other’s quiet apartment buildings. Places where eyes washed over them without catching on their faces, where nobody knew them and didn’t think anything of them being together. 

It was another thing to choose to crack open the door, and to let someone else in. So why the fuck had Shane just done that? 

“Wait, you just said friend?” Shane’s brain had finally processed. “Did you say it was me?” 

“No.” Ilya was still frowning. He was watching Shane now, assessing him, clearly trying to understand whatever was going on in his head. Shane didn’t know if he could describe it even if he wanted to. 

Of course he hadn’t said it was Shane. Because Shane had told him, years ago now, don’t tell anyone about me. 

And he trusted Ilya—probably more than nearly anyone else in the world, now that he thought about it. So Shane knew he hadn’t told anyone. But, still, it was obvious that Ilya had been waiting for this moment. 

Shane wondered for how long. He also wondered why. Nothing like this had ever come up before—Ilya had always seemed like Shane, content to let this thing exist in the weird bubble that they shared together. There had to be a reason he was pushing against it, trying to widen it. 

Then again. They were friends, actually. They spent time together, they talked, they liked each other’s company. Maybe it didn’t have to be anything more complex than that, two friends meeting another friend at a bar. 

Except maybe it wasn’t that at all. 

Because, the fact was this: even though Shane had said okay, there had been a question mark with it. He had heard it when he said it, and he knew that Ilya had heard it, too. Which meant that Ilya had chosen to ignore it, when Ilya had never before ignored a question mark in Shane’s voice. Which meant, in turn, that this was something that Ilya wanted enough that he was willing to ignore the question mark. 

When the realization dawned on him, it seemed so fucking obvious, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen it before. 

Of course there was a reason Ilya would have waited for an opening like this, why he would have wanted to push against the bubble: if it was his way of giving her new prominence in his life, more than close friends, just fucking sometimes. If Svetlana was his girlfriend now, and he wanted her to meet his friend (fucking sometimes), Shane.  

What the FUCK, Shane, had he just suggested that this guy invite his GIRLFRIEND to this FUCKING bar?

He was sick with the certainty of it. And of course Ilya was still watching him, probably reading everything all over him. Shane picked up his beer, chugging down a large gulp mostly just to keep his face covered. 

But Ilya stayed silent, too. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. After a moment, he slipped a pack of cigarettes out from whatever nook or cranny he’d been hiding it in, and tapped that on the table instead. 

This, at least, was a distraction. Shane glared at him, and Rozanov rolled his eyes. 

And then—in either fifteen seconds or fifteen minutes, it was hard to tell—Svetlana was there. 

Shane saw her immediately, because he’d been waiting for it, dreading it, and recognized her tall frame and curly hair without having ever seen her in person before. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head, wondering if he should move it to face forward or just leave it as it was. He also wanted to die. 

Ilya had clearly been waiting, too. He straightened, half standing from the table to catch her attention. She crossed the room to reach them, weaving through the crowd in front of the bar, skirting past the chairs pulled out from their tables, towards the dark corner booth holding Ilya and Shane. 

Shane saw the moment it happened—when she saw him. It was barely a pause, and maybe anyone else would have missed it. But he was looking too carefully. 

She only blinked once. And then it was gone, her neutral expression hiding that anything had happened at all. 

She still had the same neutral look when she reached the table, standing above them as she looked from one to the other. 

“Ilya,” she said, the name pronounced exactly as it should have been, unlike Shane had ever been able to say it. Ilya tilted his head up to look at her with an even expression. 

Shane watched it slowly turn to a deep frown as Svetlana started speaking a fast, steady stream of Russian. He couldn’t understand anything, of course, aside from two distinct words: Shane Hollander. 

And fuck, he could not fucking believe he had actually forgotten that part of it, the thing that had sparked all of this in the first place. Because of course Svetlana Vetrova, the “real hockey fan” who “liked him very much” had known who he was immediately upon seeing him. He was such a fucking idiot. 

Rozanov responded to whatever Svetlana had said to him with approximately four words and a grunt. Svetlana obviously found this to be an extremely unsatisfactory reply, from the way she flicked her hand dismissively, and slid into the booth across from Shane. 

Her eyes were on him—brown, shrewd, and absolutely fucking terrifying.

“Shane Hollander.” The name sounded different this time. He was surprised, having just heard her speak fluent Russian, to hear her clear American accent. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Svetlana Vetrova.” 

“Uh, hi.” He didn’t put his hand out to shake, because they were in a bar and that would be weird. “Shane Hollander.” 

“Yes.” She said, patiently, and Shane heard a quiet snort from next to him. Because, right. She had literally just said that. 

She looked at Ilya. Shane expected to see them both amused at his expense, but her expression was closer to a glare, like she was annoyed. At Ilya? 

Shane didn’t understand. Did she not want to be here? He looked at Ilya too, knowing his expression was probably as panicked and helpless as he felt. 

But Ilya was, apparently, choosing not to look at either of them. He tapped the cigarettes against the tabletop, rubbing his nose with his other hand before he spoke. 

“He was just saying that he thought Carolina would be a wash this year. I told him he was underrating draft pick, American college boy, and then also the trade…” he waved his hand in the air, not even really searching for the name. “The defenseman. Last year.” 

Svetlana scoffed. “And what do you know? You can’t make a real argument if you can’t even remember their names.” 

“Clearly,” she continued, slipping out of her jacket, draping it across the expanse of empty booth next to her. “They are patching holes in the wrong places. Fixing problems they don’t have at the expense of the ones that are worse.” 

Shane looked over at Svetlana involuntarily, because fucking exactly. When he glanced back at Ilya, he found himself on the end of a disdainful sniff. 

Ilya stood up from the table, reaching over to grab his and Shane’s empty glasses. “I am going to  smoke.” 

He tilted Shane’s glass at him in question. Shane hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, pointing instead to the empty short glass in Ilya’s other hand. Out of his peripheral vision he saw Ilya raise his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything.  

Ilya started to leave, but stopped, slowly turning back again. He put the glasses down, leaning over the table onto one hand. “Sveta, before I go. I have to tell you.” 

He glanced at Shane, a quick glint over his shoulder. “He has the dirtiest mouth you will ever meet.” 

It felt like slow motion as Shane turned his head to stare at Rozanov because what the fuck and also why the fuck would he say that, both in public and also to her? 

Rozanov was looking at him evenly and directly, still from over his shoulder. “You say fuck or asshole every other word.” 

Shane could feel his face turning red, because that made a lot more sense than what he had initially thought. But also, this was an admittedly embarrassing fact about himself. He knew he was bad about swearing, but it wasn’t great to be confronted with it in front of someone new, especially someone who he was trying to—what, impress? Not look like a fucking asshole in front of? 

“Then I will help with bitch and shit,” Svetlana replied. 

Shane quickly tore his eyes off Ilya and looked back at her, only to find her smiling at him. She waved her hand at Ilya again. “Go away now.” 

And, incredibly, he did, leaving Shane alone with his maybe girlfriend, Svetlana. 

There was a moment right after Ilya left, when it was just the two of them, when she simply looked at Shane across the table, hands clasped in front of her mouth. She had long, slim fingers, an assortment of thin bracelets on her arms. Something around her eyes glittered in the low lights of the bar. 

Shane was positive she was going to say something, or ask him something, that would cut right to the center of everything and break it all apart. He braced himself, holding onto it, keeping it for himself, for just a moment longer. 

But instead, she lay her hands flat on the table. 

“The goaltending is the problem. They need to start playing Martin instead of Villiger.” 

“Exactly!” It burst out of Shane before he knew what was happening. 

Ilya didn’t come back until they had made their way through diagnosing Carolina’s issues and had already moved on to Washington. He had three glasses of vodka in his hands, and pushed one to each of them. Svetlana took hers without comment, lifting it for a sip and immediately making a face, probably at its quality. Shane did the same, though he grimaced because the taste of vodka was always fucking terrible, no matter its supposed quality.  

The conversation was shockingly easy. She was sharp as fuck, funny in the smartest way he’d ever seen. All of her comments and observations had also been interesting enough that he’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was, too. 

It was agony, actually, realizing how quickly he liked her. He was still bracing himself—every time there was a lull in the conversation, every time Ilya said something and Svetlana tilted her head, or when she said something and he snarked under his breath in response. Shane was certain that when the night came to an end, they would pick up their drinks and wave him off together, speaking in Russian as they went, back home to the Orchard Street place. 

It didn’t happen that way, though. 

She left before them, draining her second glass of vodka—Shane was still on his first—before notifying them that she would be meeting friends at a bar with better lighting so she could actually see the people she was trying to talk to. 

“Shane,” she had said before she slid out of the booth. “It was nice to talk with you. Let’s do it again soon, we have the whole Western Conference to get through.” 

“Uh… okay,” Shane said, compellingly. 

She said goodbye to Ilya in Russian, who responded more robustly than he had at the beginning, when she’d first arrived. It occurred to Shane that Ilya had barely said anything through the whole night—the conversation had been mostly hockey, mostly Shane and Svetlana. 

Shane didn’t know what to make of it. But then Ilya gestured for Shane’s glass with a twitch of his fingers. 

“Give me that.” 

Shane complied, pushing the glass towards him. 

Ilya made a face as he picked it up. “It will be all water now.” 

“It would be better tasting and better for you, if it was,” Shane shot back, pulling from the glass of water Ilya had also brought to him from the bar at some point in the evening. 

They didn’t talk about anything meaningful until they were walking back towards Ilya’s apartment. Shane turned his cap around so that it was facing forward, better shielding his face from the streetlights and some of the eyes of people passing by. 

He was wracking his brain for what to say. He felt crammed full of thoughts and questions—about himself, about Svetlana, about the evening and why it had happened, about why Ilya hadn’t talked much. But in the end, Ilya was the one who spoke first. 

“Was it okay?” His hands were in his pockets, head turned down. He was barely looking at Shane, eyes cutting over from the side. 

“Yeah,” Shane answered, because it was true, even despite all of the extra thoughts clogging up his brain. “Did you think so?” 

“Yes, I think so.” Ilya had relaxed, but only marginally. 

Shane watched him, more openly than usual, because he didn’t understand what was happening. He had barely understood what was happening the whole night. He wanted to ask in return, did she like me? But the words already sounded too needy in his head, he knew they would be ten times worse out loud. 

They stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change at the crosswalk. It was a nice night in early September, and the college students were out in full force. Shane stepped aside, making room on the sidewalk to maneuver around them.

Ilya didn’t speak again until they’d crossed the street, and were alone in front of a stretch of quiet brownstones. 

“I hope I did not force you.” 

He sounded awkward, apologetic, soft—not words that Shane had applied to his voice before, because they were not ways he had heard Ilya sound before. With them, Shane understood: Ilya had not missed, nor forgotten, the question mark behind the okay. 

“No,” Shane said. “You didn’t.” 

And it was true. Shane had opened the door, and he’d walked through because he knew Ilya had wanted him to, and he was willing to do it for that reason. 

Ilya looked relieved. Shane took this opening to ask one of the questions that he’d been wondering about for the past few hours—though not the biggest one. 

“What did she say? When she first came into the bar, I mean. She said stuff to you in Russian.” It felt important to understand at least one part of the evening that he had not been able to grasp. 

Ilya nodded like he was recalling that this had happened. He was smiling, a little, as he glanced over at Shane. “She said something like, when I asked her to come see a friend, she thought it was some Eurotrash idiot I met in Berlin, not Shane Hollander. And then she said that she was embarrassed I chose such a shitty bar and that it made her look bad to be associated with me.” 

Shane laughed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “She’s smart.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. 

They lapsed into silence as they walked down the empty street. The quiet felt easier now, with the easy question asked, the funny answer given. 

But Ilya had been straightforward enough to address the thing that he had been worrying about. Shane now knew he owed it to both of them to ask the question that would linger over everything if he didn’t address it head-on. 

“Is she your girlfriend?”

Shane braced himself when Ilya’s head swiveled to him. But all he saw there was confusion. 

“No?”

There was a question mark there, too. But Shane didn’t know how to interpret it, or even know how to address it. 

“I just,” Shane shrugged, and shook his head, and let that be its own sentence. 

They walked another two blocks before Ilya spoke again. They were standing on the corner of Lafayette, and he was looking up. People were visible in the high floor of an apartment building, just shapes moving behind the window, inside a room filled with warm light. 

“It was very nice for me to have you both there together.”

With Ilya’s head turned away, Shane couldn’t see his face. But he remembered another walk, a year and a half ago now, in snowy Tompkins Square Park, where Shane had realized how rickety the support system was around Ilya, who had uprooted himself from continents away and settled in this big, scary city. But his agent had been there, and Svetlana. 

Shane had been there, too. Not at the beginning, not right away, but soon enough, with tacos and smoothies and early morning runs. And he was here now.  

So, okay, he understood it better—the reason Ilya might have wanted to push against the bubble. Not because of Shane, or Svetlana, but for himself. 

They had reached the apartment. Shane stood back, letting Ilya dig out the key fob to let them in. 

He found himself looking up at the window of apartment 5H, just out of habit, even though he knew he wouldn’t be there. 

_____

“Holy shit, are you Shane Hollander?” 

They were finishing up a run near the heart of the NYU campus. Shane blinked at the man emerging from a coffee shop in gym clothes, looking excitedly at him from under what seemed to be a backwards Admirals cap. 

“Uh, yeah.” Shane stopped walking, not because he wanted to have this conversation, but because it would have been rude to keep moving. 

Rozanov kept going, though, turning his shoulders so he didn’t brush Shane as he walked past him down the block. 

“Dude!” The guy jerked his arms excitedly enough that Shane was worried he was going to spill the coffee he’d just purchased. Shane kept his eyes on the cup’s trajectory, wary. “That gold medal game was unreal, man, I couldn’t even be mad at you for beating us. I’m just happy you play for my team the rest of the time.” 

Shane let out a tight, short laugh. “Uh… thanks?” 

The guy was nodding vigorously, and Shane kept his eye on the coffee cup. “Of course, man! This is our year, right?” 

Shane caught sight of Rozanov, who was standing halfway down the block, typing something on his phone. 

He cleared his throat, and tried again, this time with more conviction. “Uh, it’s early, obviously, but we think we’ve got a strong team. We’re looking to build on our performances the last few seasons, and we think we’ve got a great shot at a deep run over the season.” 

“Hell yeah, bro,” the Admirals fan nodded at him approvingly, apparently impressed, even though Shane had just pulled out the most basic possible media training shit. He held his hand out for a fist bump—which Shane returned awkwardly—and then lifted it up in a salute. “Have a great day, go Ads!” 

Shane waved back, also awkwardly, and ran away, even though they had been well into their cool down by the time he had been stopped. He passed Ilya, who waited until Shane had reached the end of the block to catch up with him. 

“You did not want to take a picture with your number one fan?” Ilya inquired innocently as they waited for the light to turn. 

“Shut up, asshole,” Shane mumbled under his breath, darting across the street even though the Don’t Walk sign was still on. 

It wasn’t the first time Shane had been recognized in public, though it was the first while out with Ilya. And Shane could still handle this, because he had come to terms with his recognizability, at least on some level. New York was a city with a lot of athletes, and a lot of other, way more famous people, but he’d been a focal point of one of their professional teams for four years. And now he had a gold medal on top of it, for fuck’s sake. Even if it wasn’t Canada, it wasn’t crazy for someone to notice him in the same calendar year as all of the Olympics coverage.

But then, a version of it happened to Ilya. And that felt much different. 

It was still light out while they were walking down East 7th Street. They’d been discussing whether to pick up food now or to order something later, when a sharp intake of breath up ahead and to their right caught Shane’s attention. 

A pair of women in their early 20s were lingering outside of a dark, lively Italian restaurant. One was looking at them with wide, excited eyes, while the other looked mainly confused. Shane blinked back, bewildered by the disruption, trying to figure out if it was meant for him. Mostly, he was wondering if this woman was a hockey fan who had recognized him. 

“Holy shit,” the first girl hissed—it wasn’t subtle—to her friend. “That’s Sola Brown’s ex. He’s, like, a huge model.” 

“Uh, I can see that,” her friend mumbled as Shane and Ilya drew level with where they were standing. She had the grace to pretend not to look at them, at least. 

“Fuck, I can’t remember his name.” 

Ilya cut an amused look to Shane at this, but all Shane could do in response was stare as he tried to wrestle down his sudden swell of panic at this interaction. Which was so fucking hypocritical, since he had just stopped to fist bump an Admirals fan a few weeks earlier. 

But his panic felt justified when he registered the iPhone pointing in their direction. He quickly turned around, ducking his head as he separated himself from Ilya. 

Suddenly, he realized how exposed they were, out here like this. The anonymity of New York, which had made him feel protected for so long—on runs, with or without Ilya; on a trip to a sex shop three years ago; every time they sat together in a quiet bar—wasn’t limitless. 

Being recognized together, maybe that was one thing. But if it happened often enough? Being seen, every time they were out together, coming in and out of each other’s buildings? If people noticed each of them, they would notice them together, they would notice them. Shane had spent enough time scrolling Instagram at this point to understand that someone was always fucking watching. 

(Also, said his stupid, traitorous fucking brain, who the hell is Sola Brown?)

He’d gotten sloppy about it. They did too much stuff together, they were too open about everything. What would happen when they ran into someone who recognized both of them? What would happen if they ran into one of Shane’s teammates? He had to be more fucking careful about this. 

When he finally glanced back, he saw that Ilya had stopped about ten feet behind him, looking coolly at the women. They looked somewhat abashed as the first girl dropped her phone back down to her side, lifting her other hand in apology. Ilya nodded in response, and started walking again. 

But he didn’t turn back to Shane. He walked past, continuing down the street alone. Shane watched as the women turned to head back into the restaurant. After a moment, he followed Rozanov. 

_____

December 2014, New York City

For all of Shane’s strictness, his routines, his focus, his composure—he was weak about this. And now that the box had been opened, it was impossible to dial back from seeing Ilya, especially with the season in full force and their schedules constantly throwing them in opposite directions. 

So he set new ground rules for himself: fewer meetings outside of their apartments. If they went out, it would be darker bars, quieter ones, limited repeats if they could help it. He never spoke these out loud, but he got the sense that Ilya had figured it out on his own. Shane was predictable, after all, and Rozanov was perceptive. 

Tonight they were in a new place in the East Village, up a set of narrow stairs and in a small dimly lit room adjacent to the main bar area. There were red and green lights accenting the place, ostensibly for Christmas. Shane had been staring at the walls for a long few minutes before he registered the decor.

“Is this a Russian bar?”

“Obviously.” Rozanov sniffed, lightly touching his hair to fix it without looking. “Why are you being annoying?”

“I just feel like you do this stereotypical shit,” Shane observed, leaning his elbows onto the table, eyes sweeping critically around the room. 

“It is not stereotypical if I want to enjoy something Russian!” Ilya whirled around to him, gesturing with his hand. 

“You can’t call it enjoying if you’re just going to complain about how bad it is,” Shane countered, leaning away from Rozanov’s gesturing hand. 

“If you both do not shut the fuck up, I am going to yell and get you both thrown out.” Svetlana declared, setting down three glasses on the table before taking her seat across from Shane. 

Shane wanted to say don’t do me any favors, but he held his tongue. He was still trying to be on his best behavior around Svetlana, having only been around her a handful of times since September. Instead, he grabbed the glass of ginger ale from the table, quietly thanking her. 

The night was essentially the same as the others. Rozanov was pretending to look bored while Shane and Svetlana discussed the current season, and more specifically, the Admirals’ performance across the 26 games they’d played so far. 

Svetlana was trying to outline her assessment of their path to the Cup. Shane was obviously thrilled at the line of conversation and trying not to get too intense about it. Ilya was staring at the wall with his face in his palm, but obviously listening to every word.

“It should have happened last year,” Svetlana said, curls gently shaking along with her head. “No one could have expected Saarinen’s injury, and then the debacle with Leberg’s elbow on top of it.” 

“Well, yeah,” Shane agreed. “And I couldn’t score a goal to save my fucking life, so we kept ending up in fucking OT and losing.” 

Svetlana was already opening her mouth to respond when Rozanov cut in over her, sending a short, raspy groan at Shane. 

“You literally won MVP.” He rolled his eyes, picking up his glass. “You must shut the fuck up, this is so unbecoming.” 

“How do you know that word?” Shane demanded. 

“I looked it up to say it to you when you do this kind of shit.” Rozanov mimicked whatever face he thought Shane was making, then finally sipped his drink. 

“I was saying,” Svetlana spoke loudly, over both of them. Shane turned his attention back to her even as he darted his foot out to kick Rozanov under the table. He pulled his leg away immediately, trying and failing to avoid the kick he received back. 

Ilya continued to feign irritation as the conversation continued. He groaned again, louder this time, when Svetlana said that Shane might be on track for an even better season, with Brisebois and Burke now as new options on the team. 

He dropped his head, and Shane resisted the urge to kick him again, harder. 

“Don’t keep telling him these things,” he pleaded with Svetlana, before turning a sharp look on Shane. “The last thing he needs stroked is his ego.” 

Shane felt his coherence short out as he stared at Rozanov incredulously, unable to say any of the things now rushing through his head: what the fuck, shut the fuck up, we are in public, what the fuck, Svetlana is right here, fuck you, oh my God. 

“Go make use of that check from Valentino and get us another round of drinks.” Svetlana waved him away. 

Ilya finished his drink before he stood up. He kept his eyes on Shane’s as he turned away to go to the bar, and Shane watched him press through the crowd of dark sweaters and lively conversation, out of the room. Svetlana waited until he had left before she finished her thought, and Shane did his best to re-direct his attention back to her.  

He was gone for awhile, long enough that the conversation, incredibly, moved away from the Admirals. Shane awkwardly asked Svetlana about the campaigns she had been in recently, listening politely to her answers even when he only understood half of it. She made up for it by explaining things that she rightly guessed he wouldn’t know, mostly the names of designers and what they were best known for. 

After a short pause, she looked up at him thoughtfully. 

“You know, I had no idea who he was calling me to meet when he texted me that time.” 

Shane tensed as he realized what she was saying. They had never talked about the first time they met—they had never talked about anything other than hockey, really, or Ilya and Svetlana’s stories about modeling and a few of their mutual friends. 

And he and Svetlana, alone, had never talked about anything outside of any of those topics, at all. They had never talked about Ilya, and they had definitely never treaded anywhere close to the topic of Shane and Ilya. Shane tried to keep down the sharp spike of alarm he suddenly felt in his chest. 

Svetlana continued, like she hadn’t noticed Shane suddenly get stiff-backed and silent, but he thought she probably had. “I’m really glad you’re friends.” 

The same word as always: friends. And yeah, it applied to him and Ilya, but something about it being used here made Shane’s leg start to jog up and down. The wind-up on this conversation was only increasing his stress—he didn’t know where Svetlana was going with this, and for all he knew, it was going to be the thing he’d been dreading since the first time they met three months ago. 

“I thought he was just paying attention to hockey so much for his own sake,” Svetlana said, leaning onto the table, her cheek resting in her palm as she talked. “It actually explained a lot, to see you there. He played hockey for a long time, you know.” 

This was not the direction Shane had been preparing himself for. 

He shifted in his seat, leaning his forearms onto the table to draw a little closer. “Yeah, he told me about that. A little, at least.” 

Svetlana smiled, but the expression seemed a little sad. Shane realized that he was getting his first glimpse into something new about Ilya, which wasn’t something he had ever considered as part of meeting and getting to know Svetlana. 

“It was really hard for him when that part of himself was just gone,” she said, dropping her eyes to the table, swirling the finger of her other hand against the scratched up wood. People had written on the table, in carvings and with markers. Shane watched her index finger move over the shape of an R, or maybe part of a K. “And he decided it… but in some ways, he did not. Do you get what I’m saying?” 

“Yeah,” Shane responded. “I mean, kind of. He told me about getting, uh, in trouble with his coach and stuff. And…” 

He hesitated, not wanting to use the same words that Ilya had used when explaining what had happened when he’d stopped playing hockey—his father, punishment, more punishment. Not when he didn’t understand the meaning behind them, and when Svetlana probably did. 

She just nodded, letting the ellipses cover the rest of the sentence. Shane was fine with that. He didn’t need more details, especially from someone besides Ilya. 

“I just think it’s really good for him,” she continued again after a moment, still tracing the R or K. “He doesn’t spend a lot of time around… well. Men who he can show that side of himself with.” 

Shane felt something cold go all the way through him. So they had reached this part of the conversation. 

“I,” he stammered. He had no idea what to say. “I, uh…” 

“I just mean that he spends so much time around women and people in the fashion world,” Svetlana continued like she hadn’t even heard him. “Thinking about how he looks, how other people look, getting to know the right people, what to say, how to say it, and photos, money, clothes. And he’s very good at all of that, don’t get me wrong, it’s actually uncanny sometimes. But I think he has really missed being able to show all of himself, especially those other fun parts. Rough, kind of shitty, sometimes maybe a bit crude.” 

She was smiling now, leaning onto her hand while she looked down at the table. “He was so well-loved in his locker room. And he has always had very good chirps. ” 

It crashed onto Shane like something heavy dropped from above. She wasn’t talking about him and Ilya fucking—she was talking about jocks. 

Was that what Shane did for Rozanov, he helped him let out his inner jock? 

He sat back in his seat, running his hand through his hair as he absorbed this, tried to process it. It made sense, when she explained it. When looking specifically at the friendship parts of their interactions, Shane pretty much treated Rozanov like he would any other guy. 

But then, Shane was only ever around hockey players. If he applied this logic to himself, what part of himself did he get to show when he was around Ilya? 

He struggled to flush the word DICK from his mind and concentrate on Svetlana, who was looking at him now, waiting for him to respond. He took a deep breath, summoning his focus. 

“I mean, I can imagine. All he ever does is chirp me.” Shane didn’t mention that he could also easily imagine how good he was in a locker room, having been on the end of one of Ilya’s pep talks himself. 

Svetlana laughed, nudging Shane’s arm lightly with her hand. “See? That’s what I mean. He gets to be terrible and annoying to you, and you’ll just give it back to him. He needs that.” 

Shane allowed himself to laugh softly along with her, making brief eye contact before he looked back down at the shapes and indents on the table. 

“Do you think…” he hesitated. When his eyes darted up, she was waiting, still leaning on her hand across from him. “He misses hockey?” 

“Have you ever asked him this?” 

She reminded him so much of Ilya with the patient, direct way she turned the question back on him. Maybe it was cultural, or maybe Shane had found his way into a secret lair containing only the sharpest, most perceptive people out there. 

“No,” he admitted. “I mean, we’ve talked about the stuff that was going on around the time he quit. With the, uh…” 

He trailed off again, still unwilling to use the words that Ilya had. But again, Svetlana nodded, avoiding the need to be specific. 

She straightened so that her face was no longer resting on her hand, stretching her tall frame up as she considered his question. 

“I’m curious what he would say to you,” she said after a moment. “He was a very good hockey player.” 

“Yeah, he’s told me that.” Shane looked towards the doorway, half expecting to see Ilya in it, bringing the end of the conversation with him. But it was empty, and Ilya was probably still at the bar. 

“I wish I could have seen him play,” he said. 

Svetlana nodded slowly. She was considering Shane again, direct and perceptive, and it made him want to put his hat and coat on, just to put more layers in between himself and her keen eyes. 

“I think he probably does more than he would admit,” she said after awhile. “But I don’t think he misses the negative parts of the attention that came with it.” 

She continued before Shane had too long to dwell on this. “I am sure he misses the positive attention, though. But he would have hated the Olympics.” 

Shane thought about this, Svetlana’s words, and how much he had thought of Ilya in Sochi back in February. He didn’t know what his face looked like, especially under Svetlana’s sharp gaze, so he ducked his head. 

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Can’t relate to that.” 

She let out a rich bubble of laughter. 

“Shane,” she said, leaning over the table towards him again. “You really are an asshole.” 

He let himself laugh along with her. When Ilya returned a few minutes later, he accepted a new glass of ginger ale and ignored the scent of cigarette smoke that accompanied Ilya as he sat down next to him again. 

He had a new understanding of how long Svetlana and Ilya had known each other, and he was a little stuck on it. He didn’t know exactly how old they’d been when they’d met—some time as kids, their families had been friendly—but it was obvious that there were years of important friendship between them. There were so many parts of Ilya that Svetlana knew that Shane himself would never even know about, let alone get to see. 

And that was fine, obviously—he had old friends, too, and it was a normal part of human interaction. He was silly to get weird about it. But he was just a little stuck on it. 

He didn’t know if Ilya and Svetlana were still sleeping together. He got the sense that they weren’t, from comments Svetlana had made about other people she had been seeing, and because now that he’d seen them together he thought he had a better understanding of why Ilya looked a little confused—years ago and again, a few months ago—when Shane asked if she was his girlfriend. The close friend part of their relationship seemed primary over anything else that was also there. 

But then, Shane had never been good at reading signals, and he worried that his brain was piecing something together based simply on his wishful thinking. Svetlana and Ilya had never left together on any of the nights they had all been out together. But that didn’t mean they didn’t see each other on other nights. And Svetlana always left first. Maybe Shane had just never given them the space to choose to be together, if they wanted it. 

And then there was the other part of it—what Svetlana knew about him, about them. Shane was sure, now, that she had to know something. The pieces were all there in front of her (Ilya’s dumb fucking innuendos didn’t help) and she was so smart, so insightful. What did she see when she looked across the table at them sitting together? What did she see when she saw Shane? 

He knew well enough to understand that whatever it was, she wouldn’t say anything to anyone. But the weight of her possibly knowing anything at all felt like it was pressing in on him. 

He didn’t leave early because of all of that. He left early because he was feeling queasy, and because he needed to get out of the dark bar, with loud voices and the smell of smoke and the red and green lighting that was giving him a headache now. 

When he said that he was going home, Ilya gestured to his glass. “Give me a few minutes, I will walk with you.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Shane said, pulling his coat off the back of his chair and starting to stand. “I should head out.” 

Svetlana and Ilya exchanged a look as he zipped himself into his coat, pulling out his cap from his pocket. He said goodbye to both of them, accepting a cheek kiss from Svetlana. He quietly excused himself before he could think about it more deeply, slipping through the crowd and back down the stairs. 

He had only made it half a block away when he heard a voice behind him. 

“Hey.” 

Shane stopped in his tracks. He hesitated—at Ilya following him, at the prospect of being seen out on the street together, at whatever this was about to be—but turned around. Ilya was standing outside of the door in only his sweater, coat left upstairs at the table with Svetlana. Shane walked back towards him. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya was studying him carefully, eyes tracking across Shane’s face to read his expression. Shane tried to keep it steady and neutral. 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Just tired.” 

“I can leave too.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Shane shook his head, dropping his eyes to sweep over the sidewalk, stepping aside to let a couple walking their dog pass by. “You should hang out.” 

He wasn’t looking at Ilya. He was kind of mad at him, he realized, though he wasn’t entirely sure for what. For letting him become friends with Svetlana, maybe. For the chirps, and the ginger ale, and kicking him under the table. For feeling stuck. 

Ilya was staring at him, though. Shane could feel his clear blue eyes roving all over his face. 

“I leave for LA next week,” he said, finally. “Then Moscow.” 

And Shane was two days out from a road trip that would take him to Vancouver, Edmonton, and Calgary. They would miss each other, again, for who knew how long. 

“Oh,” Shane said. 

The temptation was so strong. But he wasn’t lying—he was tired. And he did think he needed to be alone, even if it meant sacrificing himself to his own thoughts, even if being with Ilya would bring the bonus of both his company and having a clear head. 

“Okay,” Ilya said, when Shane didn’t say anything. “Then I will see you when I am back.” 

“Okay.” Shane wondered if he was cold in just his sweater, or if Ilya was right, that Russians didn’t feel the winter like everyone else. “Have a safe flight.” 

It was fucking impossible, but he needed to do it, if just to show himself that he could. So Shane forced himself to turn around and start walking 13 blocks home, alone. 

Chapter End Notes

This chapter has the scene that first gave me the idea for this AU. Bet you can’t guess what it was. (Hint: I have walked past a lot of giant Calvin Klein ads in my day.)

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 9: on the moon

Chapter Summary

Anaheim, distractions, Rolex (finally), New Amsterdam, dark clouds, and bright skies.

Chapter Notes

CW: Necessary character development. 😬

February 2015, Anaheim

If Shane had realized how little they would see each other in the new year, he wouldn’t have left the bar alone. 

After coming back from Moscow, Ilya had only been in New York for a total of four days. Those same days, Shane had been in Boston, Pittsburgh, and Columbus. Then Ilya was traveling again, and hadn’t been back since. 

It was the pressure of the season, Shane told himself. That was the real issue, which was making all of it so weird and hard to deal with. It wasn’t about Ilya specifically—or the lack of him—it was that Shane was always tightly wound at this time of the year. 

That was how he explained it to himself. It was the explanation that made the most sense. Because otherwise it would be crazy to be this fixated, simply because they hadn’t hooked up for two months. They’d gone more than two months without hooking up before. They had just done it last summer. 

But that was different. That was playoffs, that was the offseason, that was summer. Not January. They hadn’t gone an entire January (plus most of a December and a big part of February, too) without seeing each other since they had met more than four years ago. And it wasn’t just about the sex. There were no runs, no arguments over what to eat, no knees bumping against each other under tables at bars. There were just occasional texts, mostly about how busy they both were, and the next places on their itineraries. 

Two months shouldn’t have been enough to make him reckless, but apparently it was. 

The team was playing in Anaheim, not LA. Shane had done the math on the time he’d have after the game, checked and double-checked the average traffic time between the hotel and the Los Angeles neighborhood where Ilya was currently staying. He didn’t see how it could possibly work. 

I can’t come. I can’t get to LA and back before curfew. 

IR
I have time, can come to you.

Like the hotel here? 
Where we’re staying?
But someone’s going to see you?

IR
Give me a key, I can wait in the room. 

What? How? 
How would I give it to you? 
Like when?

IR
Leave it at the desk. 
Get two keys at check in or say that you left key in your room and need a second one. Leave extra key with something else and tell the desk my name and that I will be picking up the other thing. 
They will not find it weird. 
No one else will either if they hear you doing it.
I will pick it up while you are at the game and wait for you in the room. 
No one will see because they will be at the arena. 

OK.
I left it at the desk. 

Shane left the key inside of a book, inside of a bag. He was sure the hotel desk clerk saw his game right away, and could only hope that she wouldn’t be the one there later when Ilya came to pick it up. 

He was distracted for the entire game. The Admirals won, but Shane knew his own performance had been abysmal, at least by his standards. He resolved to find time to beat himself up for it later, when he wasn’t already distracted with nerves, anticipation, and frantic energy. 

He tried his best to stay normal, not to rush through the usual motions after leaving the ice. Thankfully Vaughn, who had scored twice, had been asked to do the post-game interview, giving Shane more time to quickly shower, dress, and get himself back on the bus. 

He sat with Breezy, distracting himself by speaking French with his new teammate from Quebec. It was surprisingly successful at keeping his brain occupied, keeping him from thinking about the person waiting for him in his room. Assuming, of course, everything had actually gone according to plan. 

Ilya hadn’t texted. Maybe he’d assumed that he didn’t need to, with a plan already established. Maybe Shane was supposed to assume, from the silence, that everything had worked out fine. 

Shane wasn’t good at letting that be the default option. He found himself thinking of the myriad of ways that something could have gone wrong: the desk clerk could have gotten the name mixed up, or security could have seen Ilya going into Shane’s room, or worse, someone from the Admirals could have. He could have gotten stuck in traffic, or held up with something else during the day that delayed him. He could have changed his mind, not wanting to travel so far out of LA just for a couple of hours. He could have made other plans with other people instead.  

“You good, man? I was going to ask if you wanted to grab dinner, but you look like you’re gonna pass out.” Vaughn clasped Shane’s shoulder as they got off the bus. 

“Uh, I’m fine,” said Shane, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead, which was indeed a little sweaty. “I mean, I’m feeling okay. But yeah, I think I’m just going to go back to my room.” 

“Okay, but eat something soon, bro, you’ve gotta refuel.” Carter squeezed Shane’s shoulder before letting him go to find another dinner companion. 

Most of the guys were breaking off for food or drinks. He noticed, in particular, Eric and Huff joining Vaughn, all heading towards the hotel restaurant together. Shane went for the elevators instead, smiling tightly at the rookies who got in with him. He stayed quiet on the way up, politely declining their offer to join them at the bar they were planning to hit later. He doubted they were surprised at his refusal—even under normal circumstances, Shane wouldn’t be likely to go out drinking after playing as badly as he had tonight. 

He got off on the 10th floor, relieved to see the hallway empty. He stood outside 1005, taking a deep breath before he put his key card up to the automatic lock and opened the door. 

Ilya was stretched out on the bed, shoes off, with the TV playing softly. He picked his head up from the pillow when Shane entered and looked at him for a moment before lifting the book open on his chest: The Boys of Winter by Wayne Coffey. 

“Fuck,” Shane said, dropping his bag to the ground and kicking off his shoes. 

Ilya was standing by the time Shane crossed the room to reach him. Shane grabbed his shirt, tugging him down, and felt Ilya’s hands grip onto his suit jacket at the same time. The motion destabilized them, sending Ilya back onto the bed, pulling Shane over with him as they kissed. 

Shane moved his hands up to his curly hair, clutching onto where it had grown longer at the nape of his neck. He bit down on Ilya’s lip, tugging gently, feeling the vibration when he groaned into Shane’s mouth. Ilya’s thigh was wedged between Shane’s legs, pushing up against him while his hands moved to the inside of Shane’s jacket, running around his ribs to his back, and lower. Shane pressed himself closer, pushing them both backwards, horizontal onto the bed. The buzzing in his head felt like it was getting louder, compressing in on him. 

“Wait, Rozanov, fuck, hang on.” Shane panted, pulling himself back. He untangled his arms from his jacket, barely stopping Ilya from grabbing it from him to throw onto the floor. “One minute, I need a minute.” 

Ilya was nodding as he drew away, taking in a deep breath. Shane could feel that he was already getting hard, too. He leaned back on his elbows on the bed, regarding Shane where he was still astride his legs. “Okay.” 

They stayed like that for a moment, Shane breathing hard, Ilya watching him. 

“Long time since we were in a hotel together, Hollander.” 

Shane smiled, inhaling slowly to let his heart rate come back to something normal. “Yeah, and always in California.” 

“And Toronto.” Ilya shifted underneath Shane, not to arouse him, but to situate him more carefully on his lap. “Okay?” 

“Yeah.” Shane exhaled slowly. “Sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” 

Shane nodded, and reluctantly stood up. He carefully put the suit jacket on a hanger before pointing at the bathroom. “I’ll just be back, okay?” 

Ilya picked up the book again and waved it in his direction. “I will occupy myself.” 

When Shane came out a short time later, he was surprised to see Ilya actually reading—but less surprised to see that he had stripped down to his underwear. Shane took the book out of his hand as he joined him on the bed, pausing to make sure that his own place was still marked with his bookmark before he put it on the nightstand. Ilya was already turning his attention to Shane’s towel. He pulled it away with one hand, tossing it onto the floor next to the bed, smothering Shane’s protest by kissing him again. 

Shane already felt like he was teetering close to the edge. Just the feeling of Ilya’s hand skimming up his shaft made him hiss in a breath and shift his hips away from the sensation. Ilya didn’t let him move far, rolling him onto his back and covering Shane’s body with his own. His skin was a deep, warm golden, even though it was February. 

“I am definitely not going to last long,” Shane warned, rolling his hips up, closing his eyes at the sensation of Ilya’s clothed erection against his bare skin. 

“No problem.” Ilya planted an open, wet kiss on his neck, then did it again at the sensitive place under his ear. “I will make you come more than once, then.” 

He pushed his hips against Shane again, harder, pulling a sharp sound out of him. Shane grabbed at his shoulders, moving down to slip both hands down the back of Ilya’s underwear. He groaned again at the feeling of the bare skin under his palms as they ground against each other. 

A few minutes and they rolled back the other way, Shane on top of Ilya, Ilya’s thigh nudging its way between Shane’s legs again, without the barrier of pants and underwear this time. Shane clenched his teeth, squeezing Ilya’s arms, as he struggled not to immediately lose his shit. 

He was also suddenly, horribly conscious of how loudly he had been moaning. He pulled his face away from Ilya’s, leaning his head down to his chest as he tried to catch his breath. Ilya’s hands were in his hair, on his face, on his neck, on his shoulders, running over his bare skin. 

“Eric is right next door,” Shane mumbled. 

Ilya didn’t speak for a moment, but didn’t stop the movement of his hands. “Who is Eric?” 

“Bennett.” Shane pushed his head down, feeling the cross on the chain around Ilya’s neck pressing into his forehead. 

“Goalie?” Ilya’s hands were moving lower, down his back now. Shane exhaled at the sensation. He was no less hard, but he was slowly feeling less frantic. 

“Yeah.” 

“He is hot.” 

Shane sighed, closing his eyes, pushing his face harder against the metal pendant, concentrating on the feeling of it digging into his skin. He felt Ilya’s hands run down his back, ending with a squeeze on his ass. 

“Go.” 

Shane stood as soon as Ilya’s hands moved away, going back to the bathroom for what would be his third shower in less than two hours. 

The water did what it needed to, though, helping drown out the sound as Ilya thrust into him, as hard as Shane asked. But Shane still struggled to keep ahold of himself, pushing his face into his arm where it was braced against the wall, trying to muffle the sound. 

They ended up in the bed again afterward, resting briefly and ordering room service, before Ilya stayed true to his word. He held Shane pinned to the mattress, his hand stroking him firmly, agonizingly slow. 

“So good for me,” Ilya murmured into his ear. “Look at you.” 

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on a moan. His brain felt like it was untethered from his body, in a way that made him feel scattered, in pieces. He was sure that Bennett was back in his room by now and was working hard to keep himself quiet. When Ilya noticed the arm pressed in front of Shane’s mouth, he moved it away, kissing him instead. 

Shane couldn’t stop kissing him, actually. He pushed his tongue in deeper, clutching a handful of his hair so tightly he wasn’t sure Ilya could move his head away if he tried. He groaned into his mouth, low and hard, when he came a second time. Ilya, who had been rocking himself insistently into Shane’s hand, followed a little while later. 

They were basically covered in come, but even Shane couldn’t bring himself to take yet another shower. Ilya brought him a damp washcloth instead, gently helping him towel himself off. 

They ended up side-by-side on the bed again, naked under the sheets, empty room service plates on the table against the wall. 

Shane was exhausted—from the game, from the exertion together. He told himself this was the reason he ended up pressed against Ilya’s shoulder, cheek leaning into the warm, bare skin, hard muscle keeping him propped up. ESPN was still on in the background, quiet, showing highlights from the Admirals-Hammerheads game earlier. He was looking at Ilya’s phone, instead, at the photos he was showing Shane from a shoot he had recently done up the coast of California. 

The pictures were mainly candids, photos of photos, the director or photographer posing Ilya with the two female models shooting with him. Shane stopped at some of them, holding Ilya’s phone still and zooming in with two fingers to see his expressions more closely. 

The place looked otherworldly, and Ilya looked otherworldly in it. It was fitting. Ilya felt otherworldly to him sometimes, an alien in Shane’s boring, bland, rigid world. 

When Ilya left an hour later, well after one in the morning, Shane’s eyes were aching to close. But he kept them stubbornly open for as long as he could, sitting on the bed in sweatpants and a hoodie, letting himself take in the sight of golden skin and too-long curly hair as Ilya dressed himself again. 

Shane checked first to see if the hallway was empty, Ilya hanging back behind him. His hand slipped under Shane’s sweatshirt, lightly resting on his lower back until Shane confirmed that the coast was clear. Ilya rubbed his hand up and down once, before moving away as he slipped through the door. 

The door closed behind him. Shane forced himself to the bathroom, through the rest of his evening routine, back to bed, until he was finally left alone to face the hollow misery that had settled over him. His head was aching, a sharp pulse of pain just behind his eyes.

He was just tired, he told himself. It was the hardest part of the season, he had played like shit tonight, and so on. It was all of the real, tangible, hard things in his life that were making the neediness, the ache in his chest and in his head harder to ignore. He just needed to sleep. It would be better in the morning. 

_____ 

It didn’t get better in the morning. It didn’t get better over the next two weeks. There were more flights, more games; and more exhaustion, more need. And the whole time, Ilya was in LA. 

The need turned into agitation, and the agitation turned into anger—at himself, for being so stuck, being so pathetic with want. 

The final piece of it came to him in Chicago. He was in his hotel room, staring at his phone, at a text chain about schedules that hadn’t been updated in six days, and at Sola Brown’s Instagram account with its photos of a group lounging together on a boat, more than one picture featuring her stunningly beautiful face leaned against another perfect one framed by too-long curly hair. 

And he realized: Ilya wasn’t stuck like this. Of course he wasn’t. Because he had always been sleeping with other people. He had never hidden it, Shane had never expected anything different. 

The sudden certainty of it—that Ilya had never felt stuck like this about him, he had always been able to find something else—was what propelled him out of his hotel room. 

It wasn’t late, and in the end it didn’t take long. He went to the first place he found on his phone, a bar, or maybe kind of a lounge. It was early March in Chicago, and he fit in with the jeans and t-shirt he’d worn under his thick coat and warm hat, blending with the other casually dressed men clustered around the bar and tables.  

It rattled him, how easy it was after that, to lock eyes with a tall man with brown hair and bright blue eyes, and end up in a bathroom stall together. The blowjob had been fine, good, even. 

But he’d freaked out in the hotel afterwards, staying up until almost two looking up different possible sexually transmitted diseases. He spent days worrying that rumors about him would make their way onto the internet, or worse, pictures that he hadn’t realized might be taken. 

Nothing had happened, though. He tested negative at his next physical, there was nothing online, and the ache in his chest and head stayed exactly the same. 

_____

IR
Check it out.
[LINK: Rolex]
Stealing your jobs now. 

Holy shit. 
This is awesome! Congratulations!
Did you get a watch? 

IR
Wouldn’t you like to know? 

You’re still not going to trick me into giving you mine. 

IR
Don’t need to anymore. 
Much better than socks.
Probably better than your watch too, nicer model

They gave me a new one in the fall. 

IR
God fuck you


_____



IR
Busy?

I’m in Buffalo. 

IR
I know. Are you in the hotel? 

Yes

IR
Want to talk? 

Sure, is everything OK? I’m just going up from dinner. 

IR
Yes, I’m trying to have phone sex.

Oh. Give me 5. 

IR
👍
Or should I say 👋🍆💦

Someone needs to take your phone away from you 

IR
Not for the next 20 minutes though, right?


____

April 2015, New York City

By spring, Anaheim was still the only time Shane had seen Ilya in 2015. He had mostly been in LA, but also Paris, Miami, London, Rome. And New York, though never when Shane was. 

Shane tracked him across the globe through texts and Instagram posts. For his part, he filled the absence with numbers: wins, points, miles run, weights lifted, reps hit, minutes on the ice, grams eaten. The Admirals were at the top of the Division going into the playoffs. It still never felt like enough. 

Then, three days in mid-April: both of them, finally in New York. 

It was way, way too close to playoffs—Shane knew he needed to keep himself as free from distractions as possible, but there was no way to stop himself from giving into this. 

He was ringing with anticipation when Ilya buzzed from downstairs. It reminded him of the first time Ilya had come over—more than two years ago now, snow coating the ground outside, Shane slipping in his socks on the hardwood floors at the sound of the doorbell. 

He walked no less quickly today, but kept his balance, throwing open the door, coming face to face with a watch. 

The man wearing it grinned, turning the Rolex so that Shane could see it from as many angles as possible. He laughed, reaching out before he could help himself, grabbing onto Ilya’s shirt at the waist and pulling him inside. 

Ilya waited until the door had closed behind him and he was trying to toe off his shoes, still holding the watch out in front of him. 

“I am going to fuck you with this watch on.” 

“Shut up.” But Shane was still laughing, still holding onto the waist of his shirt, keeping Ilya steady while he leaned down to untie his shoes. 

“Wait,” he said as he stood, grabbing Shane by the front of the sweatshirt and dragging him in closer. “You put yours on too.” 

“No! That is so fucking weird!” Shane pulled him in all the way, trying to shut down this absurd line of conversation, trying to redirect them to the touch he had been thinking about for months. 

Ilya kissed him, tasting like mint. He held Shane’s face firmly in one hand, the other moving from the front of his sweatshirt to the back of his neck. Shane let himself lean into the grounding touch, opening his mouth wider, crowding in further. 

Ilya pulled away first, his lips moving up and across Shane’s face, down to his neck. He nuzzled into the skin under his jaw, and Shane exhaled slowly. 

“Will you at least bring your watch out so we can look at both of them?” Ilya mumbled against him. 

Shane slowly started laughing again. “You are so weird.” 

But he granted him this one bizarre wish, taking his newest Rolex out for Ilya to compare to his own. The watches were nearly identical, but they examined the differences together, before Shane won out and they put them down on the nightstand to carry on with the rest of their afternoon together. 

Ilya was distracted again almost immediately, though. 

“What are these?” he asked, picking up Shane’s new reading glasses from the bedside table.

“Oh.” Shane took them out of Ilya’s hand, carefully placing them back in their spot on the nightstand. “You were right. I did need my vision checked. I’m kind of farsighted, it turns out.” 

Ilya picked them up again immediately. “They are yours?” 

“Uh, yeah? Who else’s would they be? Hey, come on.” He was starting to get impatient, not least because he’d been half hard since Ilya’s arrival, since the kiss in the entryway, and he’d been extremely patient throughout all of this Rolex shit. 

“Put them on,” Ilya demanded. 

Shane stared at him incredulously, but Ilya didn’t blink. When the impasse stretched on for another long moment, Shane reached up to take them. But he did it slowly, because Shane was still waiting for Ilya to say he was just messing with him. He kept eye contact with Ilya while he put on the glasses, adjusting them so they sat properly on his face. 

Ilya was looking at him like he wanted to eat him, and Shane felt himself getting harder under the strange new attention. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep a stern look on his face. 

“Don’t you dare fucking break these,” he said. “I need them to read.” 

He didn’t break them, but Shane did insist he wash them off and dry them carefully afterwards. Ilya placed them back on the nightstand, next to the two Rolexes, as he dropped himself back onto the bed, sliding in behind Shane. 

Shane allowed his eyes to drop closed as he leaned his body back against Ilya, enjoying the momentary feeling of brainlessness, of relaxation throughout his neck and spine. Ilya kissed him lightly, the side of his neck and his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” he asked after a moment, leaning his head against Shane’s. “You have seemed strange lately.” 

Shane didn't know when he could have even been observed as seeming strange. They hadn’t seen each other since February. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 

Ilya didn’t elaborate. He adjusted his grip around Shane instead, holding him around the upper part of his chest with one arm, the other around his waist. He leaned his cheek against Shane’s head, letting the silence stretch out again for awhile before he spoke. 

“I have been traveling too much.” 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded. Something about the position didn’t feel right to him, all of a sudden. He was stiff, now, instead of relaxed. The barbs in his chest, familiar over the last several months, were creeping back into his body already. “I get it.” 

“Too many planes. Too many cities,” Ilya continued. “Just more people, all of the time.” 

Shane was silent as he listened. He thought he caught a note of bitterness, or maybe exhaustion, edged around Ilya’s voice. Something different. 

“Don’t really feel like myself,” Ilya said, his voice slightly muffled by the side of Shane’s head. 

Shane stayed quiet for some time, sitting with that, thinking about how hazy things had felt for him lately, about all of the numbers that never added up to enough. About feeling stuck. 

“I get that too,” he agreed, finally. 

He felt Ilya move his head away slowly, tilting back and turning so that he could look at Shane. Shane did the same, moving in the opposite direction and turning to lift his gaze to meet Ilya’s. They stayed that way for some time before Ilya moved back again, arms tugging Shane in closer. Shane’s shoulders relaxed as he pressed himself backward, pushing into the embrace. Ilya leaned his head against Shane’s again. When he exhaled, Shane felt his slow, soft breath against his forehead.  

He had a strange thought later, when he looked at the two watches on the nightstand together, before Ilya put his back on, before he left. Resting next to each other there on the tabletop, the two watches almost looked like they belonged there, like the men who wore them should have still been resting in the bed beside them, too. 

_____

He deleted Instagram from his phone when the playoffs started. It was about focus. 

It was also about when he opened it up the afternoon of their first game against Pittsburgh. The first thing that came up in his search was a picture, taken that day at 6am Pacific time, the morning after an event for a designer Shane had never heard of. Two tired, beautiful people, getting into a car together. 

Spotted: Arizona Fletcher rekindling with underwear model ex?!

It didn’t matter. He had games to win, a team to lead, a mountain to climb. 

_____

June 2015, New York City

They won in Game 6, and they did it at Madison Square Garden. There were no more fucking trips back to the visitors locker room for Shane, not this year. 

The weight of it in his hands was exactly what he had imagined, every time he had studied a picture of it over his 24 years. He hoisted it over his head, nearly blinded by the lights around him reflecting off the shining silver trophy, by his own incandescent joy, and he could not imagine any better feeling than this as he skated around the rink. 

Carter, who was always smiling, had never had a bigger smile than when he took the Stanley Cup from Shane’s hands. 

When his parents came down to the ice, Shane hugged them both, letting his mother press her wet face against his. 

“Thank you,” he said, in the quiet moment they had amidst the roar around them, the fans, the music, the announcers, the swell of teammates and loved ones. “This never would have happened without you guys. You are seriously the best parents in the world.” 

The words were so bland, limited, and inadequate—but he had never meant any words more deeply than these. He could see from the tears on his dad’s face and the joy shining in his mom’s eyes that they understood, that they could see the meaning behind it. 

He let them hug him as much as they wanted. 

By the time he got to his phone—after the celebrations, the media, more celebrations, a shower, dinner, more celebrations—he finally allowed himself to bring the idea of Ilya front and center. He had been thinking of him all night, all week, all month, all year; but had pushed it away, tucked it under the other things he needed to channel to help make this happen tonight. 

He finally allowed it in now, looking at his phone and seeing the evidence that Shane, too, had been thought of. 

IR
What did I say. 


Shane called him. It was an impulsive, selfish call—he didn’t know where he was, what he was doing, but Shane needed to bring him closer. 

He answered on the second ring. 

There was a strange sound at the beginning, a burst of noise as the phone clicked through, what sounded like a trill of high-pitched laughter, the fragment of a sentence from a quiet, sighing voice. Shane shifted the phone on his ear, trying to identify the sounds—there was a pause, a door closed, and quiet. 

“Hollander.” 

Shane smiled at the sound, the familiar twinge of mockery wrapped around the syllables of his name. 

“Hey,” he said. He was alone in his room, finally relaxed for the first time in what felt like months. The navy blue sheets around him were warm, familiar, soft on his exhausted body. 

“Tell me how it feels.” 

“How what feels?” 

“Holding the Cup.” 

Shane laughed, but what he thought about wasn’t holding the Cup. It was holding something else entirely. 

“Hey,” he said, because he had been thinking about it all day. “Happy birthday.” 

“Mm, thank you.” Ilya sounded like he was outside somewhere. There was the quiet noise of traffic in the background, and the telltale inhale, and slow exhale of a fucking cigarette. Shane refrained from commenting, just this once. 

“So,” Ilya continued. “Is it everything you’ve ever dreamed of?” 

“Almost.” Shane could picture him, leaning over a balcony, surveying the city in front of him, wherever the city was. “Where are you?” 

“Paris.” 

“Isn’t it late there? Or, I guess, early? I didn’t mean to wake you.” Shane checked the clock. It was after two in the morning in New York, which meant it was early morning in Paris. He thought about the sounds he had heard at the beginning of the call—the ones he had been trying to forget—and felt a strange, swooping feeling in his stomach. 

“Who said I was sleeping?” 

“Right,” Shane said, starting to feel himself crashing down to earth from a high so high that he had nearly been in outer space. 

“Hey, Hollander.” Ilya drew the sentence out, inhaling from his cigarette, then exhaling slowly. He wasn’t trying to hide it at all, Shane realized. “Next time you play for the Cup on my birthday, you should invite me to come, okay?” 

“What?” Shane blinked, jarred by the sudden subject change, the directness of the statement—and the blunt, bitter way it had been delivered. 

He scooted back in his bed, sitting up slightly to tilt his neck against the headboard. “Wait, are you being serious? Did you want a ticket?” 

He searched his mind for any memory of any conversation about this, any indication that Ilya had ever wanted to come to any of his games. There was nothing, he had never said or done anything about it at all, ever. He had pushed off all the hockey conversation to Svetlana in the fall. They had barely talked about anything at all in the spring. 

“You just said you were in Paris,” Shane said, grappling to understand. 

“I am just kidding.” But he hadn’t sounded like he was kidding when he said it, and he didn’t sound like he was kidding now. 

Shane opened his mouth to say something—he didn’t yet know what—but he was, again, too late. 

There was a burst of sound in the background again, a door opening, the loud sound of laughter and talking. It sounded like a party, even though it was nearly 9am in Paris. Maybe that was the point—a birthday party that had gone on all night.

A female voice came through, loud and clear, from the speaker of Shane’s phone. 

“Ilya!! Allez!!”

It was a language Shane understood. He breathed slowly, forcing himself past the hollow feeling that had opened up inside him again like a fissure, or a cut that had not been properly taped together. “I guess you have to go.” 

“I guess.” Ilya exhaled again, and Shane could see him in his mind’s eye, stamping out the cigarette. “Congratulations, Hollander. Thank you for the birthday wishes.” 

“Thanks. You’re welcome,” Shane said, pushing back against the headboard of his bed. “I’ll see you soon.” 

He didn’t know if he would, though. But all he could do was hang up the phone and lay alone in his navy sheets. 

_____

Carter couldn’t get over the headline in one of the papers the next morning. He kept holding up the page as they dragged themselves between media appearances. 

NEW AMSTERDAM: HOLLANDER LEADS ADMIRALS TO STANLEY CUP

“I made that fucking joke like three years ago!!” He insisted to anyone who would listen—which wasn’t many people, since most of the other guys were extremely hungover. 

Shane didn’t win the Hart, but he did win the Conn Smythe. And the NHL Awards were, in fact, a lot more fun having won the Cup. 

Most of the team didn’t want the celebrations to end. They booked a big trip a few days after the Awards, the group arguing over destinations for a day and a half before Vaughny made them do a silent vote. Spain won over Mexico. 

Some of the guys with families and kids, like Huff, begged off—but Shane had nothing else to do for a little while. He would be going up to Canada soon, to visit his brand new cottage, but he could spend a few days with his team in Barcelona before then. 

He was on Instagram again, because his self-control had only lasted through the victory parade. He could see Ilya all over—Paris, Milan, Berlin, London. They were close, on the same continent; but still far, just like they had been all year, scattered across North America. They hadn’t talked since the night of the Cup win. 

He thought about the laugh he had heard in the background, the voice, about Svetlana, about the names of other women he had never met. He thought about what it meant to get over something, or what it took to get over someone. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried before. He had. The girl in rookie year, in San Jose, who he’d gone home with after the first time he’d been to the Orchard Street apartment, when he’d been called a crab and fed Chinese food. 

Then Heather, who he had met on a trip to Ottawa in 2013, when the very specific memory of a walk in the snow had sent him out of the hotel and to a bar with his teammates, where she had been out with her friends. He had ended up back at her place, and he was absolutely certain that she had a terrible time. But they had still exchanged phone numbers, somehow, had even texted for a few weeks. He’d had idle thoughts about seeing her when he was back home for the summer that year, but had let the contact fizzle out. She had been nice, really nice. But it wasn’t anything more than that. 

And then, of course, there had been Chicago, when he’d felt almost exactly like he did now, angry with himself for being cowardly, stuck, pathetic.  

There was, he understood, a bottomless pit of need within him. And he was sure that there was only one way to fill it, but it wasn’t an option to him, not tonight, and probably not ever in a way that would ever make it go away. If a distraction was the best he could do to fix it, that would have to be enough. 

On the third night in Barcelona, he told his friends he wasn’t feeling well. An hour after they left for their late dinner reservation, he was gone too, on his way to the place he had found online, chosen more carefully than the one in Chicago. 

But like Chicago, it was easy, again. Why was it so easy, to spot each other across a room, to gravitate to each other, to go through the motions? What did these men see in Shane, this thing that he couldn’t even understand about himself? 

The guy was from London, living in Barcelona short term for work, something to do with software that Shane nodded about without understanding when he described it. He was tall, with sandy-colored hair, a strong build that he said came from playing rugby at university. Shane lied and said he was in business school at NYU. They went back to his apartment after two drinks. 

It was good. It was better than the other times had been, with kind Heather and the tall guy in Chicago whose name Shane had heard once but had never retained. It papered over some of the need within him, at least for a little while. 

But it wasn’t Ilya. He’d struggled not to let the thought articulate itself throughout the whole night, but the shape of it had hovered over him like a dark cloud. When he made his way back to his hotel in the middle of the night, the cloud took shape, and settled within him. It had been silly to think he could escape it, that he could have used sex—of all things—to push the thought of Ilya out of his mind, even for a little while. 

The next day, Shane was walking with Carter in Park Güell, taking in the strange architecture and wide, panoramic views. It was late afternoon. 

The guys had been lazy after staying out nearly all night. Shane had also been out late, but had still gotten back far earlier than them. He’d been the only one even awake at breakfast. 

But he’d taken advantage of the slow day, spending time at the pool after his workout, trying to read a book, napping. None of it had been particularly helpful for occupying his mind, so when Vaughn—who had emerged sometime around noon—suggested exploring the famous park, Shane had taken him up on it.  

Vaughn was quieter than usual, groggy and hungover from nearly ten days straight of heavy drinking and late nights. When he stopped to blink at his phone for several long moments, Shane chalked it up to residual aftereffects of the alcohol. 

“Holy motherfucking shit,” Vaughn said. His voice broke on the last word, which made Shane quickly turn to look at him. 

He was shocked to see his friend tearing up, staring down at the phone in his hand. 

“The Supreme Court just fucking ruled that gay marriage is legal,” Carter choked out, looking shell-shocked. The words pierced into Shane—not because they applied to him, in any way, but because even he (a Canadian citizen, not getting married any time soon, not marrying a man) understood the importance of them. He took in a deep breath, watching Vaughn hurriedly lift a hand to wipe at his face. 

“Dude, my fucking moms can get married.” Carter pinched his face in a tight expression, trying to hold back the well of emotion sweeping over him. 

Shane acted instinctively, maneuvering him out of the main path of the park and pulling him into a tight hug. He held his friend around the shoulders, letting him work through it, gently patting his back. 

“That’s amazing, Vaughny. Holy shit.” He leaned his head against him for a moment, feeling Carter shaking. “I am so happy for your family.” 

And he was. That was the strongest feeling within him, stronger than the other things that dwelled lower: the discomfort, the strangeness. But he owed it to his friendship with Carter—one of the very best he had ever had—to get over the rest. This was not about him, or what had happened last night, or Ilya Rozanov (another person who, like him, was not even from the United States). 

Vaughn sucked in a deep breath to get ahold of himself, straightening from Shane’s shoulder. The material of his shirt was damp from where Vaughn had pressed his face against it. 

“I have to call them,” he said abruptly, looking down at his phone again. “I just saw a news alert. I gotta talk to them.” 

“Okay,” Shane said encouragingly. “Go for it. I’ll just be here.” 

He gestured around him, at the odd park. Vaughn nodded, hand still clasped tightly around Shane’s arm. 

“Dude, you’ll come to the wedding, right?” 

Shane smiled, and nodded. “If you want me there, I’m there.” 

Vaughn beamed at him before striding away on his long legs. Shane heard him when the call connected, exclaiming loudly, happily, with love. 

He took a seat on the mosaic bench lining the terrace, and tilted his head up towards the sun. It really was a strange park. If it hadn’t been for the sight of the sun and the trees, he could have been anywhere, on another planet. 

_____

In early July, he went to the cottage. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d been there—that had been in the winter, when he’d been home in Ottawa for Christmas, and he’d driven up with his parents to see the fully-built structure for the first time. 

He’d monitored the finishing touches closely since then, coordinating the furniture coming in, approving the last minute decisions from the designer to make the interior look like the plan they had discussed. But it was different, being here, inside of it, as his own home. 

It was bigger than he realized it would be. He resisted saying this to his parents, who had asked him if he really wanted that many extra rooms, if he really wanted the ceilings to be as high in the main living area; and to his teammates, some of whom were very critical about calling the place a cottage. 

The extra space made the emptiness more pronounced, made it feel quieter and more still. But he didn’t dislike it. The opposite, in fact. 

He sat on the back patio, facing the lake. There was a huge tree halfway down the yard. He could see two squirrels romping at the base of it, rolling together, chittering, tails flying; fighting, or playing, or both. 

He thought it was the best place he’d ever been. 

_____

August 2015, Fargo


He went to North Dakota for two days in early August. 

He thought it would seem like a new and totally strange place, but actually, it reminded him of home. It was small, quiet, and full of loving people who greeted him warmly when Vaughn introduced him as Captain of the Admirals, fellow Stanley Cup winner, and his best friend. 

Vaughn’s moms had wanted to move quickly. Shane couldn’t blame them when he heard they’d been together for nearly 30 years—he couldn’t imagine spending that long loving a person and not being able to proclaim it loudly to the world, in every way possible. 

He had met Vaughn’s moms—Denise and Vivian—a couple of times by now, but it was different to see them here, in the comfort of their familiar space, surrounded by their friends and family, radiantly happy in their long, brightly colored dresses. 

The wedding was in the backyard of the home that Carter had grown up in, a nice house with a wide, expansive backyard, stretching into a field on one side and down to a creek on another. 

The ceremony itself was brief, with Carter and his younger brother standing at the front with their mothers while a friend with long silver hair officiated. Vaughny sniffled through the whole thing, while seventeen-year-old Bryan stared at him like he had never seen anyone less cool. 

The reception afterwards stretched on late into the evening, loud and happy, music blasting through speakers under twinkling lights. People danced in patches of grass, in between the other clusters of attendees talking, eating, and drinking.

The only other guests Shane knew were Huff, who had brought Laura and their two kids, and Scott Hunter. He mostly talked to the hockey players—Huff and Hunter, and the guys that Carter had grown up playing with, who were trying their best to stay cool in front of three guys who had won the Stanley Cup (and two with Olympic Gold). 

At one point, though, he found himself alone at the buffet table of food at the reception, surveying his options. There wasn’t much for him to eat here, but he’d put together a plate of salad and chicken. He’d had a piece of cake, too, because it was a celebration and these people were so fucking happy. 

When he looked up, he found himself standing next to a beautiful, athletic-looking woman with long, golden red hair. She was smiling at him, eyes crinkled at the sides from the warmth of her expression. 

“Are you Shane?” 

“Uh, yeah,” he smiled back, a little tired from the social exertions of the day, but wanting to put his best foot—and face—forward for his friend’s sake. 

“I really wanted to meet you. I watch your guys’s games all the time, I know you and Carts are really good friends.” She extended a hand forward to shake. “I’m Tara.” 

He remembered the name immediately—from a conversation years ago, when he and Vaughny had celebrated Shane being named an alternate, when the conversation had inexplicably turned to friends with benefits, and Carter had reminisced about his old friend, Tara, and the good times they’d had together. 

Shane hoped she couldn’t see the recognition on his face. He shook her hand instead, told her it was good to meet her, and politely asked how she knew Vaughn. 

He noticed later, too, that Vaughn kept gravitating over towards her, including once when they did a shot, knocking their glasses together first, before linking their arms through each other’s and draining the liquid. Shane was smiling when Carter wandered over to him a few minutes later, a goofy grin on his face. 

“Holly!” Vaughn said, grabbing him around the shoulders. Shane lifted an arm to rest on his back, returning the affectionate embrace.

“This was great, Vaughny. It was really special. Thanks for inviting me.”  

“I’m really glad you came, man.” Vaughn’s voice was muffled by the hug. He pulled back after a moment, keeping both hands on Shane’s shoulders as he examined him closely. 

“Hey. You good, dude? You seemed really wound up this year. I’ve been a little worried.” 

He looked seriously at his friend, and Shane wondered how much capacity for goodness a person could really have: to go from standing next to their loved ones while they committed themselves to an everlasting union, and then to turn around and reach out to a friend with concern. 

“I’m good, man.” Shane said, and for the moment, at least, he meant it. 

Carter accepted this, and the serious expression melted back into a beaming grin. He shook Shane back and forth a few times by the shoulders. “We did it, Holls.” 

He hooked one arm around Shane’s neck, pulling him in close and speaking lower, more conspiratorial. “And I bet we’ll do it again next year.” 

Shane was grinning now, too. “I think we will, too.” 

“Don’t tell Scott.” And they both laughed at that, together. 

For one brief, gleaming moment, Shane thought about telling him. Because Carter understood him, and cared about him—and here, where Carter’s mothers had officially become wives, it was insane to think that he would do anything other than love and accept Shane. 

But he could not find the words. He was scared to break the moment, like he always did. And he was scared that it was one thing to accept the people who raised you, but another thing entirely to navigate a new, absurdly high-charged layer in the close-knit environment of the locker room. And above all, he was really fucking petrified at the idea of saying something out loud that would push him into a new category, all on his own: the first one. The first what, exactly? He didn’t even know how to articulate it to himself, how could he say it to someone else? 

In the end, the fear was so much bigger than the love and it found him before the words could travel from his heart to his mouth. He was so, so bad with words. 

“You should go hang out with Tara,” he said instead. 

“Oh shit, you remember that?!” 

No place Shane had ever been had ever felt so far away from Ilya, so different from whatever they had between them—this close-knit, boisterous, sweaty, sunsoaked affair in the wide open space of this backyard in North Dakota. Shane and Ilya were dark nights and early mornings, confined rooms in Manhattan high rises, quiet bars, and snowstorms. There was almost no way to combine the two thoughts. 

But for a few moments, Shane did anyway. He thought about when Ilya had smiled at him on a clear winter day, and imagined the same expression under the late evening sun, bathed in golden light, looking out at the field and creek, next to him under the makeshift archway. It was a nice fantasy, for a moment. 

So he pulled his phone out and snapped a picture of the backyard, the sun setting over the grass, and sent it to him. It was the first text in the chain since June. 

He got one back, less than a minute later. 

Shane stared down at the picture, at the feet propped up on a table next to an ash tray, camera tilted up at what was probably sky, but showed as only a deep, black expanse. 

He realized, with a small thrill, that he recognized it. It was Ilya’s back patio, in New York. He was in New York. And Shane would be there too, soon.

Chapter End Notes

Is there an alternate dimension where two lonely, closeted captains end up hooking up at their mutual friend’s moms’ wedding in the middle of nowhere? Almost certainly, because come on with that setup, but it is not this universe. The best I can do is:

Scott: *quietly contemplating Shane Hollander, Total Babe*
Shane: *absorbed in his phone* yeah see ya later

Also, on a more boring note: some suspension of disbelief is required for Ilya and Rolex. I’m aware that they mainly use known celebrities for their campaigns, rather than models, but I hope we can all agree that getting Ilya to do Rolex work is a perfectly good use of “doing it for the plot.”

Finally: Shane’s bad headspace during this chapter got to me a little while writing it. If you felt that while reading it, I promise there are good times ahead for you, me, and Shane.

Next week: Back to New York.

Chapter 10: push and pull

Chapter Summary

Russian fuckboys, scissors, hat tricks, bleeding lines, and when the first time is so nice, he has to do it twice.

Chapter Notes

Please enjoy!!! 🧢

September 2015, New York City

“So when is it coming out?” Shane closed the refrigerator after replacing the kale. He picked up the phone again, along with his bowl, taking both to the kitchen island. 

“Couple of weeks,” Ilya said from Los Angeles, sounding bored as he waited to be called to work. “Do you even have HBO?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, stabbing his fork into the lunch in front of him. “I got it for Game of Thrones, remember?” 

“You didn’t even watch it!” 

“I’m not sold.” Shane was generally opposed to eating while talking to someone on the phone—and he hated the sound of someone eating in his own ear—but he was starving and this conversation could end at any moment, as soon as Ilya was pulled away. “The brother and sister stuff is weird. And I can’t keep track of all the places.” 

“It doesn’t matter, they are not really related. And they are hot, anyway, so it’s good for the world,” Ilya countered. He sounded like he was eating, too, something small and crunchy. Nuts, maybe, but more likely chips. 

“It’s actually literally not good for the world, that’s the point about incest. Anyway,” Shane redirected them back to the original topic. “Have you seen the episode yet?” 

“Not yet, but I’m sure it will be fine. Is not really a big role or anything, just a couple of scenes.” 

One of the things that had kept Ilya in LA in the previous spring had been filming a cameo in a popular TV show with a famous cast that Shane had never heard of. But the upcoming season had been getting a lot of buzz, and a little clip of Ilya’s scene had been in the trailer. Shane had seen it posted on Instagram a bunch of times already. 

“Did you ever think about wanting to be an actor before?” Shane asked, muting the microphone every time he took a big bite of his lunch. 

“Mm, no,” Ilya said, crunching in his ear. “Thought this sounded fun when Vika said they asked about me. It was. There have been a few other offers, too.” 

He paused, and Shane heard crinkling on the other end of the phone. He sighed loudly to try to cover the sound of Ilya’s eating. 

The phone calls were a new, and still rare, occurrence. They’d started up after Shane came back in August for preseason training. He and Ilya had seen each other a couple of times over a few days, before Ilya was out of town again, back to the West Coast. But he’d called Shane out of the blue the next day, picking up the conversation about whether or not matcha was disgusting exactly where they’d left it.  

It was different from the video call in Vegas last year, or the similar calls that had happened a couple of times when Shane was on the road last spring. This was only the second conversation like this—short calls while Ilya was in between things, usually waiting after getting his hair and face styled for whatever shoot he was at. Shane had been in the car for the last one, sitting in traffic on his way back into the city after practice, arguing that matcha was good if it was high-quality and made properly. 

It had been nice, actually, idly talking about nothing as they’d moved along with the slow and mundane parts of their day. He felt the same way today, talking for a few minutes before his afternoon video call with his mom to discuss upcoming opportunities. 

“I would do it again, probably,” Ilya continued. He was definitely eating chips, but now Shane thought he might also have been eating nuts. “But all of the offers are to play Russian fuckboys.” 

Shane immediately took himself off mute. 

“Yeah, that’d be hard for you to pull off,” he said, wryly. 

Ilya ignored him. “Is better than cartoon villains, though. But it is only ever one of those two options.” 

“Okay,” Shane conceded. He could see how that kind of typecasting would get old, quickly. He had zero interest in acting, but he could only imagine the kind of roles they’d try to offer to him if he was. He’d seen enough movies and shows with awkward Asian nerds to have an idea. “So what kind of acting role would you actually want?” 

“Ah,” Ilya said, and Shane could hear the bullshit in the one, single syllable. He was almost sorry he’d asked. 

“You know. I am Russian, Hollander. I need something heavy, dramatic. Complexity, tragedy. Lots of fucking, lots of death.” 

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was thinking over the answer, anyway. He could tell that Ilya was joking, but also, that he wasn’t. 

And he was, right, actually. Shane knew better than most that Ilya was really fucking smart. At first, it had been hidden behind the need to translate himself. There were still times that Ilya needed an extra moment, or maybe help with a word or an idiom, to convey the meaning he had already formed in his brain. But the thought processes themselves were always fast, sharp, clever, witty. 

Plus, the fact that he spoke English as well as he did was itself an example of his intellect. Shane had been bilingual for most of his life, but his French had gotten pretty bad over the last few years, as he’d used it much less. Ilya’s English had only gotten better and better. 

He knew that Ilya was always underestimated because of his accent, and also his profession. He thought Ilya relished it sometimes—being able to subvert the low expectations placed on him—but Shane thought he probably found it frustrating, too. It was a lot of waiting people out, a lot of figuring out how to communicate the way he wanted to, in a way that wouldn’t put people off. A lot of proving himself, over and over. 

As Shane thought about it more, he realized that Ilya probably would be a pretty good actor, if he wanted to be. 

“You know what has a lot of sex and death?” Shane waited a moment, gathering another forkful of food. “Game of Thrones.” 

Ilya laughed. Before he could reply, Shane heard a muffled voice in the background, Ilya covering the mouth of the phone to acknowledge them. 

“Have to go,” he said into the phone to Shane. 

“Okay.” Shane covered his mouth as he swallowed. “Say hi to Svetlana.” 

“Mm, okay, or say hi yourself.” He heard Ilya crinkling something again in the background, maybe cleaning the trash up from his snacks. 

“I don’t have her number.” 

“She says she DMs you all the time on Instagram.” 

“Wait, she does?” Shane glanced at his phone, confused. He had never seen anything from Svetlana before, though he generally didn’t actually do anything on Instagram other than scroll. He didn’t even really post, except things that his PR team sent to him with the pictures already selected and captions already drafted. 

“You don’t check your DMs? Wow, good luck in there,” Ilya said. Shane didn’t know what he meant. “I am back on Thursday, red eye. Free in the evening?” 

“Uh…” Shane swiped to his calendar, double-checking if there was anything specific scheduled for Thursday. “Yeah, that’s fine, after 7 or 8 probably.” 

“Okay. Bye.” 

After they hung up, Shane opened Instagram and scrolled through his direct messages. There were way more than he realized there would be. It took him a minute to find Svetlana’s name, but sure enough—there were the messages, the occasional hockey-related post sent over the last several months. He took a moment to follow her back, and then clicked on the most recent message, reading through the post before navigating back to reply. She really did have the best takes. 

When the episode came out two weeks later, Ilya’s scenes stole the show. He was playing the temporary love interest of the lead actress, who even Shane recognized from a popular movie series. (He’d never watched it, but he had seen the posters for it all over New York.) 

Ilya played the main character’s promiscuous athlete boyfriend, picking her up in the opening scene, and being caught cheating on her in a later one. He was funny, charming, and the role suited him perfectly. It helped that he was shirtless for most of it, looking fucking perfect. 

He went a little viral for it. He had already reached a solid level of fame from his modeling work, and also for his connections and the people he socialized with, but the memorable acting job created a whole new level of recognition. 

Shane saw one of the clips almost every time he opened Instagram, which he really needed to delete from his phone. He still always stopped to watch, smiling at the same part, when Ilya put on his shithead grin and delivered everyone’s favorite line: “I have money, I have a big dick, I have a great life.” 

Big dick, great life became a catchphrase that Shane saw splashed all over the comments, every time he glanced through them. 

Once again, he really wasn’t wrong.  

_____

IR
[Link: Salon Mott]

What’s this? 

IR
Hair salon.

?

IR
Hollander, please get your hair cut here. 

Does my hair look bad? 

IR
No, not bad. 
I am just haunted sometimes.

??

IR
I am haunted by the idea that you fly back to Ottawa, regularly scheduled times each year, a plane trip across an international border, to get a haircut that you are not even sure that you like. 
You fly 700km to sit in the chair of a person whose name you don’t remember to let them cut your hair every few months and you are not even sure that you like it. This happens in Ottawa. 
I think about it every time I see a pair of scissors. 
A man should not cross an international border for a pair of scissors. 

You are so fucking dramatic
How do you know I don’t like my hair?

IR
You should get your hair cut in the city that you live in. 

“Whoa, Hollander.” 

Shane looked up at the sound of the voice coming into the locker room behind him, spotting Bennett dropping his bag a few stalls down. Eric never called him “Holly” because it was his wife’s name—Shane assumed the other diminutives, like Holls, or Hollsy, were also too weird. 

Eric was blinking over at him, nodding a bit. “New haircut looks great.” 

“Oh, uh. Thanks.” Shane resisted the urge to run his hand through it yet again. He still hadn’t gotten used to the shape of it, how it felt weirdly longer and floppier even though it was technically shorter than it had been a few days ago. 

But apparently people seemed to like it—the people working at the salon had begged him for a picture to put on their social media, which he’d politely declined and tipped extra well to make up for. His agent, Farah, and his mom had been surprised by it, too, both of them spending time on separate video calls talking about how much older and sophisticated he looked. 

He didn’t think he looked that different. But the reaction he got from everyone had made him put off telling Rozanov that he’d gone to the place he’d suggested, mostly because he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right about something. 

“Holy shit, Holly! Is that you??” 

Shane braced himself at the voices coming into the locker room, turning to make a face at Vaughn, silently begging him to be cool. 

Vaughn opted to ignore him, dumping his bag onto the floor and grabbing Shane’s face between both hands. “What the fuck!” 

“Keep this guy away from the WAGs,” Burke laughed, dropping onto the bench by them. 

“You’re a fucking movie star!” Shane cringed as Vaughn kept squeezing his cheeks. He reached up to push him off, but lost the battle. 

“Don’t—” he said, already anticipating what was coming next, because as inexplicable as it was, he’d heard it in locker rooms before.  

“Hollywood!” Wagner yelled from the other end of the room. “Why the fuck don’t we call him Hollywood!” 

“It doesn’t make any sense as a nickname! I have nothing to do with Hollywood!” Shane yelled, pulling himself out of Vaughn’s grasp as his friend and the teammates around him cracked up. Shane groaned through the jeers. 

“Everybody please fucking get dressed so we can play this fucking game and get on with our lives!” He turned back to his stall, finally pulling his compression shirt on, thankful to have it covering his red face. 

“Wow, killer pep talk, Hollywood,” Burke snickered. 

Shane took a deep breath, about to open his mouth to correct himself with something more appropriate for a team captain of a championship winning team, but his alternate took over before he could. 

“Hey, you heard the man,” Vaughn said, shoving Shane into his stall affectionately. “Get your asses dressed, and then it’s lights, camera, action!” 

Shane groaned again as the guys around him laughed. 

_____

October 2015, New York City

He could tell Ilya liked the hair too, which was a little more gratifying than the shit from his team. 

Shane took a minute to situate himself as he entered the large, sprawling back room in the dimly lit bar, surveying the space for familiar faces. The place felt like a maze when he entered, but the text had been clear enough in instructing him to bypass the first room and head for the back stairs. 

He made his way towards Ilya and Svetlana as soon as he saw them, tucked away in a quiet corner. Ilya’s head swiveled towards him while he was still halfway across the room. 

It was nicer than a lot of the other places they’d been, so he assumed Svetlana had chosen it. The booths were lined with crushed velvet, the tables were smooth, dark wood. Ilya and Svetlana were sitting across from each other. Shane felt the back of his neck prickling slightly, from the sharp, heated way that Ilya was looking at him as he approached. 

“Ah!” Svetlana slid out of the booth when he reached the table, and before he knew what was happening, her arms were around him. 

He returned the embrace awkwardly, still looking at Rozanov over her shoulder. Ilya didn’t look phased by the hug—he was still staring fixedly at Shane. 

“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in so long,” Svetlana chided, letting him go quickly. “How am I supposed to congratulate you if you won’t even respond to my memes?” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said, smiling at her as he shrugged out of his coat. Ilya slid over to the far side of the booth, making room next to him. Shane sat down, glancing at him quickly, then looked away at the intensity of the expression on his face. 

“No sorry. Except unless you’re going to say ‘sorry, Svetlana, you were right, we won the Cup exactly like you said we would.’” She sat down again, now across both Ilya and Shane. 

Shane couldn’t help himself. “Well, technically, we beat Anaheim. You said we’d probably play Chicago in the finals.” 

He laughed when Svetlana gasped, outraged, and grinned wider when he heard Ilya let out a quick bark of laughter from next to him. 

“You don’t get to win a trophy and get to be an asshole about it,” she scolded. 

“He doesn’t know how to be any other way,” Ilya said from next to him. Shane looked at him over his shoulder, letting his smile fade as their eyes met again. He felt Ilya’s leg pressing against his own under the table. 

“I am going to get one single round of drinks to congratulate you for winning,” Svetlana said, with a note of warning still in her tone. “And then Shane is buying all the rest.” 

“Okay,” he smiled. They had never let him buy the drinks before, since he usually only ever got ginger ale. He was especially happy to do it tonight, the first time they’d been able to gather together like this since last December. 

Svetlana excused herself. Shane watched her leave, slipping through the crowd towards the large, ornately carved bar. After a long moment, he turned his head, already knowing that Ilya would be looking at him. 

He was right. So Shane looked back, the corners of his mouth turned up in a small smile. Rozanov’s eyes were drifting over him, from his face, up to his hair, back to his eyes, and lower. 

“So,” Ilya said. “You went to the salon.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said, taking a gamble that Ilya hadn’t sipped from his water glass yet. He pulled it over and took a quick drink, wiping away a few drops that spilled on his chin. “People seem to think it looks okay.” 

Ilya’s eyes were tracking everything—Shane taking the glass, drinking, the drops of water, his hand across his mouth. He watched Shane place the glass on the table again. After a moment, he tilted his head to the side, inhaling a deep breath as he sat back in the booth. 

Before Shane really knew what was happening, he felt a hand come up to the back of his head, taking hold of a tight fistful of hair, gripping, pulling lightly. 

Ilya had let go and moved his hand away again before Shane even had the chance to panic at the idea of someone seeing them. Instead, Shane’s mind snagged on the feeling of the physical contact, the grasp of fingers around the hair tugged away from his head. 

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, trying to pretend that it hadn’t made him immediately hard. 

He could tell that Ilya was feeling something, too, from the way he was sitting, and after Svetlana returned, the way that he moved. Ilya kept his leg pressed against Shane’s as they settled into conversation, and Shane tried not to get distracted by the other subtle touches, the elbow digging lightly into his side when Ilya turned to get his phone, the foot under the table occasionally knocking against his.

Svetlana had brought Shane a Moscow Mule, which she deposited in front of him with raised eyebrows.  

“You can go back to no alcohol later,” she insisted. “But I’ve seen you drink during the season before, and you will have one to celebrate with me.” 

“Okay,” Shane agreed, smiling at her first, and then at Ilya. He lifted his glass as Svetlana toasted to the Shane Hollander, the New York Admirals, and the Stanley Cup, pushing his knee against Ilya’s. He smiled against the glass when he felt the flex back in response. 

“Now,” she said, after all three had taken a sip of their drinks. “Unfortunately, you will never win another one. It’ll be the Boston Bears every year until the end of time.” 

“Wait, what!” Shane laughed. Svetlana shrugged, waving her hand in his direction. 

“You’re on your own this year. No more helpful thoughts from me, I saw how you used everything I said against Boston.” 

But she didn’t mean it. They talked about hockey, of course, but Shane turned the conversation around after awhile, asking what Svetlana had done over the summer, about a magazine cover she’d been on. 

Eventually, the conversation turned to Ilya, with both of them teasing him for his sudden virality. He tried to wave away their laughing comments on his performance, Svetlana’s deep-voiced impression of I have a big dick, I have a great life, and pushed his arm in against Shane’s side. 

“Be more useful than this,” he glared at Shane, his forearm flexing against his ribs. “Go get another drink.” 

Shane pressed his lips together, taking an extra second before he slid out of the booth to comply. 

They both exclaimed when he came back with a second Moscow Mule, plus vodkas for them. 

“Don’t get too excited,” he said as he rested the drinks on the table and took his seat next to Ilya again. Ilya didn’t move over right away, forcing Shane to elbow him aside to make room on the seat. “We don’t play for a couple of days. And it’s back to ginger ale after this.” 

“We would never get too excited over you,” Ilya notified him, reaching across to take his vodka and brushing Shane’s arm in the process. “You will always be boring in the end.” 

Svetlana left soon after ten, insisting she needed beauty sleep. Shane stood as she swept around the other side of the booth, leaning down to awkwardly let her kiss both of his cheeks. 

“See you sooner than last time, okay?” She said, and he nodded. She waved to Ilya behind him before her exit. 

Still standing, Shane debated whether he should move around to the other side of the booth. Before he could decide, though, he felt a hand grasp at the back of his shirt, one insistent tug. He slid back to his original seat. 

They didn’t stay much longer, just until their drinks were finished. The fall air was cool on the short walk back, only fifteen minutes for twelve blocks. Ilya kept distance between them on the sidewalk, and Shane maintained it, hands in his pockets. 

When they reached the doorway of apartment 5H, he stood back to give Ilya room to punch in the door code. Shane already knew it—he’d seen him put it in enough, and had told Ilya several times that he really should change it to something more complex. 

Shane stepped into the apartment behind Ilya, taking a deep breath. It was hard to believe he’d only been here once in the last ten months, back in August, when he’d first come back to the city. All of the other times they’d seen each other recently had been at Shane’s. 

He’d missed it—the red and gold throw pillows, the smell of espresso and something else, citrusy and woodsy. It hadn’t changed much over the last several months, from what Shane could tell, but it was hard to know for certain with the presence already hovering in front of him, blocking most of the apartment from view. 

Shane knew he had only another second before he was crowded in for a kiss, and he decided to take matters into his own hands for once. 

He waited only long enough to hand Ilya his coat and to toe his shoes off. Then Shane reached for him, grasping at his shirt, feeling the strong, solid torso underneath. He let Ilya be the one pushed up against the wall for once, relishing the sharp exhale it pulled from him when his back hit the solid side of the hallway. Shane took a moment to enjoy the delighted smile on Ilya’s face, too, before leaning in to kiss him. 

It was immediately deep and searching. Shane felt Ilya’s hands move up his chest, squeezing his pecs over his shirt, then over his neck and face, up to his hair. He smiled against Ilya’s mouth when he felt his hair tugged again, tilting his face to press in closer. Shane shifted his thigh, nudging his way in between Ilya’s legs, grinding against him until Ilya groaned and pushed Shane away. 

But he didn’t let him go far—Ilya kept his hands around him, on his face and in his hair, as he switched their positions, shoving Shane against the wall instead and taking his position, huddled in close against him. Shane spread his stance a little wider, letting Ilya be the one to push against his erection. 

Ilya pulled back so that his tongue was no longer in Shane’s mouth but kept his lips close enough to brush against him. 

“Do you want,” he said quietly. “A glass of water?” 

Shane breathed out slowly, struggling to keep focus on Ilya with him so close to his face. “No.” 

He tightened his grip on Ilya’s waist again, pushing himself away from the wall and directing both of them down the hallway and into the living room. He turned Ilya around after a moment so that he wasn’t walking backwards, leading both of them into the bedroom, keeping his hands on his body the whole time. 

Ilya allowed himself to be maneuvered until they reached the foot of the bed. He turned, then, grabbing Shane’s hands at the wrists to pull him in. Shane yanked his arms away, grinning, and stepped aside just long enough to pull the shade down on the big window. 

Ilya pulled him back as soon as the night sky had disappeared, but Shane tugged his way out of the grip again, pushing him down to sit on the bed instead. 

He got on his knees in front of him, enjoying the irritated, amused, aroused look on Ilya’s face as he watched him from above. 

“You are being fucking annoying,” Ilya notified him. 

“You’re loving it,” Shane responded, unbuttoning Ilya’s pants. 

Ilya shifted back, lifting his hips enough to let Shane pull his pants down to his ankles. He was hard under his boxer briefs and Shane could barely keep from groaning at the sight. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning in, pushing his face against him, biting lightly through the material, smiling at the pleased sound he heard above him. 

“Jesus, Hollander,” Ilya hissed, and Shane felt his hands in his hair again, fingers trailing across his scalp. 

He tugged Ilya’s underwear off altogether, helping him out of his pants. Ilya waited until his legs were free before spreading his knees wider, making more room between them. He took his shirt off, too, dropping it onto the ground behind Shane. 

Shane settled on his knees between Ilya’s thighs. He waited a moment, tilting his head back, forcing Ilya’s hands to give him room to look up at him. The expression was the same heated one Shane remembered from the bar. It was almost enough to make him laugh—how they’d been slowly leading up to this moment for the entire fucking night. 

He reached up, wrapping his hand around Ilya’s hard cock. He exhaled as he ran his hand down, then back up, enjoying the way he could actually see Ilya’s thighs tensing at the unhurried strokes. It was slower than he usually moved—slower than he could usually get himself to move, with how frantic Ilya usually made him—but today he was relishing it, savoring the simmering tension radiating off of Ilya. 

He licked slowly, all the way up first, then around the head, keeping eye contact as he slowly took him into his mouth. He was dedicated to taking his time with this now, resting his arms on Ilya’s legs as he kept going, deeper, swallowing around him.

The groans that came from Ilya were gradually tinged with frustration. It only gave Shane more incentive to move more carefully and methodically, taking him deeper into his throat as he bobbed slowly, occasionally pulling himself off and kissing and licking lower, down his shaft and to his balls. 

Ilya’s hands were—where else?—in his hair. Shane kept sucking, moving his hands flat to rest on Ilya’s legs, rubbing his palms up from his thighs to his hips and back down again. 

“Fuck,” Ilya shivered from the light contact, probably combined with the intensity of the blowjob, muttering something in Russian. “You are going to kill me one day.” 

Eventually, he moved his hands down from Shane’s head to his shoulders, gently pushing him away. Shane allowed himself to sit back on his heels, already proud of how red and flushed Ilya looked when he raised his eyes to look at him again. 

Ilya leaned in for a wet kiss first, then grabbed at Shane’s shirt, trying to pull it over his head. But Shane shouldered him away, standing up from the floor and standing back to take his shirt off. He carefully folded it, backing up several more feet to place it carefully on the top of Ilya’s dresser. His pants followed, and then his socks, and then his underwear. 

Sometime around when Shane was folding his left sock, Ilya started laughing. 

“You know exactly what you are doing, Hollander,” he said, reclining at the foot of the bed, staring at him, dick hard and ready and waiting. 

“You’re loving it,” Shane repeated. 

Ilya’s patience had apparently reached its limit. He pushed himself up, stalking across the room to wrap an arm around Shane’s waist and pulling him back down with him. Shane attempted to take back the control, but Ilya didn’t let him this time, pinning him on his back on the mattress and hovering over him, hands holding Shane down at the forearms. 

Ilya regarded him evenly, leaning so close that the gold cross on the chain around his neck rested on Shane’s bare chest. Shane lifted his head up slightly, and Ilya obliged, stretching to kiss him. With Ilya’s guard down, Shane pushed up against the hands around his arms, twisting and rolling their bodies so that he was on top again. 

Ilya huffed out a laugh, moving his arms away before Shane could even attempt to pin them down. Instead, he reached up to hold Shane behind the neck, his other hand reaching down to squeeze his ass, and immediately rolled them back. 

“Keep doing that, and I will have to teach you a lesson,” Ilya threatened, the words at odds with the smirk playing around his lips. Shane could see that he was struggling to keep it away, to keep his eyes narrowed and face serious. 

“Fucking try me, Rozanov,” Shane responded, practically grinning. 

Ilya kept a strong, flexed arm on Shane’s abdomen to hold him down as he slid towards the foot of the bed, nudging Shane’s legs apart with his other hand. He looked at Shane once—with dark, heavy eyes—before he took his cock into his mouth, all the way down right away, like he was trying to show Shane up through a blowjob, which he probably was. 

Shane let him win this one, groaning openly as he immediately reached down to clutch a handful of hair. 

If Shane had been trying to get one over Ilya before, it was, naturally, now coming back to him twice over. Ilya was slow and torturous, pulling himself away whenever he sensed Shane getting close—which he was making fairly obvious with the pleading noises that had started slipping out of his mouth. 

The fourth time this happened, and Ilya pulled himself away to press light kisses to the inside of Shane’s thighs, edging up towards his balls, Shane thought he was going to lose his mind. 

“Jesus Christ, if you don’t stop—” he bit the words off, wrapping one leg around Ilya’s shoulders, trying to draw him in again. 

Ilya pushed the leg away, pulling himself up from the mattress and away from Shane. “Oh, you want me to stop?” 

“No, don’t fucking stop,” Shane gasped, groaning in frustration at the self-satisifed look on Ilya’s face when he dropped back down again. 

Shane finally re-gained the upper hand when Ilya was forced to move away to get the lube. With Ilya’s body hovering over him, Shane took his chance, pulling him in close. He bit down, quick and light, just teeth briefly around his neck, at a sensitive point near his scalp, almost at the nape. 

Ilya let out a stuttered moan, pausing his task to grab Shane’s face tightly with his hand, leaning in for a slow, sloppy kiss. It only lasted for a moment before he pulled himself away again, single-minded now. 

He settled between Shane’s legs again, lube and condom within reaching distance. Ilya grasped one of Shane’s legs at the thigh, lifting it over his shoulder and gently pushing it back towards Shane’s chest. 

Ilya kissed along the crease of his thigh, over the sensitive skin inside, at the top, and moved his hand to circle one finger slowly around his rim. Shane squirmed, pushing into the contact and lifting his hands above his head to press against the headboard behind him as Ilya continued his slow preparation. 

Shane had already been telling Ilya he was ready for about five full minutes before Ilya finally agreed. He re-positioned himself, pushing Shane’s leg up from his shoulder and further back. 

“You were not kidding about all of that yoga, I guess,” Ilya mused as he pressed himself on top of Shane, turning his head to kiss the inside of his leg. 

Shane responded by moving his leg farther back, opening his hips wider, smiling at the display of flexibility. Ilya groaned as this brought him closer. He shifted his hips away to position himself, pushing in slowly, leaning down over Shane.  

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he panted, leaning his head against Shane’s. 

“You should probably fuck me, then,” Shane said, but his breath was short, too, as he struggled to get used to the sensation. He bit down a groan as Ilya did exactly as he suggested. 

Ilya seemed to have been content to keep the teasing in the lead-up, because now he was thrusting steadily, a strong hand around Shane’s thigh to keep it pushed back and up. The angle was perfect right away, and Shane shifted back against him, eyes half open, looking up. Ilya was close enough that Shane could feel every hot and unsteady breath he took. They were both sweaty now, and Shane reached up, pushing Ilya’s hair away from where it stuck to his face. 

“I want to bite you,” Ilya said, pulling a groan from Shane with a hard thrust. 

Shane opened his mouth to protest, thinking immediately of the locker room tomorrow, but Ilya was already continuing. “Am not going to. But I want to.” 

“Copycat,” Shane muttered, hands braced on Ilya’s biceps. 

Ilya grunted, letting go of Shane’s leg to give himself more space to lean down, getting close enough in to suck Shane’s earlobe into his mouth. The new position allowed him to push in further, and he moved faster, reaching between them to wrap his hand around Shane. He didn’t have to stroke long before Shane was coming, fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulders, his head bumping back against the headboard. 

Ilya slowed his pace, though didn’t stop, giving Shane the moment he needed to recover from the intensity before he pulled out slowly, motioning for him to turn over. Shane shifted onto his stomach, sliding up to his knees and lifting his hips. Ilya repositioned himself behind him, one foot planted on the bed, one hand pressed down on the middle of Shane’s back, as he pushed into him again. The angle let him go deeper, faster, and Shane closed his eyes, groaning again when he felt Ilya come. He stayed where he was, enjoying the pressure of Ilya’s chest leaned over his back, his hand in Shane’s hair, his lips at the base of his neck. 

Afterwards, when they had pulled themselves apart and cleaned themselves up as best as they could, Ilya had his hand in Shane’s hair again. Shane rested his head on the curve between Ilya’s neck and shoulder. 

He had to clear his throat before he talked, his mouth dry and tired. “Do you have more travel coming up?”

Ilya’s fingers were drawing circles and patterns on his scalp. It was relaxing, to the point that Shane could feel his eyelids getting heavy. “Little bit. Not much more.” 

“Mmm,” he answered, letting himself sway into the contact as Ilya’s hand moved down towards the back of his neck. 

Ilya seemed to appreciate the reaction he was drawing, so kept doing it, scratching and massaging lightly. Shane had started to doze off when he spoke again. 

“Next year I will be in New York more.” Ilya paused, and Shane opened his eyes. “Good for me, I miss it.” 

“Good for me, too,” Shane replied. I missed you, he barely stopped himself from saying. But there was a strange hitch in the air, and he wondered if Ilya had heard the words anyway. 

“Hey,” he said, turning his head slightly so he could look at Ilya. The angle still wasn’t right, so the best he could do was stare at the side of his jaw. “I haven’t asked. I’ve been meaning to.” 

Ilya was quiet, giving Shane the space to say whatever was coming next. 

He inhaled slowly, resting his hand on top of Ilya’s thigh. “Is everything going okay with your family?” 

Ilya remained silent for a long moment. Shane could feel that he had tensed, both from the thigh under his hand and from the hand in his hair. 

“You are kind to ask,” Ilya said, finally, moving his free hand over to grasp Shane’s leg, squeezing him. Shane hated that the strong grip made his dick react even during such an untimely moment for it. 

“The same, mostly,” Ilya continued. He fell silent at that, and Shane could tell there wasn’t more coming. 

Shane didn’t push this time—instead he just nodded. 

It was late, by now, and he was tired, heavy and contented from the soft motions in his hair. All he wanted to do was roll over and go to sleep here, even atop the wet spot that Ilya was covering to keep Shane away from it. But they didn’t do that. 

“I should go,” he mumbled instead, slowly dragging his head up from Ilya’s shoulder. 

For a brief moment, Ilya stopped him from moving, his hand still in Shane’s hair, preventing him from pulling away all the way. But after a second he’d removed his hand, curling it onto his own lap as he turned to look at Shane.

Shane looked back, and for a split second, he was sure that Ilya was about to ask him to stay. But he didn’t. 

Instead, Ilya smiled, resting his head back against the headboard. “Okay. See you for run tomorrow morning.” 

Shane smiled back, leaning in for a light kiss, before he pushed himself out of bed and towards the pile of clothes he’d left folded on the dresser. 

_____

January 2016, New York City

In retrospect, it was absolutely no surprise that Ilya failed to give Shane any advance warning the first time he went to an Admirals game. 

They were playing Boston, and it was still 0-0 midway through the first period. Shane was on the bench, watching the second line on their shift, when his eyes just happened to catch on the Jumbotron. 

It wasn’t unusual to see a group of famous people in a suite featured up on the big screen, and Shane only recognized the pop star in the middle because Wagner had been freaking out that she was supposed to be at the game tonight. That wasn’t what had caught his attention, though. 

His eyes immediately went to Svetlana. She stood out wearing black and gold among the fashionably dressed crowd, most of them in assorted Admirals hats, shirts, or sweaters—some with the familiar #24 on them. Shane smiled when he recognized her, and the Boston jersey she was unselfconsciously wearing, sticking out like a sore thumb among her group. 

He tilted his head up to look more closely. She was wearing a classic Vetrov jersey, which was pretty cool—he’d have to mention it next time he saw her, and ask if she had any other interesting memorabilia laying around. He thought she probably did, and they’d never spent enough time talking about her dad’s career—

And then all coherent thoughts shut down, because he noticed the person next to her, sitting with his knees spread wide, hands resting atop his thighs. 

Only a corner of Ilya was visible on the screen, but it was more than Shane needed to recognize him. He was wearing an Admirals cap. 

Shane immediately felt outside of his brain, like his thoughts weren’t tethered to his body. He snapped his eyes back to the rink, trying to control his facial expression, suddenly aware of all of the cameras that were on him at this very moment in time. 

It didn’t distract him, though. When he launched himself over the boards for his next shift, it felt like there was an electric wire powering him, rocketing him over the ice, around—or fuck it, through—any player that got in his way. 

It wasn’t his first hat trick at MSG, but it was his first of the season, and his first against Boston. The crowd was fucking thundering for him as the hats came down onto the ice, his teammates crashing into him. Shane was beaming, face tilted up out of the mass of arms and jerseys pushed in around him. 

“Jesus, Hollander,” Hunter said as he skated past after the celebration, narrowly missing another hat. “What the fuck got into you?” 

“Trouble keeping up?” It popped out of his mouth before he could think twice, and he laughed at the startled look Hunter gave him. 

His skin felt like it was buzzing for the rest of the game, through the post-game interview, through the hearty cheers in the locker room, and through the shower where he was blessedly able to control the thrumming in his veins. It stayed until he finally got his hands on his phone, hunching over it at his stall in only his towel. 

You didn’t tell me you were coming.

IR
Didn’t want to distract you 😜

You didn’t distract me.

IR
Yeah right, I know you were hard all game
Definitely when you scored second goal

Where are you?

IR
Out
Will leave bar in 30. 

Meet you at your place.

An hour later, Shane let himself into Ilya’s apartment for the first time ever, punching in the door code and shouldering his way inside instead of waiting for Ilya to let him in. 

Ilya must have heard him coming because he was right there, in the entryway, greeting Shane by throwing the Admirals hat in his face. Shane body-checked him into the wall, making a table and the picture frame above it rattle. Rozanov shoved him back immediately, latent hockey instincts awakening as they stumbled, laughing, through the living room. 

Ilya scooped up the hat from the floor before it got left behind. He made Shane wear it when he pushed him back into one of the deep-set window sills. Shane pulled him in before he could get too far, forcing himself to stop smiling long enough to kiss him properly. 

After a minute, Ilya pushed him away again with one solid hand on his chest, already dropping to his knees as he pulled Shane’s pants down. Shane twisted around before they got too lost, tugging on the cord to pull the shade down behind him. He leaned back onto the pillow, grabbing onto Ilya’s hair with one hand, and fixing the hat on his head with the other. 

_____

When Ilya was actually photographed wearing the New York Admirals hat, though, Shane fucking hated it. 

He was with Rozanov when he saw it—a photo in some random Page Six blurb about a group of famous people, including Ilya, at a concert the previous night. Ilya actually seemed proud of it, from the way he smirked and turned his phone around to show Shane. 

He seemed amused by Shane’s reaction, too: the deep grimace as he shoved himself down in his seat. 

“Why the fuck would you wear that in public?” Shane asked, trying to tamp down on the flare of panic that he suddenly felt. 

“Haven’t you heard?” Ilya stretched his legs out on the couch, holding the phone above himself as he continued scrolling. “The team won a Cup. Favorites to do it again this year, looking to be a dynasty.” 

He looked over at Shane, smirking again as he winked. “Would still need one more after that, though, two is not enough.” 

Shane wasn’t amused, and he wasn’t going to be distracted by the talk about a second (or third) Cup. “You’re just going to draw attention to us if people start thinking you’re into hockey.” 

They never talked about things this frankly, certainly not since their earliest days, since he’d told Ilya not to tell anyone about him and tried to put off going on runs together because he was scared of being seen. They’d moved a long way since that time—they ran all the time, and walked sometimes, too; they picked up food and had drinks at bars all over lower Manhattan. But Shane could feel his skin prickling, the familiar anxiety sliding through him once again as he thought about the cameras, and the eyes, and the rumors that might come with them. 

“Who fucking cares if I am into hockey? It’s a sport, nothing weird about a man liking a sport.” Ilya shrugged and rolled his eyes, focusing on his phone again. 

“It’s not about you liking a sport, it’s about you wearing my team’s hat and us constantly doing shit together. People will start to notice that kind of thing, if you’re at my fucking games, wearing my team’s hat.” 

Shane knew he was being too angry about this, and judging from the way Rozanov was frowning fixedly at his phone, he clearly thought so too. 

But Shane didn’t like this slow bleeding of lines between things that had always been contained in their own parameters—of private apartments and dark bars and early morning runs—into pictures, in Page Six, on Instagram, on Twitter. 

It was only a matter of time. The online chatter had already been growing to a roar for each of them individually, with Shane’s stacking awards and Ilya’s bonafide fame from his increasingly high-profile modeling career and memorable internet moments like big dick, great life. 

Shane couldn’t handle the collision of these two orbits, and the noise that it would create. 

Rozanov still wasn’t looking at him. “They just think I like sports and am famewhore who likes being photographed. You give people too much fucking credit.” 

“For someone as online as you are, you don’t give them enough,” Shane retorted, looking at him over his shoulder, watching him scroll on his fucking phone. 

“I don’t care about it like you do, Hollander,” Ilya responded, sounding bored. 

That shouldn’t have hurt, not after the way Shane had been acting. But there was something barbed in it, and Shane couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not. Ilya could have been referring to reputation—that Shane cared too much about what other people thought, his image, about the potential ways things could go wrong. 

He could have also meant that Shane cared too much about this, the thing between them, which was simple for Ilya in a way that it didn’t seem to be for Shane. 

They both treated the whole thing as resolved a couple of weeks later, when Ilya sent Shane another picture from Page Six. He’d been photographed courtside at a basketball game, wearing a Knicks cap over his curly hair, seated with a couple of other models and actors. 

IR
[LINK: Page Six]
See? Fucking relax.

Shane didn’t respond. 

_____

March 2016, New York City

They didn’t usually run in Central Park, but Shane was off and it was the first real day that felt like spring. So they’d changed their usual route, meeting at Shane’s and running north together. The park was full of other runners who’d had the same idea, which made it easy to blend in. 

It also made it completely unsurprising when Rozanov halted to a stop at the sight of a chubby bulldog, huffing happily along with the woman walking it. Ilya gasped, immediately kneeling down to greet the dog, which was just as enthusiastic to receive such sudden attention. 

Shane sighed, but slowed down to wait. Dog stops were an occasional hazard of going for runs with Rozanov, and without anything pressing on his schedule today, Shane could afford to be a little indulgent. 

He hung back, watching Ilya smooth his big hands over the dog’s head, petting down its body as he chatted amiably with its owner. He had taken his sunglasses off for the conversation, tucking them into the collar of his t-shirt as he squatted by the dog. 

“Oh my God! It’s you!” 

Shane looked up at the voice, trying to identify the source, his eyes landing on a woman in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt approaching from their right. She was, of course, looking right at Ilya, who looked over his shoulder at her, hands still on the dog. 

“You were so funny in Amateur Sex,” the woman exclaimed, walking past Shane and towards Ilya, who had finally let the dog go. 

The bulldog’s owner was looking down at Ilya with more interest now—she clearly hadn’t recognized him, but she seemed like she was probably outside of the age bracket that had watched big dick, great life. 

Ilya smiled at the dog’s owner as he stood up from the ground, thanking her again for letting him say hello to the dog. He patted it on the head as it walked away, only then turning his attention to the woman in front of him, who Shane had finally recognized as, yeah, obviously hot, with thick brown hair and perky features. 

“I’m such a huge fan,” she gushed, like it made sense for anyone to be a big fan of a guy who had been in approximately four and a half minutes of a single television episode. “I really loved that shoot you did in GQ, too.” 

“Oh, thank you. That is very nice of you to say.” Ilya was smiling obligingly, arms crossed over his chest. 

He wasn’t even looking at Shane. Which made sense, obviously, since Shane was hanging back a few feet away, doing his best not to be visible. But it was hard not to stay within earshot, at least, to figure out if he was going to start flirting with this woman while they were in the middle of a fucking run. 

“I had no idea that you lived in New York,” the woman continued, stupidly, Shane thought. Because why would she have any reason to think about where he lived? “It’s so cool to see you, like, out for a run in Central Park.” 

“Best city in the world,” Ilya agreed, his tone still way too fucking patient. Shane tried to catch his eye again, but he wasn’t even looking in his direction. 

“Right? Hey, do you mind if I take a photo with you?” She pulled out her phone, something in a monstrosity of a pink case. 

“Okay, sure,” Ilya nodded amiably, taking the phone from her. 

And then he made Shane’s heart fucking stop, when he turned his head to make direct eye contact. He called out, “Hey.” 

Shane stood rooted in his spot at the unexpected summons, as the woman turned towards him and looked straight at his fucking face. But Ilya was watching him calmly, holding his hand out with the phone. 

For a moment, Shane was tempted to pretend that he didn’t think the shout had been for him. He was tempted to start running again, as quickly as he could, away from whatever this situation had turned into. 

Instead, Shane walked forward towards them. He watched as Ilya casually slipped the sunglasses off his shirt, gripping them in the same hand as the big pink phone case. He held both out to Shane, who took them from him and immediately ducked his head to slip the sunglasses onto his face. 

The relief wasn’t immense, but it was immediate, just an extra layer of anonymity granted to him as he held the phone up. Ilya put his arm around the pretty brunette, drawing her in against his sweaty torso as Shane took a picture. 

He gestured for Shane to take a few more, so he did. But Shane was shitty at taking pictures, so he wasn’t surprised when Ilya snapped one more after taking the phone back, a selfie with his head leaned in towards the woman. 

Several options now provided, he handed the phone back to her, his head tilted. “Time to run now, okay? Have a good day.” 

Shane understood this as his cue, and he started up first. He let Ilya catch up with him a minute later, and kept the sunglasses on until they had left the park and started the trip back downtown. 

_____

Hey. I know this is really short notice but I didn’t know the scheduling, obviously.
Do you want tickets to any of the games in the Final? I can get two (if you want to bring Svetlana?)
Game 1 and 2 are 30th and 1st. Game 5 would be the 9th, and Game 7 the 15th. 

IR
Thank you for asking me. 
I am really sorry not to be able to say yes. I have to be in Milan from 30 May to 4 June. Paris from 5 to 10th. 
I could come on the 15th, I think. But must be back in Milan on 16th for start of shows. 

OK. It’s no problem, I know it’s a really busy time for you.
We can just see what happens for the 15th. 

IR
Ok.

He should have asked sooner. He didn’t know the exact dates of the Stanley Cup Final, or that they’d be in it, obviously, but he could have guessed from the usual scheduling cadence—or he could have put the whole thing on Ilya’s radar sooner. But that probably wouldn’t have made a difference with Ilya’s own schedule, not with only a few weeks before the summer Fashion Weeks and other big events would start up for him. 

And in any case, it was probably better. It would probably distract him, knowing that Svetlana and Ilya were there, together in the same arena as his mom and dad, along with dozens of cameras and thousands of eyes. 

He’d have to consider that, if it came down to it and if they played on June 15th. He would have to face the possibility of what his face might look like on camera throughout the game if he knew that Ilya was in a seat somewhere watching him with everything on the line. 

But he remembered the weird conversation from last year too well, the chasm in his stomach when he heard the tight, angry way Ilya had spoken to him, the soft background laughter and voice calling Ilya away in the early morning in Paris. If Shane was playing Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final on Ilya’s birthday, he was going to make sure he was invited to see it. 

_____

June 2016, San Jose 

They won in Game 6 again, this time in San Jose. 

It felt different—he was no less grateful for his team as he crowded in among them, no less joyful as he took the Cup and skated his lap with it before handing it to Greg Huff, but still, he felt different. 

There was a sense of repetition, maybe, when his parents came down to the ice to see him, weaving their way through the spouses, partners, and children crowding onto the rink to greet the other Admirals. Repetition wasn’t bad, not for Shane Hollander: it just made something familiar. 

But sometimes he didn’t want something familiar. Sometimes, just rarely, like on the day he won the Stanley Cup, he wanted something otherworldly. 

He tried to wipe any trace of this from his face when he hugged everyone, not wanting them to sense any disappointment in him, or any other emotion completely at odds with what they’d all just achieved. 

(But there was, maybe, some kind of fantasy, just for a moment. And he berated himself for it immediately when it came to mind, because what the fuck did he think? That, if he had been there, Ilya would come down onto the ice, and Shane would kiss him in front of the whole fucking world? And suddenly everyone would be looking at them both, constantly, and this one thing about Shane would overshadow everything he had ever accomplished, and Ilya would never be able to go back to his terrible family and sick father in Russia, and Shane hadn’t even told his parents that he liked men, let alone that he was fantasizing about telling the entire world about it because he was in way too deep with his closest friend. They didn’t even know that Ilya was his friend, or even that he existed. And most of all, Shane wasn’t even brave enough to call himself the word that he knew had to apply to him by now, which he’d known for months if he was honest with himself. But he wasn’t honest with himself, not about this or so many other things, either. And if he couldn’t even say any of this in his own fucking head, how was he supposed to announce it to the entire world? 

What a stupid fucking fantasy.) 

He grabbed his phone before he realized the champagne was not being consumed as a beverage, but was actually being used as a weapon. He quickly lifted his other hand to cover his eyes and mouth, squinting as the cold, fizzy liquid blasted across him. 

“Holy shit,” he sputtered, shaking his head under the spray. 

Vaughny cackled, but let up on him, turning to shake the bottle and release another shower of droplets across Bennett, who was already being doused by his backup goalie, Andersson. 

Shane took the moment of reprieve to look at his phone. Sure enough, there was something waiting for him. 

He replied right away, hunched over his phone to keep it protected from the liquid splashing around the locker room, from his exuberant teammates, the repeat champions. 

IR
👑
I will watch replay and make full critique later. 
Congratulations.
I will be there to get drunk with you for #3. 

I can’t wait.

IR
Have to win #3 first, Hollander. 
See you in London.

See you in London.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for the nice comments on the last chapter. It's been so so gratifying to have people resonating with what I'm writing and being so encouraging. I hope you like what's to come.

See you in London!

Chapter 11: love all

Chapter Summary

Interlude: Wimbledon, two strangers chatting politely, the princess, and the big strong jock.

Chapter Notes

July 2016, London 

It was way too fucking hot in London. 

He hadn’t actually registered how bad it would be, which was really fucking dumb. He’d looked at the weather before packing, like he always did, but still, he wished he’d packed a better shirt, better shorts than this, to sit for hours in the sun. He was sure he had fully sweated through his blue button-down, and it was probably all being caught on the cameras occasionally panning over to where he was sitting. 

He adjusted the sunglasses on his face, trying to fix his expression into something slightly less grumpy, even as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

Hanna (Princess Hanna?) smiled over at him from his left, directing the fan in her hand so that some of the air flowed over both of them. “It’s really unpleasant, isn’t it?” 

“It’s not great,” Shane agreed, forcing himself to smile back at the woman next to him. 

He glanced at the court to make sure the point wasn’t starting yet. He was far from a tennis expert, but he’d watched casually with his parents over the years, and he’d tried to brush up on what had happened in the French Open once he knew the Wimbledon invitation was on the table. 

The guys in the semifinals were good, obviously. One of them was a tennis legend—Shane knew that much, at least—and the other was Canadian, which was probably why Rolex had specifically suggested he attend this match. Shane had obliged, of course. 

But tennis hadn’t really been the major incentive for accepting the invitation. The biggest incentive was currently sitting on the other side of Hanna, the Swedish princess, having gravitated over from the other end of the row entirely. 

Shane looked at Ilya out of the corner of his eye, turning away immediately when he saw his head turn towards him. 

Only Rozanov could figure out the charm needed to cut over an entire row of celebrities, securing his seat next to the princess. Shane was getting twitchy now, four sets into the match, having essentially spent hours listening to him flirt with her. Was he going to have to sit through this for the rest of the fucking day? 

He clapped sedately when everyone else did. 

“Do you get to spend a lot of time going to other sporting events?” Hanna asked him politely, making Shane realize that he probably should have been putting a lot more effort into generating some decent small talk, instead of forcing her to do it. 

He ignored the amused look Ilya was giving him over Hanna’s shoulder from behind his designer sunglasses. It was easy to do, since Shane was pretending to have never seen him before in his life. 

“Not really, to be honest. A lot of the seasons overlap with ours, and hockey takes up a lot of my attention,” Shane answered. “Do you, uh, watch a lot of tennis?” 

“Not a lot, no, but I like to play, and I like Wimbledon.” Shane was saved from having to come up with more small talk by Hanna explaining why she liked watching the game on a grass court instead of the alternatives. He nodded along with her explanation, genuinely trying to follow. 

“Tennis is a very sexy game, too, don’t you think?” Somehow, Ilya made it sound bright and cheeky, rather than creepy, and Shane was glad his sunglasses hid his eyeroll from both the camera and from Hanna. 

Hanna laughed, turning her shoulders to face Ilya. “You mean with the noises they make?” 

“Yes, also, many tennis players are very good looking,” Ilya agreed, stretching his arm out behind Hanna’s seat. “Not like that with other sports.” 

“Well, I don’t know if that’s true,” Hanna darted a look back at Shane over her shoulder. “But many sports have helmets in them, don’t they? So it’s hard to see the faces.” 

Ilya shook his head before Shane could muster up some kind of response to this. “Some sports should have more helmets, I think. Or bigger ones. Hockey, for example. So many concussions, so many missing teeth. Impossible to tell if any of them are good looking even when you can see their faces.” 

Shane turned his head in time to see Ilya quickly face forward again, a giant, shithead grin playing over his lips. Hanna looked confused more than anything, clearly trying to decide if she should point out that Shane was a hockey player, or if she should just leave the statement as it was. 

The decision was made for her when the next point ended, ending the game and finishing the set. 

“Ah, okay, a nice break,” Hanna said, folding her fan crisply and carefully taking to her feet in her short skirt. “I think I will find a refreshment, would you like to join me?” 

“I’m okay, thank you,” Shane said, ignoring Ilya looking in his direction again. 

He stood to let her pass by him. By the time he was taking his seat again, Ilya had moved over once more, sliding into Hanna’s empty seat. 

“Subtle,” Shane said as he sat down. 

But he wasn’t freaking out about it like he thought he would be. He’d had enough time to get used to the idea—ever since Rolex had invited him earlier in the year, and when Rozanov mentioned that he’d gotten the same invitation. It had been shockingly easy to independently coordinate being there on the same day. 

He’d spent weeks worrying about sitting in such close proximity to each other with cameras on them for hours at a time, until he’d finally come to the realization that nobody had any reason to think that they even knew each other. And even if by some chance they did—if they extrapolated that they’d met before, if Shane and Ilya did something that indicated a passing awareness of the other’s existence—they would probably think nothing of it. Both of them were associated with Rolex, after all. They had reasons to be here that had nothing to do with each other. There was nothing weird about two strangers, acquaintances at best, talking politely at a tennis match. 

Ilya had his elbow up on the back of his seat, digging into Shane’s shoulder. He shifted away from it, not because of the cameras, but because it was too hot for casual contact. The heat didn’t seem to be bothering Ilya, though—he looked as relaxed as ever in his thin white button-down shirt and loose, light-colored pants. He looked exactly like the cool, maddeningly sexy model that he was. 

“Enjoying London?” He asked, smiling over at Shane. 

“Yeah, it’s a good time.” Shane looked around. The seats near them had largely emptied out in the break between sets, but there were still a few clusters or pairs of people, taking a moment to relax and talk more openly. 

“And your parents, are you enjoying spending time with them?” Ilya crossed his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Shane looked down at the position change involuntarily, and shifted in his seat, mirroring the position. 

“Yeah, they like London. They’re here,” he nodded at the court. “In seats on the other side.” 

“Ah, hello to David and Yuna, then,” Ilya smiled at a camera that Shane was sure was still on them, despite the break in coverage. 

He looked over sharply, thinking over whether a camera was likely to pick up any sound, or whether it was likely that anyone would have cared enough to be filming a random hockey player and model while they made small talk in the first place. He thought not, but he still kicked Ilya’s ankle anyway. 

“Be normal.” 

Ilya just rolled his eyes, like he often did at Shane’s paranoia about being seen in public together, but he quieted down nonetheless. 

After a while, Shane broke the silence, turning his head away while he spoke, casually. “They’re staying at a different hotel, though. It’s made the logistics kind of annoying for sightseeing, and stuff.” 

He felt Ilya looking at him even without turning to see it. Shane looked at his own knee, jogging it up and down slightly. “We’ve still been able to do a lot, though. We went to Big Ben and Westminster Abbey yesterday.” 

“Oh.” Ilya was watching him, brow furrowed slightly behind his sunglasses. Shane could tell he was trying to figure out what he was trying to tell him. 

Shane decided to just go for it. 

He moved his knee down, jostling Ilya’s hand where it was lightly gripping a water bottle, making it drop to the ground. When Ilya reflexively leaned down to reach for it, Shane was already there. He handed the bottle back, pressing the room key into Ilya’s hand along with it, because of course Shane had been thinking about this very moment since he landed in London two days ago. 

Ilya paused for a split second, but recovered quickly. There was a quick grip of fingers that reminded Shane of being nineteen years old in a gym, and then Ilya was taking the key into his palm as he straightened up. Shane barely caught the moment when it moved from his hand to his pocket. 

He watched, though, as Ilya uncapped his water bottle. 

“Thank you,” he said, tilting it in Shane’s direction before he lifted it to his lips, taking a long sip that helped cover up his smile. 

“No problem,” Shane said politely. Ilya got up a minute later, shifting back to the seat he had come from, leaving an empty space for Princess Hanna to return to. 

Shane pulled out his phone, opening it up to text a room number. 

_____

They got back to the hotel at the same time, even though Shane had left earlier—but he’d had to meet his parents and drop them off at his hotel first, which had obviously taken up more time. Rozanov had no excuse; he’d probably just dawdled, talking with the other famous attendees at the event when he could have just headed out a few minutes after Shane like he’d said he would. Shane couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes as they entered the lobby at the same time, but Ilya ignored him. 

Shane headed to the elevators first while Ilya walked in the other direction, lingering in the lobby to ask the concierge a question. Shane got into the elevator when it appeared, pushing the button for his floor before stepping aside politely to make room for a group of people to get in with him. It was a pretty large group—Shane crowded himself into the corner, trying to keep his sweaty, sticky body away from the others, and trying to tamp down the antsy feeling he had at suddenly being stuck in a crowd. 

And of course, they stopped at nearly every fucking level. When Shane finally stepped out on the seventh floor, a second elevator opened at the same time. Ilya laughed when he emerged, apparently straight up from the lobby. 

Shane sighed loudly, but decided to just give up the game. The hallway was empty, anyway. 

He still walked a few steps ahead of Ilya, hands in his pockets until he reached the door. Ilya stayed a polite distance away as Shane pulled out his key card and let them in through the door. 

Then Ilya was on him immediately, pushing the door shut behind them with his foot and grabbing for Shane. Shane’s hands found his hair, holding the sweaty curls in a tight grip. Ilya slid between his legs, pushing him against the wall like he always did. Shane tilted his pelvis into it, letting his head fall back against the pale rose-colored wallpaper as he felt Ilya’s tongue in his mouth. 

He could only let it go on for about thirty seconds, though, before it became too much. 

“Mm-mm, no,” he said, already out of breath, hips still pressing against Ilya’s. Ilya pushed back in return, shifting insistently against him through the thin material of their shorts and pants, which made it a lot harder to pull away. 

But Shane managed to anyway. “I’m way too sweaty, I feel disgusting.” 

They both were. There was something visceral about it, Ilya’s damp hair under his fingers, his hot skin pressed against him through the sweaty material of his shirt, and the sharp smell of both of them, but there was no way Shane was going to be able to look past it through everything he wanted to come next. 

“Oh, are we back to showering before and after?” Ilya asked, not letting up from grinding against him. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane directed, moving his hands down from Ilya’s sweaty hair to his sweaty shoulders, pushing him backwards through the large room and towards the bathroom. 

Ilya allowed himself to be moved, walking backwards without even so much as a glance behind him, stumbling slightly when they came through the threshold of the bathroom, past the massive bathtub and towards the standing shower stall. 

They barely stopped kissing, even through the walk, even as the sweaty clothes hit the marble floor, even when standing under the blast of cold water from the shower that left Ilya gasping into Shane’s mouth and Shane laughing because Ilya’s body was between him and the icy spray. 

Something about it was making him feel like he was floating, almost giddy. Maybe it was having just been together, in public, on camera, for hours, with no one having any fucking clue. 

Maybe it was being somewhere completely new together, after Los Angeles, after Toronto, after New York, after Anaheim. Maybe it was being together in the middle of summer for the first time ever, outside of their usual late August to early April cycle. Maybe it was their two orbits colliding for just a little while, with no one knowing or caring. 

He felt bolder, freer than he had in a long time, maybe ever. 

They pressed themselves together under the water, hands roving, ostensibly washing each other, but doing much more than the assigned task. Ilya was biting the shell of Shane’s ear and stroking him with both hands. Shane was holding Ilya’s dick in one hand, moving downwards, with his other hand on his ass, gripping him solidly while he considered his sudden understanding of why Ilya always liked to grab Shane’s ass so much. 

It happened accidentally—one of his hands roaming over Ilya’s balls, fingers brushing behind them. Ilya jolted at the sudden touch, hands going still on Shane. Shane started to move his hand away, but paused when he felt Ilya shift, moving back towards the contact. 

Intrigued, Shane tried again with his other hand, running his hand over Ilya’s ass more firmly, slipping between his cheeks. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched him there—they had touched each other basically everywhere at this point—but it was still rare. He moved slowly, brushing his thumb lightly over his hole, waiting for a reaction. 

Ilya groaned directly in his ear. Shane took it as a cue to keep going. 

He did what he knew he liked, touching Ilya’s ass firmly but slowly under the warm flow of the shower. He rubbed the pad of his finger back and forth first, only slipping the first finger inside when he could tell that Ilya was ready for it. He had done this before, once or twice, but it wasn’t something that Ilya usually seemed to want—and Shane didn’t want it to go any longer, or any further, than would be enjoyable. He kept his lips on Ilya’s neck, kissing him slowly, enjoying the feeling of Ilya’s hands in his hair and on his back. 

When his finger went deeper, and a second started pressing in, Ilya made another sound, one that was new to Shane. 

He pulled away, opening his eyes, and found Ilya already staring at him, eyes wide and sharp. 

Shane, still feeling bold, made the same movement again, slowly, keeping his eyes on Ilya. Ilya let out a shaky exhalation, but kept his eyes open, on Shane. 

“Do you want to…?” For once, Ilya was the one who let a sentence trail off, unfinished. His jaw was flexed, tense, but Shane could see a flicker of interest in his expression. 

“Do you want to?” Shane met him at the standoff. This wasn’t going to be something that he decided. 

Ilya swallowed slowly, and Shane kept his fingers still, waiting for a response. 

After a moment, Ilya nodded towards the bathroom door, to the bedroom beyond. “I’ll meet you there.” 

Shane understood. He pulled away from Ilya slowly to finish washing up, getting the rest of the soap off his body. He stepped out of the shower quickly, grabbing a towel, and left him there. 

Still damp, in the cool room with only a towel around his waist, Shane found himself pacing in a small circle as he considered what might be about to happen. 

They’d talked about it before—not, like, a lot, but once in real detail, probably five years ago, probably the third time he had gone over to the Orchard Street place. 

He remembered being in the bed, in between the black sheets, when Ilya asked him if he wanted to try it the other way. Shane had hesitated because he’d fucking loved what they’d been doing so far, but he didn’t know if this was something Ilya had wanted, if this was his way of asking for it. He’d said something along those lines, probably much less coherent and much more awkward. Ilya had smiled at him and said that he preferred what they’d been doing but he would if Shane wanted to. Shane had reiterated that he wanted to do what they had been doing, and Ilya had let the conversation end there, rolling him over to oblige. 

It had come up maybe once more after that, in a similar situation to today, when Shane’s mouth had been wandering during a blowjob and Ilya seemed to be getting into it. Shane had asked if he wanted more, but Ilya had shaken his head, said not this time, and Shane had gone back to what he was doing. 

Today was obviously different. What was it? The summer sun, the sweaty conversation, the hands brushing against each other around a water bottle? Shane suddenly thought of draft night, the gym again—how wildly he had wanted this guy from the very first moment he had seen him. How had that feeling never fucking changed? 

He dropped himself onto the bed. His heart felt like it was racing, and he was feeling bold. 

Ilya came out of the bathroom a little while later. He looked almost shy, despite the fact that he hadn’t even bothered with a towel. Shane took in the sight of him, naked, beautiful, half-hard. He was still on the bed, naked and definitely hard. 

They didn’t move for a moment, and Shane could see that Ilya was waiting for him. So he spoke first. 

“Come here.” 

He got up at the same time, kneeling on the bed to meet him, as Ilya crossed the room. Shane drew him into a kiss when he got close enough, one hand on the back of his head, the other rubbing his back. Their bodies were still damp from the shower, and Shane pressed them closer together, letting Ilya’s erection rub against his, holding him tightly in a kiss. 

It wasn’t that he was consciously trying to put on Ilya’s persona, but he was definitely channeling something—something bolder and more confident than he usually was. He let his hand drift down, grasping Ilya’s ass, reflecting on how he admired it so often and yet didn’t touch it nearly enough. He squeezed his ass firmly, holding him solidly in his hand. 

Ilya pulled back from the kiss with a startled laugh. He blinked at Shane a few times, tongue slipping out to lick his lips. 

“Hollander,” he said, sounding almost dazed. “You are very hot.” 

Shane didn’t really know why Ilya was telling him this—though he kind of enjoyed hearing it—but he took the break between kisses to say the thing that he had been thinking for the last few minutes. 

“We can stop at any point you want to.” He looked at Ilya seriously, though the earnest statement might have been counterbalanced by the fact that his hand was still squeezing his ass. 

“You are treating me like a shy virgin,” Ilya smirked, raising his eyebrows at Shane, reaching his hands around Shane’s ass to squeeze him in return, to remind him that he was very much not that. 

But Shane didn’t want to be deterred, not about this. “I just want you to enjoy it,” he said. 

“Yes, I know.” Ilya leaned in to kiss him again, then pulled away to join Shane on the bed. 

Shane gave him space to stretch out on the mattress before following suit, laying down next to him. He rolled over so that he was hovering above Ilya, regarding him for a moment. Ilya looked back calmly, like he was waiting to see what Shane would do next. Shane took a deep breath, then leaned down. 

He started by kissing Ilya’s neck to distract them both. Eventually, his lips moved downwards, tracing over his damp body, pausing to lick around his nipple, enjoying the rumbled sound this caused, a vibration in Ilya’s chest. He moved again soon, biting lightly around Ilya’s belly button, nuzzling the hair below it, leading downwards. He followed the trail with his lips, kissing lower, not just on his cock this time, but kissing all around the sensitive skin at the base. He waited until he could hear Ilya panting before he licked lower, over his balls, and finally, to just below. Shane heard a hiss of breath as his tongue moved over his ass. 

He let go of the grip he had around the top of Ilya’s thigh, coming up level again, kissing his neck on the way, then his face and his cheeks. Shane kept his mouth near his ear, leaning his head against Ilya’s for a moment. 

“You want to get on your stomach for me?” 

It wasn’t the kind of purr that Ilya usually used for these kinds of instructions, but maybe it was Shane’s version. It was, he realized, kind of like the voice he used as Captain. It could have been weird—but maybe that was just what Shane sounded like when he wanted to be the most trusted version of himself. Competent, confident, controlled. He felt solid behind the sound of it. 

It felt pretty fucking hot, actually. And from the way Ilya was looking at him, Shane got the sense that he kind of liked it, too. 

Ilya didn’t say anything as he rolled over onto his stomach, Shane sitting back to give him room. He waited until Ilya was situated before moving over him again, kissing the back of his neck, at the base of his scalp where he knew Ilya was sensitive, and then down again. 

He rested his hands on the cheeks of Ilya’s ass, admiring him for a long moment and kissing him lightly, before he spread him apart and leaned in. 

Shane licked slowly, tongue moving in purposeful circles. He wasn’t prepared for Ilya’s hips to pike up against his face immediately, and he quickly reached up to get his hands on him, pushing him back down to the bed. He took this as a sign to keep going, and moved in with more confidence. He kept a solid grip on Ilya to keep him in place, even as Ilya started shifting against the bed, moaning, his legs digging into the mattress. Considering this reaction, Shane had no idea why they didn’t do this more often. No matter how the rest of this went, he resolved that this, at least, was going to happen again. 

He kept going, pushing his tongue in, squeezing Ilya’s hip reassuringly at the groan this produced. He was starting to understand, a little, why Ilya always seemed to enjoy drawing things out for Shane even when it made Shane crazy. He could tell that Ilya was ready for more—but Shane was more than happy to keep him here, a little crazy, for a little longer. 

So he did, until Ilya’s hips were pushing insistently against the hands trying to keep him pinned to the mattress. It was hot for Shane, too, getting this kind of reaction out of him; at this point, it felt like he was holding onto Ilya just to keep himself from touching his own dick, which was aching by now. 

“Your fingers,” Ilya said, and Shane felt his dick jump against the bedspread at the directness of the request. 

He started to pull away so he could get the lube from the drawer next to the bed, where he’d put it in when he arrived two nights ago. But when he looked up, he found that Ilya was already holding it down towards him, the same way that Shane often did for him when the positions were reversed. 

He moved upwards anyway, and took a moment to smooth his hand down Ilya’s back. He admired the dotting of freckles and moles, which he didn’t get to see all that often, kissing his shoulder blade lightly before settling down again and uncapping the bottle.

He didn’t think he was as good at this as Ilya, but his hands were strong and calloused, and Ilya seemed to be enjoying himself as Shane pushed into him slowly. He wasn’t doing it as preparation for anything else, necessarily, but he stretched him carefully anyway, first with one finger, and then with two. 

Ilya was panting, hips still shifting against the bed in tandem with Shane’s slow penetration. Shane kept kissing his back, trying to distract himself from the near-overwhelming urge to touch himself, on the chance this was going to keep going further, because he was pretty certain he could come at any moment. 

He was shocked, actually, by how worked up he was getting over it. But he couldn’t help it: he was curious. And he was feeling bold, feeling different, willing to try it if Ilya was. 

And indeed, after several moments, Ilya’s voice rumbled up from the pillow. “I’m ready.” 

Shane looked at him, taking in sight of his back rising and falling with his heavy breaths, the side of Ilya’s face, flushed, that was visible over his shoulder from here. 

And Shane didn’t want to ask—he didn’t want to break this by bringing someone else into the room with them. But he had to. 

“When was the last time you did this?” Shane didn’t even know for certain that he had ever done this before, but he took a gamble, knowing that Ilya Rozanov’s sexual history was a much richer tapestry than Shane’s own. 

“Very long time ago,” Ilya answered. “When I was a teenager, before I met you.” 

Shane nodded, because that was what he might have guessed, if he’d even dared to think about it at all. And now Shane knew to be careful, but also that it wouldn’t be entirely unknown. 

Before he could move, though, he felt Ilya suddenly tense up underneath him. He looked up to see Ilya staring sharply over his shoulder at him. 

“Have you done this before?” 

“No,” Shane admitted. He thought this would make Ilya wary, or second guess whether Shane would actually be able to do it. Instead, Ilya’s shoulders visibly relaxed. 

He nodded in response, pushing his face back into the pillow, between his arms. 

Shane looked at his back for another moment, then exhaled. Knowing what was coming now, he shifted down to the lower part of the bed, intent on preparing him a little more. Even though Ilya had said that he was ready, Shane just wanted to be sure. He wanted it to be good. 

He stretched with more purpose this time, moving his fingers deeper, spreading them apart. It was purely accidental when he brushed against Ilya’s prostate, sending his hips jerking up again and a Russian curse echoing out into the room. Shane tried it again, experimentally, watching Ilya tremble from the sensation, pushing his face down into the pillow. 

When Shane finally felt it had been enough, he moved himself away, reaching for the condom. He opened it carefully, shifting upwards to roll it onto himself. He retook his position over Ilya, breathing in deeply to prepare for what was coming next. 

He caught sight of Ilya then, just part of his face visible from where he was peeking over his shoulder. But Shane knew his face well, and could see the mischief lurking around the edges of his expression, even if it was mingled with hints of nervousness. 

And all of a sudden he knew exactly what this fucking idiot was thinking. 

“If you say a word about being a Swedish princess, I swear to God I’m going to go soft,” Shane threatened. 

Ilya’s eyes darted downwards, a cheeky, glinting look over his shoulder, towards Shane’s dick. “I don’t believe that.” 

“But hey,” he continued, arching back against Shane. “Be careful with me, Hollander. You are a big, strong jock.” 

Shane exhaled a laugh, but he didn’t argue. There was some truth to it, after all. 

Ilya shifted up to his knees underneath him, keeping his head dropped down between his arms. At the same time, Shane rolled back, helping Ilya raise his hips. 

He moved in again slowly, using a hand to carefully position himself, leaving the other hand resting lightly on Ilya’s back. Shane waited until he was ready before he pushed in carefully, fingers curling in slightly against Ilya’s skin. He groaned at the sensation right away, hot and tight and better than anything like this he had ever felt before, at least this way, that was for fucking sure. 

“Holy shit,” Shane said, exhaling shakily as he continued to press his hips forward. Ilya laughed underneath him, a quick stuttered sound. 

“Yes,” he agreed, emphatically. 

Shane moved both hands to Ilya’s hips, keeping him secure as he kept his forward motion. He pressed in slowly, then pulled back, pushing in a little farther each time, repeating this until his thighs were resting against Ilya’s hamstrings. He waited for a moment, trying to steady his breath, and feeling the rise and fall of Ilya’s back against his chest, before he started again. 

He moved in and out, not too slowly, but not fast. He listened carefully to the sounds Ilya was making, quiet groans and exhalations, not actually speaking, for once. 

Eventually, Shane moved one hand from Ilya’s hip, rubbing up side, then down again, over his arm. He shifted forward, too, moving his body so that he could rest his face against the back of Ilya’s head, feeling the soft, damp, sweaty curls. Shane kissed the back of his neck as he pushed his hips against him, biting lightly at the skin at his hairline, nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder. 

And Ilya seemed to like it, though he didn’t seem to go boneless with it, the way that Shane always did. But Shane could say, with certainty, that it was the best time he had ever had inside of somebody. 

“Is it good?” He asked, right behind Ilya’s ear, not because he was trying to talk dirty to him, but just to make sure. 

But the question, or maybe the sound, or maybe just the sensation of hot breath so close to his neck and face, made Ilya groan loudly, pressing himself back against Shane. 

“Yes, it’s fucking good,” he said, and astoundingly, he didn’t even sound annoyed to be asked. Shane only had the space in his brain to feel relief, nodding against the back of Ilya’s head. 

He kept fucking him, trying to concentrate on his breathing, not the feeling of their bare skin pressed together, not the sensations that felt like they were encompassing him entirely. He tried to keep some control over himself. 

He moved his hand around from Ilya’s back, sliding over his pecs, lightly brushing over the gold chain around his neck and the pendant hanging from it, down to his abs, further down to where Ilya was already stroking himself. Shane wrapped his hand around Ilya’s, resting his fingers on top of his fingers, and it felt so fucking intimate, he was sure that this was what did it—making Ilya come, groaning into the blanket underneath them. 

Shane followed almost immediately because he had barely been holding himself back—had been on edge the whole time, ever since they’d been in the fucking shower. 

He leaned his face against Ilya, breathing in the smell of his shampoo—Shane’s shampoo—and his sweat. Shane kissed him, whatever part of his skin he could reach, losing himself in the sound of Ilya’s panted, exhausted breaths. 

It took them a few minutes to situate themselves, to move through the different post-coital routines: Shane carefully pulling out and disposing of the condom. But he moved in quickly behind Ilya on the bed again, repositioning himself to gently press his chest against Ilya’s back, all the while thinking about the hundreds of times Ilya had done exactly this for him. 

Without thinking about it, he skimmed a hand up to Ilya’s hair, pushing it back from his face and leaning in to kiss his forehead lightly. Ilya froze for a moment under the contact, and Shane realized belatedly how strange and intimate the gesture might have been. But he was too tired—from the heat, from the sun, from the adrenaline of the last hour—to regret it too deeply. 

Instead, he stayed where he was, moving his hand away to rest gently over Ilya’s chest, keeping the other one on his hip. 

“Was that okay?” He asked, because he needed to be sure. 

“Mm,” Ilya nodded, and Shane could feel his body relaxing again. He tightened his grip, drawing him back more closely. “For you?” 

“Yeah.” Shane could have left the conversation there, let them both rest more, but there was more he needed to understand. “Do you want to keep doing it that way?” 

“Mmm,” Ilya shifted again, turning his head to look more directly at Shane. Shane pulled back to mirror him, enough so that their eyes could meet with more than a few inches between them. “Do you?” 

Shane laughed a little at the familiar impasse. He shifted his head to rest more comfortably as he looked at Ilya, taking his time with how to phrase his answer. “I really like what we usually do.” 

He paused, then added for emphasis, “A lot.” 

Ilya smiled, his eyes moving over Shane’s face. “Me too.” 

Shane felt a rush of relief. This has been good—great, even—but he was pretty sure that the boldness that had driven him through the whole episode was a rare occurrence. And he couldn’t imagine doing it more than sporadically, especially when he considered the frankly euphoric feeling of Ilya fucking him. 

“But was nice to try this time.” Ilya twisted his head around again, and Shane could see him smirking. He felt himself already starting to smile in response, too, knowing that something stupid was coming. 

“Maybe only when we are in Europe, then,” Ilya winked. 

_____

Ilya lingered in the room for a while longer, until Shane really had to get ready to meet his parents for dinner. Ilya was going out later, too—meeting friends at a club. He’d asked if Shane wanted to join them, but he declined for multiple reasons. 

“You can come back here, though,” he suggested, nodding at the room key that Ilya still had in his pocket from when Shane had given it to him during the tennis match. “After you’re back.” 

“Could be late?” Ilya asked, slipping into a plain white shirt that Shane had insisted he borrow, instead of putting on the sweaty linen button-down that had been crumpled on the bathroom floor for the last several hours. 

Shane shook his head to express that he didn’t care. Even if he hadn’t been jet lagged, he would never be able to put off the prospect of Ilya arriving in his hotel room in the middle of the night. 

He was half asleep when the door opened at 2:15am. He blinked awake, eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, falling on the silhouette in the door. 

Ilya came carefully and quietly to the bed, his soft t-shirt—Shane’s—and sweatpants indicating that he’d gone back to his room to change before coming up here. 

“I have to get up at 7, my parents want to meet for breakfast,” Shane whispered as Ilya crept in. 

“Should I go?” Ilya murmured, pausing with one knee on the bed. 

“No, come here.” Shane reached forward, pulling him over, relaxing when he felt Ilya’s torso covering his own. 

“I have to take the train back to Paris in the evening. Have a shoot in the morning the next day,” Ilya whispered against him. 

Shane nodded, remembering this scheduling detail from before, but wanting to push the thought off for a few more hours. He pulled him down, instead, turning his face towards his mouth to meet his kiss. 

He looked like shit when he saw his parents at breakfast, exactly as he should have expected after only a couple of hours of sleep. 

And after they met up again in the afternoon, later, Ilya had needed to switch over to a later train, the last possible option to get him back to Paris before the next day. 

Shane smiled when he saw the text confirming that he’d made it on board, though. 

IR
Worth it
🎾

____

“It looked bigger on TV.” 

“Very funny,” Shane said, opening the glass door to step out onto the back patio of the cottage, phone in one hand, glass of water in the other. 

He’d felt stupid enough filming the ESPN feature earlier in the summer, but his bigger regret had been telling Rozanov that he was doing it. He would have probably never even seen it, let alone watched it, if Shane had never mentioned it. 

“No, no, it is very nice!” Ilya insisted through FaceTime, reclined back on his chair in New York. He was also outside, though it seemed much hotter there, judging from the fact that Ilya was shirtless and sweating even at 5 in the evening. “I like all of the glass so you can see all of the nothing around you.”

“Will you stop being an asshole? I really like it here!” Shane was smiling, though, as he took a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs and held the phone out in front of him. 

“I’m not being an asshole! I’m telling the truth! It looks very nice there, it is what I would expect for a vacation home for you. Nice build, good inside.” 

Shane relaxed a little bit, accepting the compliment, even if it did feel like mockery. “Thanks.” 

“It is a very good bat cave,” Ilya added. 

And Shane was about to protest at being made fun of again, but he, too, remembered the embarrassing quip they’d said on the ESPN special. “Do you mean fortress of solitude?” 

“Ah, yes, this is a much less stupid reference, I apologize,” smirked Ilya. 

“Shut up.” Shane stood up, deciding to see if there was enough cell service to take him down towards the lake and show him the dock and shore. 

After they’d hung up and Shane was alone again, he thought about what it would be like, if he were there—if Ilya would like the chairs on the patio, or prefer the big rock down by the lake. He wondered if he would like keeping the shades up at night to be able to see the reflection of the moon on the water, even if it meant being woken up by the sun coming in at dawn. 

Before he could wonder any more, though, he shut the thought off. There were only so many new things they could keep introducing into this, until it became untenable, until one of them realized it had been one thing too many. It didn’t do any good to let his mind wander too far. 

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed! It felt right for me in this scenario, where they’re in a new place and giddy with the strangeness of everything. For me, with their slightly different dynamic in this universe and the closeness they’ve gained from spending more time together, I can easily see them trying new things in sex in slightly different ways than canon.

And who knew that Rolex would be so important to the plot? Everyone say thank you, Rolex. (I’m aware that Shane’s canon Wimbledon invitation was for the summer of 2017, but listen, it’s an AU.)

 

Next time: Shane Hollander really hates clubs.

Chapter 12: try to stop the feeling

Chapter Summary

Los Angeles, a club not called Ciel, models and actors and hockey players (oh my), overlap, the weight of pretending.

Chapter Notes

November 2016, Los Angeles 

After Wimbledon, it was easier to handle the idea of being in public with Ilya. Being seen—or photographed—together suddenly seemed less alarming when it had already happened once before, especially when being in London together had actually given them a public reason to know each other. 

All of this was clearly why Shane had finally agreed to do something Ilya had been pestering him about for months, maybe even years: meet up in LA to go to some club together. 

The timing was, unfortunately for Shane, perfect—an early game, the evening off, before they had to fly out in the morning for the next stop on their West Coast trip. Shane had almost no choice but to agree, because Ilya had asked him so many times, and because there weren’t any obvious logistical issues to stop them. 

Except, of course, everything was already kind of going to shit. 

He was pretty sure that Ilya was pissed off that he’d had to invite Vaughn and Wagner to come along. But there was no way to avoid it, after Shane had accidentally let slip that it was his plan for after the game. It had been weird enough for them to hear that Shane Hollander was going to a club. He couldn’t draw even more attention to it by not letting at least a couple of his teammates come along. 

It hadn’t even really seemed like a problem to get them onto whatever list at the club they were going to. After he’d texted Ilya about it, panicked because he didn’t know how to stop Vaughn and Wags from hassling him about where he was going, Ilya had texted Svetlana. Svetlana had texted Shane directly—popping up for the first time on his phone as an unknown 617 number—to tell him that they were all set. 

But Shane couldn’t help but notice that Ilya had gone quiet since it had happened. 

Maybe he was just busy, Shane told himself. But he didn’t think it was just that. It was always hard to tell from text messages, but he’d sensed a detachment behind Ilya’s responses for the last few days, the written equivalent of the low moods that Shane had sometimes observed over the years. 

It was part of the reason he’d ultimately even agreed to go out tonight—just to see for himself. Shane didn’t think he had actually learned how to fix things for Ilya, let alone the cause of the occasional downswings, but he did think he had gotten a little better at identifying them, at least, and maybe providing a momentary distraction. 

Which was why the unanswered texts since the early afternoon were worrying him. He knew Ilya didn’t have anything on his schedule—he’d told him that yesterday. Somehow, Shane thought the unexpected company from some of his fellow Admirals wasn’t exactly the best way to improve an already bad mood.

“So who’s the friend that invited you to this club?” Carter asked as he pulled his jersey over his pads, distracting Shane from the text chain he had been staring at. 

“Oh,” Shane said, trying to think quickly about how to be vague about this, while knowing that Vaughn would be meeting them in only a couple of hours. “Some people I met at an event awhile ago. Rolex stuff.” 

His stomach was actually churning at the idea of them meeting Ilya, but he told himself that it would be fine. Svetlana would be there, too. And he’d looked the place up online. It was a big club, and Wagner and Vaughn would get distracted, like, immediately, so they probably wouldn’t even be interacting all that much. 

And, in any case, Shane had met Svetlana almost two years ago now, and that had never been a problem. It wouldn’t be crazy for Ilya to meet Vaughn and Wagner, either. 

(Even though Shane knew that was not actually remotely the same, for more than one reason. Firstly, he had never fucking slept with Vaughn or Wagner. But also, he still tried not to examine too deeply what Svetlana might or might not have known about him and Ilya. 

Then again, even if she did know something, it didn’t mean Vaughn and Wagner would figure anything out. It was one night out at one club, and he and Ilya were used to being perfectly normal in public together. 

More importantly, Svetlana was the sharpest person he had ever met, probably even more than Ilya. And Vaughn and Wagner were hockey players.) 

“Rolex stuff?? Jesus Christ, Holls,” Vaughn snorted, whacking Shane in the face with one of his socks, which was thankfully clean. 

Shane batted it away, taking a step to the right for some distance in case anything else, or anything grosser, came in his direction. 

He was a little embarrassed, but also somewhat relieved that this seemed to distract Vaughn from asking more questions. Shane was trying to find a way not to identify them any more clearly before they even got to the club, because he was pretty sure Vaughn would have plenty to say if he knew he was friends with two Russian models. 

“Hell yeah, man,” Wagner piped up from the other side of the locker room. “You’re getting us into all the cool places.” 

“Honestly, Wags, that is not hard to do in comparison. All you do in your free time is go bowling,” Vaughn said, dropping down onto the bench and grabbing his skates. 

“How the fuck did Wagner get the invite, anyway?” Burke complained as he tugged his jersey over his head. “You’re taking the guys from the Dakotas to a club in LA, Hollander?” 

“Isn’t Wagner from Minnesota?” Breezy asked, rummaging through his stall. 

“Same goddamn thing,” Burke shot back, fixing his thick brown hair after his head emerged through the opening of his collar.  

“It’s called dibs, motherfucker. Right place, right time,” Vaughn called in his direction. “You want the club invites? You gotta get that breakfast quinoa with Hollander.” 

“Benny had the breakfast quinoa,” Huff joined in from the other side of the room. “Eric, are you going to the club, too?” 

“I’m good,” Bennett replied, giving Shane a mildly sympathetic look at the intensity of the ribbing. 

“Dude, bowling is fucking awesome,” Wagner insisted. 

Shane had absolutely no interest in staying in this conversation for even a second longer, but it was important for him to impart one more piece of information. 

“Hey, I’m going to meet you there, okay?” He said to Vaughn, dropping down next to him. “I’m meeting up with my friend first.” 

He refused to change this part of the plan, especially if Ilya was indeed annoyed with him. Plus, he was pretty sure there was going to be a whole thing about what Shane had chosen to wear to the club.  

“No worries, man. Anything you need to do for your Rolex friends,” Vaughn snickered. Shane considered hitting him with a sock, but pulled it onto his foot instead. 

_____

He met Ilya at his hotel after the game, a 3-1 victory over the Queens. The place was way nicer than the other two Los Angeles hotels he’d seen Ilya in—both the one where they had met in the gym, and the one where they had first sucked each other’s dicks. It was a reminder of how far things had come since 2010. 

He went straight up to the room number Ilya had texted him earlier, trying to look casual, like he belonged there, like this was a perfectly normal hotel visit. 

When he knocked on the door, though, of course Ilya kept him waiting out in the hallway like a fucking idiot. 

He finally answered a good minute later, shirtless and barefoot, leaving Shane exasperated as he pushed his way into the room. 

“Hello to you too,” Ilya said, stepping back. 

“Hi,” Shane answered, trying to wipe the frown from his face. So far, he wasn’t off to a great start if he was trying to improve Ilya’s mood. He took a deep breath, looking around the room. 

It was a nice suite—a sizable living room with a couch, dining table and chairs, the bedroom visible through a doorway to the left. Music was playing in the other room, probably blasting from Ilya’s phone, and Shane could see the remnants of a room service dinner on the table. 

“Nice,” he said. 

“Yes, not bad,” Ilya agreed, already heading back towards the bedroom. “Do you need food?” 

“No, I’m good, I ate something.” Shane followed him.

It was probably too much to call the room a disaster area, but it definitely seemed like Ilya had started to unpack his suitcase and then abandoned the effort halfway through—something Shane could absolutely not relate to. He always fully unpacked, even for a simple overnight trip. Ilya was in LA for almost ten days this time. Shane couldn’t understand how he could handle literally living out of a suitcase for so long. 

“Hey,” Shane said, as a thought occurred to him. “Why don’t you have a place in LA? You’re here often enough, at this point.” 

“I don’t want to live in LA,” Ilya responded, rummaging through the closet for something. At least it seemed that he had put some of his clothes on hangers. 

“I know, but do you really like staying in hotels all the time?” With not much to do, Shane dropped himself onto the bed and tried to restrain the urge to unpack the socks he could see in Ilya’s suitcase. 

“I don’t, I stay with Sveta.” 

“Right.” Something about the way he said it took Shane back in time, back across the country, to Orchard Street and 2011, the first time they’d had sex and Shane realized it had been in a bed that Ilya shared with someone else. Sometimes when these things came up, it felt like stepping on something sharp. 

He studied Ilya’s back, the tense way he held his shoulders. Shane took in a deep breath, standing from the bed and coming up behind him. Ilya seemed to tense more as he heard him approach, but Shane kept going anyway. 

He stopped shoulder-to-shoulder with him, pretending to look in the closet together. 

“Wow,” he said, in his best deadpan. “So it looks like your options are Russian fuckboy, or cartoon villain. Tough choices.” 

He sensed Ilya’s head slowly turning in his direction, and when he sneaked a look, he wasn’t surprised to be met with an irritated scowl. But Shane could also see a small hint of amusement struggling not to break through. Shane pressed his lips together down over his own smile, until Ilya rolled his eyes and looked away. Shane finally let himself laugh and gently tugged him over by the waist of his sweatpants. 

He came readily, and Shane smiled against the brief kiss. One point for Hollander, then, in breaking through. 

Ilya finally looked at him properly when he pulled away, standing back to study Shane’s clothes. 

“Did you wear this from the game? Are you going to change?” 

“No?” Shane looked down self-consciously at the clothing he’d specifically changed into from his gameday suit. It was just jeans and a shirt, but he thought it would be fine. Not that Shane knew what the fuck to wear to a club. “I was going to wear this.” 

“Oh my God, Hollander,” Ilya let his head fall back, groaning loudly into the air. “You always look like shit.” 

“What is wrong with this??” Shane looked down, staring at his clothes. 

“You cannot be serious. What the fuck are you going to wear?” Ilya turned back to the closet, now with more purpose, like he was actually going to find something in there for Shane. 

“I don’t always look like—seriously, what is wrong with this??” Shane demanded, elbowing him, which Ilya somehow managed to avoid with a quick dodge. 

“How did they name you hottest man in the NHL?” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane groaned, feeling his face flush red at the memory of the deeply embarrassing Cosmopolitan article (if it could even be called an article) that had recently come out online.

Ilya was smiling, though, as he looked through the options in his closet. Eventually, he took out a black shirt, which seemed like a totally plain button-up to Shane, and handed it to him. 

“Try this.” 

It didn’t sound like a suggestion, it sounded like a command. Shane exhaled slowly, reluctantly, but took it. He stood back enough to take off his shirt, folding it carefully and placing it on a chair, before pulling on the one Ilya had given to him. With it in his hands, Shane could tell that it wasn’t just a plain black shirt—the material was something different, clearly kind of fancy, and he had to admit he didn’t hate the way it felt on his bare skin. 

By the time he had it fully buttoned, Ilya was holding out a pair of pants—black, because of fucking course—to him. 

“What is wrong with my pants? And those probably won’t even fit me,” he resisted. 

Ilya just shook them at Shane. “Because of your ass, I know, but put them on anyway.” 

“Jesus, fuck off.” But Shane grabbed them, turning around so he didn’t have to see Ilya watching while he took his jeans off and pulled on the new pair of pants. 

They didn’t fit perfectly, and it wasn’t the ass that was the problem—it was the thighs—but he could tell the difference already from the clothing he’d shown up in. Not that he was going to tell Ilya that. 

He schooled his expression, trying to look totally normal before he turned back around. 

But it was no use, Ilya was smirking anyway when he faced him once again. 

“Better,” Ilya decided, turning back to the closet for himself. 

Despite all of inclinations, Shane found himself turning to the mirror to study his reflection. The shirt fit him differently, not like it was tailored for him, but it hugged parts of his body in a way that didn’t look exactly terrible. And the pants definitely didn’t fit right, but since they were black it was hard to tell. The tight feeling of the material around his hips and thighs felt strange and constricting, but not necessarily in a bad way. 

He hated to admit it, but there was a big difference from the clothes he’d arrived in. He didn’t think it was because of him, though. There was something about wearing someone else’s clothes—okay, Ilya’s clothes—that made him feel like he was different. Okay, not just different, he felt pretty fucking good, actually. 

The thought made him feel awkward, so he quickly turned away from the mirror, in time to see Ilya buttoning up a shirt. 

“What is that shirt?” Shane blurted out, staring at the pattern on it. 

“Shut the fuck up, it’s Jean Paul Gaultier.” Ilya scowled at Shane over his shoulder, though even Shane caught how his gaze swept up and down his body. 

“I don’t know what that means, but that shirt is fucking hideous,” Shane notified him. 

“You are the last person whose opinions I will listen to on this,” Ilya informed him crisply, finishing buttoning up the shirt with like half of them still undone. Shane shook his head, unable or unwilling to understand how somebody existed in the world looking like this and was actually considered to be fashionable. 

Ilya turned, inspecting Shane more openly, though his expression seemed more critical than hungry. “Unbutton your shirt.” 

“Do you mean button my shirt?” Shane gave him the grace of assuming this was a mistranslation. 

“No, unbutton, you are going to a club, not a business meeting.” Ilya decided to take matters into his own hands, apparently, stepping to Shane to unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt. 

Shane only allowed it because it was hard not to let Ilya do whatever he wanted when he was standing this close. He watched, waiting until the blue eyes flickered up from Shane’s shirt to meet his stare. Shane pressed his lips together, trying to ignore the way the pants were just getting tighter. 

Ilya was looking at him disdainfully, but Shane could tell he was thinking the same thing from the tension in his jaw and his quick sniff. 

“What, you want to fuck before we go out, too?” Ilya asked, as if that was an entirely crazy suggestion. 

“No, I definitely care more about going to the club,” Shane answered. Ilya was already unbuttoning his pants. 

_____

When they got in the car, Svetlana was waiting, wearing a shimmering black dress and a white coat that looked like it was made with feathers. 

She said something to Ilya in Russian as soon as they entered, probably about how fucking late they were—Shane had already been stressing about it, especially since he had told Wagner and Vaughn that he’d meet them at the club more than thirty minutes ago. 

There wasn’t much to do about it now, though, so he just climbed into the car, ignoring the satisfied smirk on Ilya’s face and giving Svetlana an apologetic smile. She rolled her eyes at him, but reached over to squeeze his forearm once they had gotten settled. 

“Nice game tonight.” 

“Thanks,” Shane said, glancing out of the car window as they pulled out of the hotel drive. “And thanks for getting Carter and Cale in tonight, too. They’re excited about it.” 

“I wish you could have brought Burke, instead,” Svetlana sighed, re-crossing her legs. Shane laughed, deciding to never mention this to Burke. 

The trip from the car to the club seemed long, but Shane didn’t have any real sense of the geography of Los Angeles and had no idea how far they had actually gone. Once they arrived, the car dropped them at a nondescript side entrance—there wasn’t any sign or nameplate to identify the place they were going. But Shane followed Ilya and Svetlana, who appeared to know exactly where to go. 

It was strange to see this sliver of Ilya’s life—dark cars in a city littered with palm trees, being picked up from a luxury hotel, deposited at a secret entrance to some exclusive place. Shane had been famous for awhile now, but it was the first time he’d had a sense of being any kind of celebrity, and it was all because of Ilya. 

They seemed to just walk into the club. If they were on a list, Shane didn’t even know who had checked it, or how—all of a sudden they were just inside. He resisted the urge to step closer to Ilya out of his self-consciousness or awkwardness, keeping a normal few feet of distance between them. He hoped Cale and Carter had made it—he had literally no idea how he would have found his way into this place if he didn’t have Ilya and Svetlana to guide him. 

But once inside, it seemed pretty much like the other clubs he had been to. Loud, dark, with flashing lights, with clusters of people dancing or drinking littered among different levels. 

He realized quickly, though, that it was different to be here with Ilya. It was different from the places they went in New York, which were definitively more casual, the kind of places where they would get a drink and post up in a dark corner together. This was an entirely new class of space—one that Ilya and Svetlana clearly felt comfortable in. Even walking two feet behind him, Shane could see the fluidity in Ilya’s movements: the kind of movements of a person who knew he was being looked at, and didn’t shy away from the attention. 

They led him to a quiet area, separate from the rest of the club by a level of stairs. There was a bouncer at the entrance who didn’t give them a second look before letting them through—Shane couldn’t tell if it was because Ilya and Svetlana came here all the time, or if it was because they just seemed good looking and confident enough to belong here. 

It was clearly some kind of VIP area and was, thankfully, much quieter and less crowded with people. Shane looked around, taking in the dark couches and tropical plants—which must have been fake, because how the hell would they even get sunlight in here? 

“Holly!” He looked around at the sound of Vaughn’s voice, spotting him with Wagner in one of the seating areas. He lifted his hand in greeting, relieved that they’d made it in. 

“Hey,” he said to Ilya’s back, just stopping himself from reaching out to touch him. “I’m going to go say hi to Wagner and Vaughn, okay?” 

Ilya turned, glancing briefly at Svetlana, then nodded. Shane was surprised to have both of them follow him to the couches, hovering behind him like a pair of beautiful Russian shadows. 

“Uh, hey,” Shane said awkwardly. 

Vaughn and Wagner were both staring up at them. Vaughn looked bemused more than anything, and Wagner was, not surprisingly, kind of dumbstruck as he stared, probably at Svetlana. 

“Uh, Vaughn, Wagner, these are friends of mine, uh—” Before Shane could flub his way through an introduction, Ilya cut him off. 

“Ilya Rozanov.” He started to turn away, but Svetlana held an arm out, holding him back. Shane watched her send him a look out of the corner of her eye. 

“Svetlana Vetrova,” she said with more patience. “Very glad you could come.” 

“Thanks for getting us in,” Vaughn said smoothly, while Wagner just nodded vigorously next to him, reminding Shane a little bit of a cartoon. “Do you want anything to drink? We’ve got bottle service going.” 

He gestured to the tequila at their table. 

“Thank you, maybe later,” Svetlana replied politely. She said something in Russian to Ilya, too quiet for Shane to catch even the tone of voice. She leaned close to Shane’s ear next, though. 

“We’ll go to the bar. Do you want anything?” 

Shane turned over his shoulder—towards Ilya, not Svetlana. “Uh, whatever. I’ll probably just have one drink.” 

He watched as they left, making their way through the lounge towards a bar against the other side of the wall. Shane looked at Vaughn and Wagner, slightly taken aback to see both of them staring at him expectantly. With some trepidation, he sat down in a chair between his teammates. 

“Nice place, Holls,” Vaughn said, in a quiet volume for Vaughn, which was still close to yelling for most other people. At least it meant Shane could hear him over the music. “Since when is this your kind of scene? Is this what you do in your free time? And if so, why the fuck haven’t we been going out together more?” 

“Not even a little bit my scene.” Shane stared around the VIP area and the parts of the club he could see, trying not to let his eyes immediately drag over to Ilya. He failed pretty quickly—it was hard not to spot his monstrosity of a shirt at a distance, or the back of his neck, the back of his head. 

As if he felt Shane’s eyes on him, he turned, glancing over his shoulder, back in his direction. Shane quickly looked away. 

“Hey,” Vaughn said quietly, leaning in towards him again, speaking at a much quieter volume this time. Wagner was occupied, staring around the club, clearly not listening to them. 

But still, Shane felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the quiet word, the sudden closeness—had Vaughn just seen him looking at Ilya? 

“Is that the… friend you mentioned?” Vaughn asked, nodding in the direction of the bar. 

“Huh?” Shane stuttered. He felt like his hands were going numb, and he had no fucking clue why he had agreed to invite the guys here. How had Vaughn figured this out within literally thirty seconds of meeting Ilya, five minutes after Shane had even walked into the club?

“Svetlana,” Vaughn said, voice lower, looking at Shane meaningfully. Shane blinked at the sudden swerve. Okay, maybe he hadn’t figured anything out. 

“Are you two… you know, a thing?” Vaughn waited for a response, and Shane could only imagine how blank and confused his face must have looked, because Carter pushed forward to explain himself after only a short pause. “She’s like, the only person you follow on Instagram who’s not connected to hockey or your brand deals.” 

“Oh.” Shane was shocked that this was something Vaughn had noticed. Was this something that people actually noticed? Had other people looked at this, and noticed it? 

“No,” he shook his head, trying to push through this new twist that he’d never considered before. “No, she’s—she’s just a friend.” 

“Got you, I was just wondering.” Vaughn patted his knee. He seemed to accept this, the way he always accepted Shane’s responses to his questions, because he was a genuinely good person and friend. Shane took a deep breath to swallow his discomfort and resisted the urge to turn his head and look at Ilya again. 

Vaughny made it easier by leaning back and stretching his legs out, arms spread wide over the back of his chair, surveying the dark space around them. “This is a good spot. Reminds me of some of the good places in the city. It’s pretty private back here, makes it easier on the celebs.” 

“I guess so,” Shane agreed. He used this as an excuse to look around, ostensibly for celebrities or just at the space itself. But his eyes quickly found the back of a curly head of hair and tense shoulders underneath a white shirt with the pattern of a leopard on it. 

“Oh my God,” Wagner suddenly said out of nowhere, turning around like he’d seen a ghost. Shane followed his eyes, not seeing anything out of the ordinary. 

“Oh my God,” he repeated, whipping his head around again to face Shane and Vaughn. “That’s fucking Rose Landry over there, bro.” 

He did not lower his voice when he said it. Shane quickly realized that when Wagner said “over there,” he meant sitting directly behind him, in the set of couches next to theirs, directly within earshot, hidden only by a thin wall of plants. When Shane instinctively turned to see what Wags was talking about, he found himself essentially face-to-face with the famous actress. 

He blinked, suddenly wildly thrown off to be staring directly at a legitimate movie star, whose latest release he had literally watched on the flight over to LA yesterday. But she was, in fact, staring directly back at him. 

“Oh my God,” she said, a small smile on her familiar, pretty face. “That’s fucking Shane Hollander over there, bro.” 

Shane felt like his brain had just left his body as Rose Landry turned fully in her seat to face them. She was with a friend—another actress, who Shane recognized but whose name he didn’t know—who was also looking over at them, amused. 

“Oh shit,” Wagner said meekly. “I didn’t think you’d hear that.” 

Thankfully, between the three of them, Carter was actually good at speaking to people, including, apparently, famous people. 

“Sorry,” Vaughn said, leaning around Shane to smile at the two women between the wall of plant leaves. “We’re hockey players. There’s like, seven concussions between the three of us. You really can’t trust us to act right in public.” 

“Okay, but what’s the breakdown on that?” Rose asked, leaning around the plant to peer at them—Shane?—more closely. “Is it like, each of you have had two, plus one extra floater, or is it like, one of you has had one, and one has had six?”

“I mean, six concussions would be approaching seriously traumatic brain injury territory, wouldn’t it?” The other woman asked, shrugging at Rose. 

“Yeah, six concussions would be a problem,” Vaughn agreed, craning his neck to try to see the women more directly. 

On his other side, Shane could see Wagner counting in his head, and Shane wondered if seven concussions between the three of them had actually been a low estimate. 

“So,” Vaughn said, and something in his tone made Shane shift his eyes towards him. “Do I sense a Shane Hollander fan in our midst?” 

His shoulders stiffened and he stared at Vaughn, trying to casually shake his head. But his friend ignored him, like he opted to whenever he thought there might be something funny or interesting on the other side of Shane’s misery. 

“Well, I’m a hockey fan, first. Detroit fan, second,” Rose lifted her hand up against Carter’s good-natured boos. “And, sure, I would say a good appreciation for Shane Hollander probably fits somewhere in the list.” 

Her eyes met Shane’s through the plants between them, and he found himself quickly looking down and away. Sure, he had won a gold medal and captained a team that had won two Stanley Cups, but the idea of a fucking movie star knowing his name well enough to say that she appreciated him, probably, was extremely fucking wild. 

“Thanks,” he managed. “I’m, uh, a big fan of yours.” 

“Well, obviously no worries if you don’t want to, but you’re welcome to sit with us. Drinks are on Shane, he’s got Rolex money to spend.” Vaughn smiled winningly, first at the actresses, and then at Shane, who glanced in confusion at the tequila bottle that he had definitely not purchased. 

Rose turned to look at her friend, and Shane took the opportunity to shake his head at Vaughn again, more insistently this time. But Wagner was nodding vigorously, and Carter was just sitting back, perfectly at ease with the situation he was cooking up for himself. 

And apparently there was something to it, because a short while later, Shane found himself making room for Rose Landry and Gloria Grey. 

“So,” Gloria said, settling herself between Rose and Vaughn. She was petite, with dark brown hair and wide brown eyes that were by far the most prominent feature on her face. “You all play in the NHL?” 

“Yeah, we all play for the New York Admirals.” This simple statement finally gave Cale a way to include himself in the conversation. 

“They’re being modest,” Rose cut in. Somehow, Shane had ended up directly next to her, and he glanced over when he noticed that she was looking at him and smiling. “They just won the Stanley Cup two years in a row.” 

“Wow! That’s good, right?” Gloria laughed as soon as three heads turned in her direction. Shane was relieved to see that she was kidding, mostly because he didn’t think he could handle explaining the very basics of professional hockey while in the middle of a club speaking to two famous actresses and trying to keep an eye out for Ilya. 

“So how’d you become a hockey fan?” Wagner leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands cradling his glass, and smiled eagerly at Rose. She smiled back at him, but then at Shane again. 

“I’m a Michigan girl with three brothers. The Detroit Falcons are in my blood, baby.” She laughed, crossing her legs and draping her arms over her knee. 

“Oh, no kidding? I’m from Minnesota.” Wagner grinned. 

“Oh yeah? Glo’s from Wisconsin, we meet the whole Upper Midwest trifecta.” Rose nudged Gloria lightly with her leg. 

“Well, kind of,” Gloria shrugged, sipping from her drink. “My family moved to California when I was pretty young.” 

“Hey, don’t deny your roots,” Vaughn reassured her, leaning back in his seat and stretching his legs out in front of him. “I’ve lived in New York for almost ten years, but I’m a North Dakota boy until I die.” 

“Anyway, yeah, I follow hockey,” continued Rose. “Definitely enough to recognize the first line of the New York Admirals.” 

Cale seemed absurdly pleased to be included in the group that Rose had identified. “Well, yeah, Hollsy’s the best player in the league, so that makes sense.” 

“Also,” Vaughn started, and Shane could literally hear the smirk in his voice. “Number one hottest guy in the NHL, too. Cosmo said so.” 

Shane inhaled slowly, giving him a look that clearly begged him not to do this, but Carter was clearly dead set on ignoring him, smiling with his arm draped casually over the back of his seat.  

“I mean, obviously.” Rose shrugged, sipping from her glass. 

Shane wasn’t really sure he had the power of speech at the moment, both from his mortification and from his shock at the agreement. 

“What number were you?” Gloria casually tilted her head at Carter. Shane didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend smile so wide, even after both Cups. 

Shane let the conversation continue around him, still trying to resist the urge to look for Ilya. He shook his head when Wagner tried to offer him the tequila again. Carter had been benignly asking Rose and Gloria about the usual places they spent time in LA, and the discussion had turned a bit when Rose said that they were doing a lot of drinking these days about the state of the country. Shane wasn’t stupid—he knew she was talking about the recent U.S. election, which seemed to be the only thing most people were talking about these days. He had generally kept his thoughts to himself around most of the locker room, especially as a Canadian who didn’t vote in the U.S. 

Carter, though, was emphatic. “Fuck, dude, I know, it’s crazy.” 

Shane didn’t miss how relieved Gloria and Rose looked. Cale, though, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

“10,000 votes in Michigan. 10,000 votes!” Rose put her hands up like she wanted to throttle something. 

“It shouldn’t have even been that close,” Gloria was shaking her head. 

Shane took this as an opening to turn around in his seat to look between the plants in the VIP area. He didn’t have to search far, though—the hideous leopard shirt was a few feet behind him. He tilted his head up at Ilya, whose face was mostly hidden behind a glass. He held a glass out at Shane, too, which Shane could tell on sight was probably a drink with vodka and ginger ale or ginger beer. He didn’t particularly feel like drinking alcohol tonight, but he really didn’t feel like saying that to Ilya. 

“Thanks,” he said, somewhat awkwardly, taking the glass from him. He looked around the seating area, realizing belatedly that all of the seats were taken. Not that Ilya looked inclined to sit with them—like, at all. Shane looked around again, trying to figure out what to do, before he turned back to Ilya. 

Who was already gone. 

What the fuck, was his first thought. His second was, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

“Sorry,” Rose said, right by his ear. Shane turned back to her quickly. He had been about to get out of his seat to follow wherever Ilya had gone, but he settled back, trying to force his shoulders down from his ears. 

She tilted her head towards Carter and Gloria, who were still talking. “About the election stuff. You’re probably just thinking about how dumb all of the Americans are, right?” 

“I mean…” Shane smiled awkwardly, because he didn’t know what to say. But Rose clearly seemed to take it as agreement, snorting out a quick laugh as she sipped from her drink again. 

“Wait, no, I wasn’t trying to say that—” Shane quickly tried to correct himself, but Rose waved him off. 

“No, don’t walk it back, you are definitely allowed to be a high horse Canadian about this,” she assured him.  

Shane was distracted for a moment by the sight of a familiar figure on the other side of the room, leaning against a railing overlooking the lower level of the club. There was a woman—definitely not Svetlana—pressed against him, leaning on her arm and gazing up at him. He seemed to be pretty deep in conversation, or something like it. 

Shane took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as he turned back to Rose. 

“They actually call them the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” 

Rose looked at him for a second before she burst out laughing. Shane smiled at how much the dumb joke seemed to amuse her, taking a sip of his own drink and forcing himself not to look across the room again. 

The conversation was shockingly easy. Rose told him about her brothers who had played hockey and what they were doing now, how she had gotten started in acting, and moving to California from Michigan. On the last point, it sounded weirdly similar to Shane’s experience moving to New York from Ottawa. When he mentioned this, Rose dug in more, asking him about his childhood, what it had been like for him to come up in hockey when he was younger. 

It was strange—they were in completely different worlds, but talking to her felt like talking to someone who truly understood the pressure valve he existed in, even if her own pressures looked different. 

“Okay, so,” she said, leaning on her hand as she regarded him. “Paint me a picture. Shane Hollander, 20 years from now. Where are you?” 

He sat back, sipping from his glass. He was only halfway through the cocktail, because he’d been drinking it only a little at a time. 

“Well,” he said slowly. “I guess in 20 years, I’ll probably have retired from hockey…” 

“No, no,” Rose cut him off quickly. “I don’t mean, where are you, like, what are you doing. I mean, like, where literally would you like to be 20 years from now? In a club like this one? At a museum in Paris? Hiking in the Canadian Rockies?”

“Oh. Well…” The only place that came to his mind seemed incredibly obvious, to the point of boring, but it was the choice that felt most natural. “I have this cottage in Canada, on the lake. I just had it built a couple of summers ago, but I spend most of the offseason there.” 

“It’s…” He tried to think of a word to describe it, the sun on the lake and the feeling of peace that had settled on him each time he’d woken up there. He ended up smiling and shrugging instead. “Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty great.” 

Rose was watching him and smiling, too. “I get that. Michigan has a pretty big lakehouse culture. My parents had one when I was growing up. I used to love going there as a kid. All of the kayaking and swimming and stuff.” 

“Do you still do that?” Shane asked, drinking slowly. 

“No, my schedule is too crazy most of the time.” She shook her head, looking regretful. “Plus, it was really my mom and dad’s thing to do. But my parents are divorced now, and my stepdad is more of a… vacation in Florida kind of guy.” 

“Oh. Not your thing?” He asked. He didn’t totally get what she meant, but he thought he could guess. 

“Definitely not my thing.” She leaned forward, putting her empty cocktail glass down and helping herself to water instead. 

She re-crossed her legs, glancing over her shoulder where Carter and Gloria were still deep in conversation. Cale had wandered away at some point—Shane considered whether to look for him, but figured he could handle himself. He wasn’t the type of guy to get into bad trouble, anyway. 

“I’m going to Montreal in a few days, actually,” Rose pulled his attention back. “Starting a shoot there for awhile.” 

“Oh, yeah? That’s cool. Have you been there before?” Shane shifted in his seat, resting his drink on his knee. 

“Only once, but it was pretty short. Do you have any tips?” 

Shane was far from an expert, but he gave her some suggestions he had picked up over the years. 

“I think the Voyageurs are playing Detroit in the next couple of weeks, actually,” he said, thinking it over quickly, nodding when he was satisfied he was right. 

Rose slowly lowered the water glass back to the table, smirking. “Do you… just know that off the top of your head? Do you know all the schedules for all the NHL teams off the top of your head?” 

“Yeah, why, is that weird?” Shane deadpanned at her. When she started laughing again, he did too. 

But his attention was caught—if it had ever been anywhere else to begin with—by the sight of Ilya again. He was coming up the stairs from the lower level, looking slightly more disheveled than the last time Shane had seen him. Shane had already fucked this up enough, it was well past time to try and fix it. 

“Hey, would you excuse me?” He held up his glass as an excuse. Given that it was still half full, it was a bad one. But he got up anyway, holding the glass with him as a crutch as he crossed the room. 

Ilya saw him when he was still several yards away. It was obvious that he was angry—Shane understood his body language well enough by now. And obviously Shane understood why. This entire night had come together in the first place because Ilya had wanted them to go somewhere together, the way he had been teasing—or just suggesting, with different levels of seriousness—for literally years. And now Shane’s teammates were here, and now they were talking to movie stars. 

But, Shane couldn’t help but think—was it that bad? Svetlana was always going to be there with them, too. And Shane couldn’t help how things had happened with Cale and Carter. And it wasn’t like he’d even been talking to Rose Landry for that long, anyway. 

And he was here now, regardless. 

Still, he was awkward as he stopped in front of Ilya. It took a little effort not to glance around to see if their conversation was being monitored by anyone, but he managed to stay focused. 

“Hey,” Shane said. He found that it was difficult to meet Ilya’s eyes, which was not a sensation he was used to. 

Ilya looked him up and down briefly as he drank. He looked sweatier than the last time Shane had seen him, and he could only assume he’d been downstairs dancing. Shane was trying not to think about who he might have been with. 

“Having fun?” Ilya asked, when Shane didn’t say anything. Shane still didn’t know what to say, either, so he made kind of a gesture with his hands. 

“I’m sorry I just got stuck over there.” He forced the words out of his mouth, even though they were direct in a way that he didn’t usually communicate, especially not to Ilya. And judging from the scowl still etched on Ilya’s face, he didn’t seem particularly receptive to it, either. 

“Don’t really know what you mean by stuck. You don’t like it, you get up.” Ilya shrugged, like it was really that simple. Shane watched him, trying to decipher what he was thinking, what Shane should do next. 

“Are you going to do something other than talk about hockey or flirt with actresses?” 

Shane flinched, both from the words and the way they were delivered. He frowned at Ilya, trying to fight through the strangeness, though the remark had only thrown him off more. 

“What do you want to do?” Shane asked. 

Ilya shrugged again, turning so that he was leaning against the railing, surveying the lower level and crowd of bodies below. “Normally people dance at a club. Drink. Enjoy themselves.”

Shane found it harder than he thought not to point out that Ilya normally seemed to do a lot of flirting with actresses at clubs, judging from some of the photo evidence that he had seen over the years. And dancing? Was he being fucking serious? Shane couldn’t even fucking dance, and they were, what, supposed to dance together?

“I told you that coming to a club wasn’t my thing,” was all he could say. 

“Okay,” Ilya replied evenly, draining the liquid in his glass. “See you later then.”

And he was gone, again, towards the stairs and down to the other level. Shane watched him leave, exasperated, incredulous, and full of anger with himself for letting all of this get away from him so quickly. 

Following him was out of the question. Instead he went back to the table, his hand still gripped around his half empty glass. 

Rose was talking with Vaughn and Gloria, who had gravitated onto the same couch together. He was surprised to see that Svetlana had come over, too, though Wagner seemed to be having very little success actually talking with her. Shane took his seat again, this time between Svetlana and Rose, darting his eyes away when Svetlana looked at him questioningly. What the fuck was he going to say, especially in front of everyone else? 

He didn’t even really know how much time passed through the rest of the evening. The fatigue of everything—yesterday’s travel to the West Coast, the game, meeting Ilya before coming out, the alcohol, the late night—was finally starting to catch up with him. He tried to keep his head in the conversation, especially after Svetlana left and Rose and Wagner both turned more of their attention back to him. He didn’t see Ilya come back up the stairs at any point. 

Finally, Wagner quietly asked him if he thought they should head back to the hotel. Shane didn’t even know what time it was—definitely way too fucking late—but he readily agreed. His plan had always been to go back to the team hotel with Carter and Cale, not just for the appearance of it, but also to give himself a chance to grab a few things and get ready to go back and see Ilya. 

Carter, though, wasn’t going anywhere. He and Gloria were sitting much closer than they’d started a few hours ago, and Gloria was smiling at him as he shrugged and told Shane that he was going to hang out for a bit longer. Shane hadn’t really been paying attention to their conversation, but apparently it had been going even better than he’d realized. 

“Hey.” Shane looked over at the sound of Rose’s voice. She was smiling at him, and holding out her phone. 

His brow creased as he took it, glancing down at the screen to where a new contact listing was open to “Shane Hollander,” waiting for a number to be input. 

“I had a really nice time talking with you,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Maybe again in New York?” 

“Oh.” Shane looked down at the phone for a second. He agreed, actually—he didn’t have easy conversations all that often, and talking with Rose had been both easy and pretty nice, actually. He liked the idea of doing it again. “Yeah, that would be great.” 

He typed in his number and handed it back to her. A moment later, he felt his own phone buzz in his pocket. When he checked it, an unknown number had sent him a message, simply stating: “Rose :).” 

He felt something pressing against his shoulder then, and glanced around quickly when he realized that Ilya had taken a seat on the arm of his chair. He looked up sharply, but Ilya wasn’t looking at him. 

Shane turned back to his open phone, then, tilting it away from Rose and Cale, towards Ilya, quickly typing out a text. 

I’m just going to drop Cale off at the hotel. 
I’ll come back to yours after I’m done. 

He looked up again, but Ilya was already removing himself from the chair, heading towards where Svetlana was talking in a small group of people. 

Shane kept waiting for a response on his way back with Wagner, but nothing ever came. 

The night had actually been pretty fucking disastrous, Shane reflected while in the car, driving back again to the second hotel. He felt like shit, physically, and he had barely exchanged three words with Ilya at the club. He wished like hell they had never gone in the first place, that they had just stayed in the hotel room or found somewhere else, somewhere quieter and where his teammates would have never wanted to come along, to spend the evening. 

And, he realized, he should have gotten a key from Ilya. Because now it was the middle of the night, and he was stopped in front of the door of his room again, like earlier, waiting to be let in. For all he knew—since Ilya hadn’t even texted him—he may have still been at the fucking club. 

But eventually Ilya answered. He was still wearing what he’d worn out, but the shirt was unbuttoned all the way now, hanging loosely over his bare torso. He smelled strongly of cigarettes, too, but Shane probably should have been expecting that. 

“Did you get back awhile ago?” Shane asked, when he’d entered the room and Ilya still hadn’t said anything. 

He waited another beat for a reply, and kept talking when he didn’t get one. “I’m sorry I had to go back with Cale. I just didn’t want him to get suspicious that I was going somewhere else.” 

Suspicious had definitely been the wrong word to use, or maybe the whole thing was just the wrong thing to say, because the look Ilya gave him in response made Shane’s stomach twist. He followed him into the sitting room of the suite, his hands shoved in his pockets. Ilya was heading towards the mini fridge. 

“Are you pissed that I invited them?” Shane asked, finally. It was better than trying to talk around it—or not talk, in Ilya’s case. 

“No, why would I be?” Ilya reached into the fridge, and Shane was somewhat relieved to see him pull out a bottle of water. 

“You seem like you’re mad.” 

“I’m fine.” Ilya looked at him over the bottle as he opened it and took a long sip. 

Shane slowly exhaled, finally reaching the end of his tether. He lifted his arm, gesturing at Ilya, at the way he was holding himself so stiffly, at the strange, stilted way he was talking. 

“Why are you acting so mad at me? I told you, I had to go back with Wagner. He’s honestly fucking useless on his own.” 

“I am not mad about anything.” Ilya’s voice sounded clearer now that he had had a long drink of water. He put the half empty bottle on the table, folding his arms over his chest as he regarded Shane. “Glad you had a nice time with the boys.” 

This time Shane lifted both arms, exasperated. “This is what I fucking mean.” 

He didn’t even know exactly what he wanted to say. He was just frustrated—with himself, because he’d known that Ilya wasn’t feeling right even before he’d arrived here, with this stubborn, pseudo-silent treatment, with how the whole fucking night had gone. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself from continuing. 

“I didn’t think it would be such a big deal for you to meet my friends. I met Svetlana like two years ago.” 

Ilya snorted, looking down at the ground and rubbing his nose. “Purpose of that was not for me to meet your friends, Hollander. They just wanted to go out to a fucking club and get laid.” 

“And hey,” Ilya kept going, too, turning to grab his bottle again. “You got a phone number out of it.” 

Shane had known from the moment he looked up to see Ilya over his shoulder at the club that this was going to come up again. He shook his head, exhaling slowly, trying to suppress the streak of embarrassment suddenly passing through him. 

“Oh, what, you are not happy to get Rose Landry’s phone number?” Ilya raised his eyebrows, draining the rest of his water. 

“It wasn’t like that.” And Shane really didn’t think it had been. They had just talked. Nothing about Rose had indicated interest to him—or maybe he just hadn’t been looking for it, because he wasn’t interested in her. 

“Mm, no,” Ilya squinted. His expression was a familiar one—head tilted, brow furrowed, clearly mocking Shane a little bit. But Shane hated this version of it. Where it was usually mostly good-natured, focused on something about his habits, or diet, or routines, tonight it felt like it had teeth. “I know why a person gets a phone number from a hot actress, and Rose Landry is very hot.” 

Something about the phrasing, or the sly tone of voice with which Ilya said it, sent Shane’s shoulders back. 

It wasn’t fucking possible, that out of all the people in Los Angeles that Ilya had shared a bed with, that Rose Landry could have been one of them. Was it? 

“Wait,” Shane said, suddenly feeling slightly ill. “You haven’t…?” 

Ilya looked at him blankly. 

Shane swallowed, wishing that he had asked Ilya for a bottle of water for himself, too. “Have you slept with her?” 

There was a pause, just a moment, and then Ilya laughed at him. Shane hated the strange, scornful sound of it. And it wasn’t an answer, so he kept watching, waiting for a real one. 

“No, I haven’t slept with her.” Ilya was back to leaning against the table, arms crossed, now smiling with his head tilted. “Wow, what do you think about that idea, Hollander? Us fucking the same person? Wonder if that has happened already.” 

“No.” Shane felt cold inside at the idea and he really wished that Ilya would stop joking about this—especially in this way that felt like he didn’t actually think it was funny at all. It felt like he was hurt, actually, and was intent on using that hurt to hurt Shane back. 

“No?” Ilya tilted his head, raising his eyebrows mockingly. “No, not even some NYU boy?” 

“No,” Shane repeated. 

Ilya let his terrible, sharp smile fade then, and he looked at Shane for a moment. 

“Hollander, you have…?” 

But he trailed off. He may have started to ask the question, but he didn’t finish it. And Shane didn’t want to answer it, either. He probably wouldn’t have wanted to under any circumstances, but certainly not now, after the strangeness of this Rose Landry thing, in this horrible conversation with Ilya, after this tiresome fucking night. 

He probably would have avoided ever talking about any of it—the guy in Chicago, the guy in Barcelona. 

(And, then, one more time after that, nearly a year ago, last December, with a nice man in Montreal while on a road trip to play against the Voyageurs. He’d been feeling weird, wanting to get out of the hotel room but not up for his teammates’ company. So he’d gone to a bar, something nicer—not the kind of place any of the Admirals were likely to go, probably something closer to the kind of place Svetlana might have picked to meet up. 

The guy had been there alone, too, and had struck up a conversation with him. Shane wasn’t exactly good at identifying when he was being hit on, but it had become obvious to even him by the time the guy bumped his knee against him, laughing at something Shane said that he couldn’t remember now, but he knew even at the time hadn’t been very funny. He remembered thinking then, oh. He wants me.

It hadn’t even been much of a hook up, just making out and a hand job. But it was nice. Shane had never texted him after that, though. 

He had told himself it was because there was no way the guy wouldn’t figure out who he was, not in fucking Canada. But the truth was that it had maybe felt too nice: the wine bar, the boring conversation, the kissing. It had terrified the fuck out of him, how nice it had been, and how utterly wrong it had felt.) 

So, sure. Shane had. But not with some NYU boy, not ever in New York, not when the entire city was a map full of memories with Ilya. 

And he found that he was pretty fucking pissed at the direction that all of this had gone in, with Ilya acting like this because Rose Landry—who had been perfectly nice, and hadn’t even bumped his fucking leg or given him any reason to think she was interested in him—had just wanted to talk to him some more. 

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this when you’ve hooked up with, like, a million fucking actresses and models. And, by the way, when we actually hung out with someone who you’ve slept with for years tonight.” Shane didn’t mean to sound as angry as he did when he said it, but there it was, out in the air between them. 

But Ilya didn’t look surprised or taken aback. He almost looked like he was relishing it. The satisfied look on his face made Shane’s stomach twist again. 

“How long have you been holding that in?” Ilya spoke calmly, his eyebrows raised only slightly. “Yes, I have fucked many actresses, many models. Some actors, too. Do you want a list, make sure you don’t get their phone numbers next?”

“No, I don’t need a fucking list,” Shane shot back, angrier despite himself. 

Ilya snorted, just shaking his head at him. “Jealousy is even worse look for you than your usual paranoia.” 

And what the fuck were they even doing here? Were they fighting? Shane felt miserable—he felt tired, more than tired. He had played a game, he’d gone to a fucking club, it was nearly three in the morning, his body was still on East Coast time, and he had to get on another plane in like six hours. 

“Do you want me to just go?” The sound of his voice surprised him. It was angry, but it was also fucking miserable. 

“No, I don’t want you to fucking go,” Ilya said immediately, sounding about the same way. 

Shane stood there with his hands at his sides, feeling exhausted and kind of silly, now, in Ilya’s clothes. He didn’t even know how they’d gotten to where they were. 

“I feel like I’m fucking all of this up,” he said quietly. 

“Yeah. You are not the only one.” Ilya spoke bitterly, head tilted towards the floor. 

Shane looked at him, taking in the slumped posture, the open shirt hanging over his shoulders and chest, the tired eyes and curly hair that was starting to frizz around the edges of his scalp. 

He moved first, but Ilya was ready for the contact as soon as Shane reached him. Ilya cradled his face carefully, tilting his own head, kissing him deeply. 

Shane’s hands slipped under the unbuttoned shirt, sliding around Ilya’s torso, his ribs, to his back. He clutched at him, fingers digging into his shoulder blades, pulling him closer in. Ilya was already unbuttoning Shane’s shirt—Ilya’s shirt—and pushing it over his chest, trying to get it off as quickly as possible. 

It was frantic. Their clothes came off in pieces, left scattered between the sitting room and the bedroom of the suite. There were still things on the bed, and Ilya pushed them off blindly. For once Shane found that he didn’t really give a shit about whatever was getting toppled onto the floor. 

He drew Ilya down onto the bed, dropping the last few inches when Ilya pressed his full weight onto him. Shane tried to keep himself grounded from the feeling of their lips, bare chests, and stomachs pressed together, the hands on his face, the soft hair clutched through his own fingers. He still felt like he was spinning out. 

The prep was rushed, too. Shane clearly hurried him on sooner than he should have, because he hissed in a breath when Ilya pushed inside. But he shook his head, urging him on, when Ilya tried to stop and pull away. 

Right away, it was fucking intense. Not just the feeling of him inside, but all of it. Ilya was quiet, for once, kissing Shane’s face and forehead and resting his head against him. There were moments when he tried to turn away, to drop his head or turn it to the side, but Shane pulled him back each time, blinking his eyes open to watch him whenever he could manage it through the sensations. 

There was something happening. Shane wanted to run towards it, without even fully understanding what it was. But he was also overwhelmed by it—like if even one more thing happened, it might all spill over and he might find himself inexplicably crying in Ilya Rozanov’s bed. 

He didn’t. He pulled Ilya closer, instead, letting him bring his lips down to Shane’s neck, mouthing at him, using just the lightest suggestion of teeth, until Shane gasped out something that almost did sound like a sob when he came. Ilya held his face again, kissing his cheeks and eyelids, until Shane tilted his head to find his lips again. He was still kissing him when Ilya finished. 

Everything should have been the same from there, because Shane and Ilya were so good at moving through the steps of this particular dance. But Shane could see it coming—could see it descending over Ilya, could see Ilya slowly folding inwards, away from everything else and towards only himself. 

He lay on his back, not with his chest pressed against Shane’s body, but staring at the ceiling as he fiddled with the cross on the chain around his neck. He had moved into himself again, and this time it was Shane who had put him there—not his brother, not his father, not the smothering intensity of too many cameras. 

It was there again, the horrible feeling behind Shane’s eyes and his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut to stave it off, because the last fucking thing he was going to do was cry here. 

They stayed like that for a while, until the silence had built up for too long and was too thick between them, and Shane still had no idea how to cut through it. 

He hadn’t seen the clock, but he was too aware of its existence. He knew he needed to leave soon if he wanted any chance of making it back to the hotel and getting ready for the flight before anyone noticed he had left. And anyway, it didn’t seem like Ilya wanted him to stay. 

Still, he waited a long time before he said it out loud. Eventually he had no choice. “I should go.” 

Ilya stayed quiet. He didn’t even turn to look at him. 

So Shane pulled himself up. All he wanted right now was a shower, but the atmosphere in the room was so strange and so strong that it overpowered even that urge. He found his underwear, discarded somewhere near the bed, and pulled them on. 

The clothes he’d arrived in, the ones he’d originally planned to wear to the club, were still folded in a neat pile on a chair. He dressed himself, loathing the way the material felt on his sweaty, sticky skin, hating even more that they reminded him of how the evening had started, the way he’d felt when he’d changed out of his clothes and into Ilya’s borrowed outfit. 

He looked around for his socks, and realized that he’d kicked them off in the other room. He went to find them. Ilya still hadn’t moved on the bed. 

Shane sat on the sofa in the sitting room to put on his socks and shoes. He was waiting for Ilya, waiting for some kind of reaction, something other than the still, vacant way he’d been laying on the bed. Shane was fully fucking aware that the entire night had been a disaster, but he’d tried to fix it, he’d fucking tried. And Ilya had given him fucking nothing in return, and now he was silent, he had closed the doors on himself, and it was Shane’s fucking fault. 

“I’m leaving,” he called out, waiting for some—any—kind of acknowledgement. 

A long, long pause stretched out into the large hotel suite, before he heard a quiet voice from the other room. “Bye, Hollander.” 

And Shane could not believe he wasn’t even coming out of the room—that he hadn’t even moved from the bed. He turned around, ready to put his hand on the doorknob and to let himself out, full of self-loathing and the barely concealed urge to scream. 

But he wasn’t going to give Rozanov the fucking satisfaction. 

He turned back towards the bedroom, instead, walking through without bothering to take his shoes off again. 

It turned out that Ilya had moved, at least enough to sit up with his back against the headboard. He blinked blankly at Shane when he entered the room, but Shane didn’t give him any time to react before he leaned in. He wasn’t going to leave after this disastrous night without a fucking kiss goodbye. 

Ilya’s hand came up immediately, holding him at the back of his neck and tilting his own head so that Shane’s didn’t need to be at such a terrible angle as they kissed. Shane felt some of the tension slowly seeping out of his shoulders at the familiar, comforting touch at the base of his neck. 

He tried to put some kind of apology into the kiss, since Ilya hadn’t heard it before, and hadn’t felt it before, either. Maybe the third time, it would work. 

When Shane finally pulled his lips away, Ilya kept the hand at the back of his neck. Shane breathed slowly, letting himself soak in the grounding feeling for just a little longer. 

Ilya was looking at him now. Shane didn’t know how to read the look—but something about it brought back the compressed feeling in his chest. 

So when Ilya opened his mouth to say something, Shane knew without a doubt that he couldn’t hear it right now. Not tonight, not when he was so close to the last of his self-possession splitting apart, when he had already missed curfew and had to get back to the hotel in time for his flight. 

“I have to go,” he said instinctively, cutting Ilya off. 

Ilya closed his mouth. He kept looking at Shane, but the expression had changed. Dulled. 

“Okay.” 

“I will see you in New York.” Shane said it carefully—forcefully. He thought about Los Angeles, six years ago, the way he had vaguely brushed off Ilya’s invitations to text him when they were in the same city again. How fucking stupid he had been then. 

Ilya blinked at him, slowly. 

“See you.” 

And Shane left. 

Chapter End Notes

... I've been calling this one: we didn’t even kiss (club remix).

Except, well, they did kiss. ...Look, it's not GREAT, but I promise there are better things ahead. No inclement weather in the forecast.

 

PS. I may have become a Rose Landry/Gloria Grey truther. TBD.

Chapter 13: the bond that's between us two

Chapter Summary

A snowstorm.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is by far my longest at nearly 15k words, but there wasn’t a single thing I wanted to cut.

And this one goes out for all you communication stick enthusiasts—I hope you get some of what you were hoping for.

December 2016, New York City 

They hadn’t talked in the three weeks since Los Angeles. Not really, at least—not in person, not about anything real, not through more than a handful of text messages that ultimately amounted to nothing. 

There was something festering in the silence. Shane thought it was probably whatever Ilya had opened his mouth to say that night, that Shane hadn’t stayed back to hear. But he didn’t know what to do about it, because he didn’t understand it. He didn’t even know if he could describe what he was feeling, except that it was too much. 

The same thought had surfaced several times over the past few weeks: how had this been going on for so long? It felt improbable, when he thought about it. The idea that it had been six years since he’d taken a cab to Ilya’s hotel, only six months after meeting him in a gym. Five years since he’d first walked into the Orchard Street apartment. Four years since they’d gone on their first run together. Three years since Ilya had walked twenty blocks to bring him Russian food, and had held him while they slept with the snow falling outside the window. 

It was incomprehensible. They had both grown up so much since then, turned into wholly different people from the boys who had awkwardly studied each other across a floor mat, sweaty, nervous, and curious. And Shane didn’t know who he would be if Ilya hadn’t been there along the way, changing with him, shaping him. 

But he couldn’t think about it too much—how had this been going on for so long—because the thought would eventually morph, settling into a ball of tension in his stomach: How could this keep going on? 

He would push it all away then, because the idea of it ending fucking terrified him. 

Vaughn had really hit it off with Gloria Grey. He’d actually come back to the team hotel later than Shane that night in LA, which Shane had only discovered when Carter had slinked onto the bus, looking sleep-deprived, freshly showered, and the happiest he had ever seen him. He’d sat next to Shane, quietly telling him about Gloria during the whole ride and the whole flight up to Vancouver, even things Shane had actually heard at the club himself that night. But it had been a good distraction to listen to him talk, even if it hadn’t actually done very much to take Shane’s mind away from the thought of Ilya as he had left him, looking blank and leaning against the headboard. 

Shane had never seen Vaughn on his phone so much as he had been over the past few weeks. Every time Shane looked over, whether at their stalls or on the road, Carter was hunched over and smiling at the screen in his hands. Shane wondered if he had ever looked like that at his own phone, and if so, why no one had ever called him out on it.  

Vaughn had asked him about Rose Landry a couple of times—first, the night after they met, when he’d accepted Shane’s vague response about not being sure if he was going to text her. He’d asked a second time at practice the other day, but Shane had shrugged him off again. Carter had let it go, which Shane thought had more to do with how distracted he was by the texts coming into his phone, rather than out of any particular respect for Shane’s privacy. 

Either way, Shane was fine with it. He didn’t plan on texting Rose Landry any time soon, and he really didn’t want to have to keep talking about it. So he let Carter smile down at the device in his hand and tried not to think about the black screen on his own phone. 

The snow was supposed to start in the morning. When the skies and streets were still clear at ten, Shane figured that the whole thing had been overblown. 

Then it was noon, and the thick flakes were falling fast. 

Then it was three, and the park outside his window was blanketed in white. 

The game was officially postponed around 3:30, to be rescheduled for a date in the spring. He kept his phone in front of him on the kitchen island as he debated with himself. 

There really wasn’t much to decide. 

Come over? 

The screen stayed blank. Shane ran through all of the reasons: he might be busy. He might not be in New York. He might not want to see Shane. 

He was letting this last one settle over him, trying to get himself used to the idea and everything that came along with it, when his phone vibrated on the marble countertop. 

IR
1 hour, will get soup. 

Shane put his phone away to get ready. 

True to his word, he buzzed at the door of Apartment 1217 an hour later. Shane tried to tamp down his nerves as he went to the door to let him in, but his stomach still flipped at his first sight of Ilya in 22 days. 

“Hi,” he said. 

“Hi.” Ilya blinked back. After a moment, he lifted the takeout bag in his hands like an offering. 

His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold. Shane was relieved to see that he was wearing a hat and his thickest coat, and from a quick glance at his feet, he was at least wearing waterproof boots. Shane swallowed slowly before lifting his eyes again, tensing slightly when he caught the blue gaze fixed on him. 

He stepped back to let Ilya enter, reaching to take the bag of food from him. He didn’t need to linger—Ilya knew his way around the apartment—but he did anyway, staying a few feet away as he watched Ilya remove his shoes, lining them up on the shelf against the wall, then his coat and hat, hanging both in the hall closet. 

He also had a backpack with him, Shane realized. His eyes caught on it as Ilya gently set it on the floor to take off his coat, and picked it up again to sling over one shoulder after closing the closet door. 

And that was something, wasn’t it? He had never brought a backpack over before. There was only one possible meaning for it, Shane thought—that he was planning to stay. 

Lifted slightly by this consideration, he led them both into the apartment. Ilya veered off in the hall, and Shane watched over his shoulder as he headed towards the bedroom. He continued to the kitchen, putting the food on the counter. When Ilya joined him a few seconds later, the backpack was gone. 

Shane didn’t know how to remark on it, nor how to break through the clunky silence sitting between them. It wasn’t lost on him that they hadn’t touched, or kissed, since Ilya had entered the apartment. And as Ilya leaned his hands against the side of the kitchen island opposite to Shane, it didn’t seem like it was going to happen any time soon. 

The lack of physical contact was making him flustered, but he tried not to get stuck on it. Things had been undeniably awkward between them for weeks. And not touching for five minutes wasn’t the end of the world. But he wished Ilya would at least fucking say something. 

When he didn’t, Shane did. “Do you want to eat?” 

It wasn’t even 5pm, way too late to be lunch and too early to be dinner. But with the bag occupying the space between them, it was the only thing he could think to say. 

“Okay,” Ilya agreed. 

Shane pulled the takeout bag over to him, opening it at the top. He carefully removed the food: pelmeni and vareniki, marinated mushrooms and beet salad, two kinds of soup. It was still warm. Ilya walked around the kitchen island as Shane pried off the plastic tops of the containers. 

He gently touched Shane’s back as he passed on his way to get plates. The spot, midway down his back, below his ribs and to the left of his spine, tingled from the contact. 

Shane remembered the first time Ilya had come over in the snowstorm, more than three years ago. He had been visibly excited at being invited in after so long—it was crazy to think that Shane kept him out for as long as he did. And Ilya had been so obviously on his best behavior that day, cleaning up after himself, following Shane’s habits, just happy to be there. 

This time, it was different. More comfortable, more intimate. Ilya knew where the plates and glasses were. He knew every groove in Shane’s floor. He had a preferred side of the couch. 

He set the kitchen island with plates, bowls, and silverware while Shane arranged the containers in the middle. 

They each took seats on the same side of the island, barely brushing shoulders as they settled. Shane struggled to stay focused on the food as he pulled his bowl and plate towards himself. It was the closest they’d been in weeks—even without touching, Shane could feel Ilya’s solid presence next to him, pulling him in like a magnet. 

He helped himself to the food, starting with the mushroom and barley soup. Ilya heaped sour cream onto his plate, pushing the container to Shane when he was finished. Shane took half a spoonful, sliding the container of pelmeni towards Ilya with his other hand. 

They ate in silence. There were two points on Shane’s skin where it felt like he was burning, from the elbow and the knee he could feel through the air only a few inches away from his own. 

But after a while, as the food settled him, Shane found the thread that he knew needed to be pulled. He waited a few moments longer, eating a few more of the marinated mushrooms as he searched for the right words. He knew he wouldn’t find them, though, so he just forced himself to speak. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

“Why would I be mad at you?” But Ilya didn’t turn his head or look at him. He stayed focused on his food, taking a slow mouthful of soup, curled around the bowl in front of him. 

Shane wished that Ilya wasn’t still doing this, keeping the same resistant standoffishness he’d had in Los Angeles. He knew he needed to tug a little harder on the thread, but it was so fucking hard to do against this brick wall. 

“I guess for what happened in LA.” He still didn’t know how to talk about what had happened, let alone how to get Ilya to admit that something had happened. 

“What, you brought hockey players to a club, and all of you sat on couches all night.” Ilya still wasn’t looking at him as he helped himself to more beets. “What is it to be mad about?” 

Shane looked at the side of his face, at the familiar brow and cheekbones in profile. He let it go. 

He got up from his stool after a moment, brushing Ilya only slightly in the process, to get them each a glass of water. He paused at the fridge, looking at the six-pack of Coke that had been chilling inside since early November. Only one had been used. 

He turned, holding a can out towards Ilya in question, and passed it over the kitchen island when the other man nodded. 

Shane sat back on the stool, sipping from his water before he returned to his food. His knee bumped very lightly against Ilya’s. 

A few minutes passed in silence again before Ilya found the thread that he had apparently needed to pull on, himself. 

“So did you text Rose Landry?” 

Shane had been about to eat another mouthful of soup, but returned the spoon back to the bowl as this question entered the world. 

“No,” he said, tilting his head in Ilya’s direction without actually looking at him. 

“Why not?” Ilya sounded casual, but Shane could feel the tension coming off him through the inch of space between them. Had this seriously been something he had been thinking about over the past few weeks? 

Shane shook his head slowly, because he wasn’t even sure what to say about it. “I don’t think it’s like that.” 

Ilya finally turned to look at him, eyes squinting and brow furrowed as he shook his head back at Shane. “Don’t think it’s like that, what do you mean? Not like what?” 

“I don’t think I like her,” Shane blurted out. He felt suddenly defensive over it, being forced to say this out loud—something he hadn’t even realized that he felt. 

But it was true. Rose had been nice to talk to, but it had just been that: a good conversation on a night when he had been feeling awkward and out of place. He’d definitely want to talk to her again, sure, but that was it. It wasn’t anything more than that. And with everything that had been going on in his head over the past few weeks, texting her had been the last thing on his mind. 

He watched openly as Ilya’s shoulders rose and he looked at the ceiling, like he wanted to ask something else. But he didn’t. He returned to his food, instead, and eventually Shane did the same. 

The meal passed without much more conversation, let alone anything difficult. They cleaned up together, Ilya re-packaging the leftovers while Shane stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. They moved around the kitchen easily, brushing against each other occasionally, never anything more than a light touch to the arm or back. 

The snow was falling heavily outside, creating a white haze outside the large windows in Shane’s living room. The fat flakes left drops of moisture on the glass. Nothing else was visible—they could have been anywhere, in a building in any city, all the way up in the clouds. 

They ended up on the couch, sitting on opposite ends. 

Shane was fixated on the gap between them. The stilted conversation was one thing, but the longer they went without actually touching, the more uneasy he felt. He kept looking at the empty space, trying to figure out how to bridge it. 

But Ilya did first. He shifted around on his side of the sofa, unfolding his legs out towards Shane. Inhaling against his relief, Shane did the same, turning so that his back was resting against a throw pillow, and stretched his legs towards Ilya. Their feet weren’t quite touching, but they were close. 

They caught up on Game of Thrones. Shane was only half watching—he had only ever half-watched this show, since he usually only had it on when Ilya was around and Shane tended to have his attention on other things in those moments. Today, Ilya seemed more engrossed in his phone. 

Shane was on his, too, but he was fiddling with it more than anything else, just to do something with his hands. His mind kept going back to the last few inches of space between them, which remained despite the legs reaching out towards each other. 

There had never been a time, aside from the very first night he had met Ilya, that they had spent so much time together without touching. Most of the time, by this far into the night, at least one of them would have already had at least one orgasm. 

It wasn’t that Shane was itching to fuck. But to not have even kissed yet? 

From the other end of the couch, Ilya laughed. Shane looked up, watching as he studied something on his phone. 

Without looking back, Ilya shifted downwards, settling himself more comfortably on the throw pillow below his head. The movement slid his leg over the couch a few inches, so that his right foot made its way between Shane’s feet. Ilya left it there, letting his ankle rest against Shane’s left ankle, feet hooking around each other. Shane didn’t move an inch. 

“Do you know Greta Laine? From the show about the girls living in Miami?” Ilya asked, eyes still fixed on his phone. 

Shane blinked, having trouble moving his brain so quickly from the sudden physical contact to the unexpected question. “No.” 

“She is in my DMs.” Ilya looked amused, swiping his hand across his phone. 

“Oh. Cool.” Shane wanted to draw his leg away, but he didn’t. 

“I wonder what your DMs must look like.” Ilya finally darted his eyes around the phone to Shane, but looked back at the screen when Shane glanced up. “Lots of hot women, I bet.” 

“Oh yeah, tons.” Shane let sarcasm wrap around the words. He rolled his shoulders back, away from his ears, drumming his fingers against the top of the couch where his arm was stretched out. He looked back at the television, at the blonde woman leaning down to tell something to the dragon between her legs. 

“Do you do that?”

Shane looked up to see Ilya watching him again. The phone was still held out between them, blocking his face from full view. 

“What?” Shane asked. He heard the sullenness in his own voice, but there wasn’t much he could do to iron it out. 

“Go in your DMs and pick the hot women you want.” Ilya had the fucking gall to shrug at the question, like it was a perfectly normal one. 

Shane bristled, his shoulders rising to his ears at the idea that this was what Rozanov was doing, himself, right now, on the couch in front of him, as he combed through Greta Laine’s message and God knew who else’s. 

He couldn’t help it. The tension that had been coiled in him all night, or even for the last three weeks, started to unfurl. 

“Why do you do that? Why do you talk about other people like that?” 

He wasn’t even trying to be high and mighty about it. He just didn’t know what the fuck Ilya was trying to do. Make him jealous? Because of the Rose thing? Even though he had specifically told Shane, three weeks ago, that jealousy was a bad look on him? 

Shane swallowed, trying to keep his eyes steady as he watched Ilya, who just shrugged. Again. 

“I am trying to understand you.” 

“Fucking how?” Shane erupted, back suddenly rigid, turning fully to stare incredulously at him. 

Ilya was looking directly at him now, too. The phone was still in his hand, but he’d abandoned any efforts to keep looking at it. He flicked his free hand out, gesturing into the air between them. 

“Do you like girls?” He shrugged at Shane, jutting his chin out to the side for emphasis. “I never hear about you with girls. You don’t want to text fucking Rose Landry because you don’t think you like her.” 

“You don’t have to like her to fuck her,” he added, eyebrows raised. 

Shane was reeling. They had never talked about anything remotely like this before. He had never even considered that Ilya would ever be thinking about or noticing what Shane did, not in so much detail. Even the last time they had talked in LA, it hadn’t been this specific—not about Shane. Not about Shane’s… preferences? Was that the fucking word for it? 

He drew his right leg back, towards his chest. His left one stayed where it was, weighed down by Ilya’s foot leaning against it. He was seized with anxiety. 

It came out as defensiveness. “I’ve fucked girls since I met you, Rozanov.” 

It wasn’t actually very satisfying to see Ilya’s brow drop into a frown at hearing this. 

“Great,” Ilya answered, suddenly sounding much more bitter and testy than the otherwise cool demeanor he had kept through this conversation. “Then there is answer. So you’ll fuck Rose Landry now.” 

Shane threw his head back in exasperation, before swinging it back down to glare across the couch at him. “I don’t want to fuck Rose Landry.” 

He only kept talking because of the disbelieving, shitty look on Ilya’s face, and because he could not believe they were having this absolutely surreal conversation. 

“I don’t want to fuck a girl.” 

He caught himself then, his breath catching in his throat and his shoulders nearly at his ears. He hadn’t meant to blurt that out—and he definitely hadn’t meant to blurt it out to Ilya. He shook his head, struggling to swallow past the dry, tight feeling in his mouth. “A woman. We should be calling them women.” 

Ilya was watching him carefully. He wasn’t frowning so deeply anymore—he looked pensive now, like he was trying to understand the mess that was unfolding on the other side of the couch from him. All pretense of keeping the phone between them was gone, the screen black where it was cradled in Ilya’s hand. 

“You don’t want to fuck a woman,” he repeated. “Ever?” 

Shane exhaled. His heart was racing, and his right leg, crooked up towards his chest, was shaking up and down. He wrapped his arm around it, trying to calm himself. 

He started to pull his left leg back, too, but Ilya pressed his ankle down, keeping Shane where he was. He breathed in slowly, then out again. 

His head was shockingly clear. He had never been asked this directly before. But the direct question inevitably led to an easy answer, one that he knew all the way down to his core. In the end, it actually hadn’t taken very long to figure it out—all of the time had been spent trying to admit it to himself, to find the courage to apply the words he already knew to himself. 

“No.” Shane shook his head, still breathing slowly, trying to control the fluttering feeling in his chest that was threatening to close his throat again. “It’s not… like it is for you. For me.” 

Ilya’s full and direct attention had been on him the whole time. He drew his head back slightly at this, and Shane could see him trying to process, trying to think through the words. 

So Shane said it plainly. “I think I’m gay.” 

Ilya looked at him for another moment before he slowly started nodding. Something seemed to release in his expression, though his mouth still curved down at the corners as he studied Shane. 

For his part, Shane was still having a hard time regulating his breathing. Because now that it was out in the open, he understood more clearly than ever that it was only half of the real admission. The other half was even more terrifying, the half that he knew he couldn’t say even in the bubble of weathering a snowstorm together—that it wasn’t just about men, generally. It was about Ilya, specifically. He only wanted Ilya. He kept his mouth shut, feeling the tension in his jaw. 

“That would make sense,” Ilya said after a while, still nodding as he tilted his head in consideration. “Because you really like having my cock inside you.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane burst out, because it was so easy to push past panic when Rozanov was saying something outrageous. 

“You’re not gay. And,” he added. “I was there in London.” 

Ilya laughed—genuinely, for the first time in weeks. Shane’s stomach flipped at the sight of the wide, soft grin, as Ilya straightened up, pulling his leg away from Shane’s as he sat up against his end of the couch. 

“No,” he said, inclining his head to show his agreement with Shane’s statement. “Not completely. I like girls.” 

“I am so aware of that,” Shane cut in. Ilya lifted his hand, palm up, to stop Shane from interrupting him any further. 

“But,” he said, raising his voice in case Shane tried to speak over him. “I also like you.” 

Shane pressed his lips together again, staring at him across the couch, holding his breath at the admission. It shouldn’t have been so startling, so affecting, after six years of doing this together. But Ilya was smiling now, the real one, the one that showed that he was about to say something that would make Shane call him an asshole. 

“And your pretty mouth,” he finished. 

He tossed the phone behind him as he rose to his knees, sliding across the cushions, crossing the couch to settle himself on top of Shane. Shane was flooded with relief at the quick approach, immediately running his hands over the material of Ilya’s sweater. He tilted his head back, opening his mouth when Ilya kissed him. It wasn’t gentle—it was lips, and teeth, and tongue, and Shane had missed him so much. 

Ilya pressed down on top of him, digging each knee into the couch as he straddled Shane’s hips. Shane felt like he was being encompassed by him. It was indescribably good after the weeks apart, and he let himself fall into it: the hand wrapped around Shane’s face, the familiar smell of Ilya’s cologne, his soft sweater and the hard muscles underneath, the weight of his pelvis sinking down on top of Shane’s, the taste of him in his mouth. 

He pulled away after a long moment, leaving Shane stretching his neck to chase him. But Ilya sat back enough to push Shane’s sweatshirt up and off, helping him pull his head through the neckhole. Immediately, Ilya was leaning down again, pressing his lips to Shane’s collarbone, over his chest, pausing to lightly drag his teeth and tongue over one nipple and then the other. 

Shane was trying to keep some semblance of control, because it had been three weeks since he’d been touched like this and he had nearly convinced himself that it was never going to happen again. For all he knew, Ilya might not even need to actually touch his dick to make him come. 

He gripped Ilya’s shoulders, involuntarily rolling his hips up towards him, as Ilya’s lips kept moving downwards. He paused, hissing in sympathy at the sight of a splotchy yellow and green bruise near Shane’s ribs, a memento from a recent game against Nashville. Shane groaned quietly as he kissed around it, lightly, already moving lower, drifting down towards his waistband.

He lifted his hips in anticipation, ready for Ilya to slide his sweatpants down and off—but he didn’t. Ilya sat back instead, pushing Shane’s hips down to the sofa with his hand, before carefully bringing his body forward again. He pressed down on him, Shane’s bare chest against Ilya’s soft brown sweater. He brought his arms up to frame Shane’s face, boxing him in, lowering so there were only inches between them. 

Shane tilted his head back. It felt like he was falling. Ilya’s eyes were right above his. 

“What do you want?” Ilya asked, rubbing his nose gently against Shane’s, lightly kissing the corner of his mouth. 

“I—” Shane didn’t have words. The soft kisses against his hot skin were making him lightheaded. He was so hard, and he could feel that Ilya was too, pressed in over him, not even giving him room for his hips to shift. “I don’t think I can—I’m not going to… um…” 

Ilya kissed him again, the other corner of his mouth. His voice was patient and intent. “Tell me what you want.” 

“I want you.” The sentence was a complete one. Shane’s eyes were open, allowing him to catch a flicker of something around Ilya’s eyes. But Shane corrected himself. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Ilya nodded, lightly kissing Shane’s cheek, his nose, his lips again. “Here?” 

“I…” The words weren’t coming any more easily with Ilya’s lips still grazing over him, over his jaw and underneath, over his throat. It was counterbalanced by the weight of Ilya settled on top of him, grounding him, keeping him down on Earth instead of drifting away. 

“No, not here,” he managed. 

Ilya, ready for this answer, peeled himself away, giving Shane room to lift up from the couch. Shane moved slowly, needing a moment to steady himself before he could sit up, dizzy, hard. 

But he reached for Ilya when he stood, and kept hold of his hand as he led him to the bedroom.  

❄️

It had gotten very late, but something felt like it had cracked open between them now. 

Shane was wide awake, wired, as they got back into bed. His hair was damp from his shower, his skin still tingling from the aftereffects of Ilya pushing him into the mattress and keeping him there until he came, probably embarrassingly fast. 

Ilya’s backpack had apparently not contained anything to sleep in, because he’d bypassed it entirely in favor of helping himself to clothes from Shane’s dresser. 

Now he was climbing in on the other side of the bed, and Shane was trying to suppress the warm feeling in his chest. Ilya didn’t give him much of a chance, though, immediately rolling onto Shane and settling his head on his midsection as he turned to stare up at the ceiling. Shane exhaled a small laugh, hesitating for only a moment before sliding one hand into Ilya’s hair. He rested the other on his chest, on top of the New York Admirals logo that was stretched across his pecs. 

The lamp was still on. He thought about turning it off, but he wasn’t ready to sleep. And now that they were settled into this new position, he didn’t think Ilya was, either. 

“You had a good game against New Jersey.” 

Shane was somewhat startled by the conversation opener, and by the idea that Ilya had been watching his games in the weeks since they’d last seen each other. 

“Thanks,” he answered anyway, still running his hand through Ilya’s hair. It was dry and soft under his fingers. 

“Vaughn had a nice assist.” This was delivered a little awkwardly. When Shane glanced at Ilya, he saw him dart a look back out of the corner of his eye, and then quickly away. 

Clearly, they were both thinking about the fact that Shane had finally introduced Ilya to his closest friend, and that it had gone exceptionally poorly, even though Vaughn himself had no idea about it. It was another thing Shane had been kicking himself for—he should have tried harder to get over his panic and actually gotten them to talk. They would like each other, he knew it. He’d just been too freaked out to even let the thought occur to him in the moment. 

“I was a little mad about the club.” Ilya looked at him out of the corner of his eye again.

Shane’s attention snapped back to him. He had the good sense not to answer right away, because the first words out of his mouth definitely would have been, yeah, no shit. Instead, he nodded. 

“I’m sorry. It was stupid, I know you wanted to—”

But Ilya was shaking his head. Shane curled his fingers into his hair at the motion. “Idea was never a very good one.” 

Shane didn’t exactly disagree, but he didn’t want to say it—not when he knew it was something Ilya had wanted them to do, and when he still felt guilty for the way the evening had imploded. “I could have done a lot of stuff differently.” 

“So could I.” Ilya lifted a hand, momentarily placing it on top of Shane’s, before moving it back down to rest on his stomach. 

Maybe it was because Ilya had pulled something out of Shane tonight. Or because Shane was still feeling the effects of the confession—the strangeness, the vulnerability, even though he trusted Ilya more than anyone else with this new piece of himself that he had spoken out into the world. 

Or maybe it was because the openness between them was making Shane crave a little more of it. Not as payback, not to extract anything from Ilya in return—but just to get it out there, on the table in front of them. 

“I’ve been worried about you,” he said. 

The words didn’t sound right, but as he said them, he realized that they were true. And they had been true for a very long time. 

“Why?” Ilya looked surprised, turning his head to regard Shane. Their faces were only about a foot apart, Ilya’s ear now turned towards Shane’s chest. 

He didn’t want to bring up Los Angeles again, or the silence in the text messages before they had met for the night, or the fact that he was still certain that Ilya’s reaction to everything at the club had been magnified because he had already started out in a bad place. Shane didn’t want to take it back there. So he thought about how to make it general, instead. 

“Sometimes you seem really different.” He let this sit in the air as he thought about how to describe what he meant. “Like you’re suddenly not there. Or maybe—I don’t know. It sounds stupid.” 

But Ilya kept his head turned towards him. He was watching Shane with his full attention, seemingly rapt on the words he was saying. 

Shane wasn’t used to such close and careful attention, even from Ilya; not when he was talking about something like this, at least. He pressed his lips together, clearing his throat and lifting his eyes to the ceiling. 

He tried again, thinking about how the silences and melancholy moods sometimes felt when he got glimpses of them. He thought about the first time he’d noticed them, years ago, when Ilya would slip away inside of himself, staring at a wall, or maybe at the floor, looking like he might sink from the weight of his thoughts. 

“Sometimes…” Shane said slowly, chewing on his lip as he looked at the bumps on his ceiling. “It’s like… you closed the doors on yourself. Like you’re not letting anyone in. Or maybe you’re not letting yourself out.” 

Shane immediately felt self-conscious. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so… flowery. He was just trying to describe what it felt like, and that was the image he thought of when he remembered Ilya in bed next to him in Los Angeles, fidgeting with the cross around his neck, staring at nothing. Like there was a closed door between them, and Shane was trying to find him through a wall of opaque glass. 

Ilya turned back towards the ceiling. He was quiet for a long time, so long that Shane decided that he wasn’t going to respond, and also decided that this was the stupidest idea Shane had had in a long time—that he had fucked everything up just at they had put themselves back together. 

But after a little while, Ilya seemed to sink down against him. His arms slid out so that his palms were resting on his stomach, his head and neck tilting back further against Shane’s midsection. When he spoke, his voice sounded different from how Shane had ever heard it before, like it was coming from a quiet place inside of him that Ilya didn’t often let speak. 

“My mother was like that, sometimes. That is how I thought about it too. That she had gone away somewhere, and I couldn’t get in to see her.” 

Shane watched him. There was a sudden, sinking feeling in his chest. 

He started with the less terrifying question. “Do you feel that way a lot?” 

Only the side of Ilya’s face was visible to him, but it was enough for Shane to see that he suddenly looked very tired. “Sometimes. Maybe more than I should.” 

“That’s not good,” said Shane, because he was so fucking terrible at saying things that would actually mean anything. He felt tight in his chest and throat, and he let go of Ilya’s hair only because he was suddenly worried that he would clutch it too hard if he had it in his hand right now. “Maybe you should… talk to someone about it.” 

Ilya made exactly the face Shane had expected him to make in response to this—a frowning grimace, tight in the jaw. He didn’t say no, but it was definitely not agreement. 

Shane couldn’t speak for a few moments as he tried to prepare himself for the next question, the one he was now dreading. He wasn’t good at reading between the lines, but he already knew—just from the way Ilya had said it, from the way that they had never talked about her before—what the answer would be. 

“How did your mom die?” 

Ilya’s head tipped forward slightly—he had been expecting the question too. He didn’t make Shane wait, but he rubbed his lips together several times before he opened them to speak. 

“Too many pills.” 

Shane was quiet, trying to keep himself calm at the confirmation. He was struggling to comprehend the idea that he had never known this, a seminal fact about this person who he cared about more than nearly anyone else in the universe. He was struggling to contend with the fact that he had gone three years knowing that Ilya had lost his mother, and had never once asked him about it—had never asked if he wanted to talk about it. And above all, he was struggling to grasp that Ilya had already compared the way that he sometimes felt to the way that his mother used to before she died. 

A sharp spike of fear was burrowing through him. He flexed his hands and feet, trying to keep himself steady. 

But before Shane could even figure out what to possibly say next, Ilya’s voice, very soft, drifted towards the ceiling.  

“I found her.” 

Shane sat up quickly, curling over him, hand reflexively grasping at his chest. 

“Ilya.” 

Ilya turned to stare at him, startled. Shane assumed it was from his sudden movement and the clutching hand. He flexed his fingers again, releasing the shirt balled up in his hand, spreading his palm out on Ilya’s chest—but he couldn’t bring himself to pull back. He stayed where he was, hunched over him, looking down, taking in every part of his beautiful, wonderful face. 

It was incomprehensible to Shane, who had lived such a sheltered, easy life, to think about the things that had brought Ilya to this moment. Shane had already known how strong he was. He’d seen it in action for years in the way he had shouldered his way into an unforgiving industry, doggedly working to its highest ranks, to the biggest fucking names, to a place where he could create stability for himself in a huge city far away from the one where he’d been born. And Shane had known that he had done it all with a shitty fucking family strapped to his back, who sapped him of his money and his good moods, but he hadn’t understood the depth of it. He hadn’t understood the measure of the strength. 

“I’m so sorry.” The words were so inadequate. 

Ilya was still watching him, something searching in his expression. Shane could feel his chest rising underneath his hand, and moved his palm down slightly so that it was resting over his heart. The gentle thump was immediately comforting, because Shane was selfish enough to be seeking out his own comfort in this moment. 

When Ilya spoke again, it was closer to his normal voice, but still not quite there. “I don’t want you to think she was weak.” 

Shane was already shaking his head, sitting up again to curl himself over Ilya, making himself bigger so that he might be heard. It was very important that he was heard when he said this. 

“I don’t think she was weak. And I don’t think you’re weak.” 

He kept speaking before he could lose his nerve. “Do you ever feel that way? That you could do something like that?” 

Ilya’s mouth opened slightly and he rolled his head away. He wasn’t quite exasperated, nor quite rolling his eyes—but something like it, something that said he didn’t want to answer the question because it was a stupid one, or maybe because it would have an answer that neither of them would particularly like. Shane was good at understanding his faces by now. 

“Please. Tell me.” Shane didn't mean to sound like he was pleading, but in the end, that was what he was doing. 

Ilya exhaled, his head facing towards Shane’s stomach. He breathed in and out slowly, while Shane held his own breath, waiting. Finally, slowly, Ilya shook his head, turning to Shane again. 

“No, I don’t. I get… sad like her, sometimes. But is not like that, I don’t think about doing that.” 

His blue eyes were clear, and Shane believed him. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, keeping his hand flat on Ilya’s chest, focusing on the steady heartbeat through the thin layer of the worn Admirals shirt. 

He waited a long time to speak, still braced over Ilya, each of them breathing slowly as they watched each other. Shane waited until he thought his voice would be steady, and still, it wavered at the beginning. 

“You can talk to me.” He said this as clearly as he could, hoping that it would be understood. “And you should talk to someone else who can help you more. Please.” 

Ilya sighed again at this, jaw tensing slightly, but he didn’t argue. Nor did he agree, but Shane couldn’t expect everything from him right now. 

“I just need you to take care of yourself.” Shane pressed his palm down slightly, bringing it closer to the pulse of his heartbeat. “Please.” 

He finally brought his other hand back up to Ilya’s hair, threading gently through his soft curls. The motion made Ilya blink once, leaning his head into the touch. But he kept his eyes steady, lifted up towards him. 

“Okay, Shane.” Ilya moved his hand, gently placing it on Shane’s, both stacked on top of his heart. 

There was very little to say after that. 

Shane turned off the light before they shifted positions. They had fucked only a little while ago, but they seemed to feel the same need for each other, even so soon. 

The clothes came off again in the dark. Shane reached for Ilya, and Ilya came, murmuring against him as they curled around each other. Shane slipped his hand between their bodies, wrapping it around both of them, gripping them together tightly. Ilya held him, too, one hand on his hip, kneading his ass, the other on the back of his head. 

Shane stroked them together, breathing hard from the feeling of Ilya all around him in the soft sheets. Ilya pulled his hand up at one point, spitting gently into his palm, and Shane groaned at the gesture, and then again, at the slick feeling spreading across them when he moved his hand back down. 

Ilya came first, gasping into Shane’s mouth and rolling onto him, pressing him down onto his back on the mattress. It was this motion as much as anything else that made Shane squeeze his eyes shut, biting down on Ilya’s lip through his own release. They stayed together, catching their breath in the dark, the blue light of the night sky filtering in through the window. 

They had slept in the same bed three times: twice, in the first snowstorm, and once, for a handful of hours in the early morning in London. Each of those times, Ilya had pressed in behind Shane, curling his arms around him, resting with his nose behind Shane’s ear. 

This time was different. Once they were cleaned up, Shane didn’t want to turn around, and Ilya didn’t try to make him. Ilya stayed on his back, drawing Shane on top of him so that his bare chest was pressed against Ilya’s side. Shane rested his head on the space between Ilya’s collarbone and shoulder. He couldn’t even tell if it was comfortable, and it was strange to adjust to the feeling of muscle and bone under his cheek instead of a pillow. But he didn’t want to move. 

He fell asleep within minutes, cocooned in together, away from the storm.  

❄️

When they woke up in the morning, Shane felt groggy, slow. It was almost like he had a hangover, a sensation he had experienced only twice in his life, both times after winning the Stanley Cup. 

It must have been from the emotions of the night before, he thought. He had slept heavily, so deeply that he seemed to not have even moved from his place on Ilya’s chest. He tilted his head to look up at him, expecting to see him sleeping, the sunlight coming in from the window onto his face. 

But Ilya was already awake, which was a surprise. Shane smiled, sheepish to be caught looking. 

Ilya brought his hand up, slowly running it through Shane’s hair, over his scalp and around to the back of his head. Shane leaned into the movement, closing his eyes again, shifting in closer to him, pressing his erection against Ilya’s bare hipbone, a moment away from rolling directly on top of him. 

But before he could, Ilya was getting up and out of bed, leaving Shane blinking at the suddenly empty space below him. He watched in confusion as Ilya headed for the bathroom. 

The sudden departure made him wonder if he’d missed something—if he’d failed to notice, thanks to his sleepy haze, and, yeah, the morning wood, that Ilya was in a different headspace after their conversation last night. 

But his explanation came a few seconds later, at the sound of the bathroom sink running and then the sound of teeth being brushed. 

He tossed the blanket away immediately, getting out of bed and crossing the room to push the bathroom door fully open. Ilya was at the sink, naked, using the toothbrush from the travel kit that had arrived in his backpack. 

Shane paused behind him, watching his reflection in the mirror. His mouth was foamy, his hair was messy, his eyes still looked sleepy and soft. Shane couldn’t help himself—he wrapped his arms around Ilya’s waist, leaning over his shoulder to kiss his cheek. He stayed there, pressing his nose against Ilya’s jaw, resting his chin in the crook of his neck, meeting his eyes in the mirror. 

He let go after a moment, letting Ilya lean down to spit in the sink, reaching around him to grab his own toothbrush. 

Ilya beat him back to bed this time, but Shane followed less than two minutes later, sliding under the covers and following his earlier impulse to roll on top of him. Ilya was ready for him, catching him around the waist with one arm, tipping Shane’s chin down with the other hand. Shane reached over his own shoulder, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it over their heads to block out the sun, sealing them in together. 

It was still snowing outside. A glimpse out of the windows showed that there was well over a foot, maybe even close to two, on the ground below. Shane glanced down at it only in passing, too focused on his empty stomach and the man at the kitchen sink wearing his sweatpants. 

The room was bathed in bright light as they ate, standing, at the island. Shane skipped the smoothie this morning. Ilya, for his part, didn’t complain about the overnight oats. 

They migrated to the couch afterwards. The distance, it seemed, had been erased by the admissions between them. They settled closer to the middle cushions this time, legs wrapping together automatically as they each stretched out from the opposite end. Shane reached for a soft blue blanket hanging over the arm of the sofa behind his head, tossing it over their legs. Ilya grabbed it, pulling his end so that it lay over both of them. 

Shane looked at the television, debating whether to suggest that they watch something. He couldn’t remember where they’d left off with Game of Thrones. He couldn’t even remember if they’d turned off the episode last night. The TV may have just shut off automatically. 

Ilya beat him to break the silence, though. 

“So,” he said, letting the word hang in the air. Shane looked at him, raising his eyebrows at the tone. He couldn’t quite identify it, but there was something percolating in it. 

“You are gay,” Ilya continued. He looked at Shane expectantly. 

“Yeah, the last 16 hours really confirmed that for me,” nodded Shane, letting sarcasm override the sincerity on this one. “Thanks.”

“I love when you thank me for making you come.” Ilya narrowed his eyes, smiling, snaking his hand under the blanket to grab Shane’s ankle in a squeezing grip. “Even better when I am still inside you.”

The effectiveness of Shane’s eyeroll was probably undercut by how quickly and deeply his cheeks flushed red. 

“If you keep it up like you have been, I’m probably not going to be able to walk tomorrow,” he retorted, knocking his leg against Ilya’s. “I’m sore enough right now.”

“That is supposed to stop me? Sounds like a challenge.” Ilya grinned wickedly, slipping his foot between Shane’s legs and attempting to worm his way up towards his ass. Shane twisted away, kicking him until he stopped. 

But Ilya had apparently not raised the subject simply to annoy Shane. He waited until they had settled again, and for Shane to grab the TV remote, before trying again. 

“Have you told anyone else this?”

It took Shane a moment to understand what he was asking. He blinked, somewhat bemused by the question. “Uh, no? I literally said it out loud for the first time yesterday.”

“I don’t even know if I had even said it to myself before that,” he added after another moment of thought. 

Ilya nodded. He seemed to be considering the response, which made Shane watch him with interest. He had no idea why Ilya was thinking about this, or what he was aiming for with the conversation. 

“Do you want to tell other people?” Ilya finally asked. 

Shane stared at him, still wondering where the fuck this was coming from. “Uh, no?”

But Ilya was still watching him, which was itself intensely confusing for Shane. It was clear that he was missing something. 

“I mean, you’ve been in locker rooms.” Shane shrugged, somewhat dumbfounded that he was actually having to explain this to Ilya. “It’s not exactly something that would go over well.” 

“Is that true in your locker room?” Ilya raised his eyebrows. He looked almost skeptical. 

For a moment Shane felt defensive, but it was, actually, a fair question. Shane was captain, and he had a hand—an important one—in the team culture. If there was something fucked up in the locker room, he was actually in a position to do something about it. 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, after he had taken a second to think about it. “It’s the best locker room I’ve ever been in. And I’m always going to do what I can to keep it that way, but that’s not something we’ve ever had to deal with in there.” 

“And I don’t think…” He struggled to articulate the last part, the part that felt personal, that felt like it was at the heart of the heavy, sick feeling that settled over him whenever he imagined saying the words out loud with his team clustered around the locker room, staring at him. 

“I don’t really want to be the first one, like, the experiment.”

Ilya opened his mouth like he was going to say something. But Shane pushed past him—if they were going to talk about this, he was going to say everything he wanted to. 

“And it’s not just the team. It’s the whole league. It’s fucking… everything.” He pulled himself up so he was sitting straight with his back against the arm of the couch, no longer slumped and talking into his chest. “The fucking endorsements. The media. The fans. Just… everyone having fucking something to say. You know how insane it would be. You know there aren't other gay players. It would be a fucking shitshow.”

“You don’t think there are other gay players?” Ilya definitely looked skeptical now. 

“Okay.” Shane conceded the point. It wasn’t like he knew for sure, but probably, statistically speaking, yeah, there could be. It was strange to think about, actually: that they may have played against each other, or on the same team at All Stars, or spent time together at media days or awards ceremonies. And Shane had never had any idea. “No openly gay players, then.”

“And being the first one sounds like a fucking nightmare,” he added.

Ilya was still watching him. Shane wasn’t used to seeing such a serious, contemplative expression on his face. He felt strangely naked underneath it. He had been naked in front of Rozanov hundreds—thousands?—of times, but this time it felt weirdly penetrating. Like he was being studied for something specific. 

“What?” Shane asked. 

“Well, I was not talking about hockey, or the league.” Ilya shrugged. His hand was still resting on Shane’s foot. “I meant your friends, your family.”

“Oh.” Shane blinked a few times. Somehow, that thought hadn’t even entered his mind yet. He’d jumped straight to the cameras, the internet, the comment sections. 

Ilya was still watching him, still waiting, like he had been this whole time. He tilted his head now, pressing just a little harder. “You don’t think that would make you feel better?” 

Shane wasn’t necessarily opposed. Maybe there would be some relief in it—telling his parents, Vaughny. He didn’t think the people closest to him would take it badly. Maybe it would even help explain some things to them, the way Shane had always shrugged off their questions about dating, or had always been awkward when they asked him about people he was interested in. Most of the time they were cool about not prying, but there had obviously been questions over the years. 

But this wouldn’t make the questions go away. It might actually make them harder to answer. 

He could usually brush them off, just say no, he wasn’t interested in anyone. But this would bring the focus of the question onto something real, something that would be more difficult for Shane to talk around and ignore. And the idea of explaining his relationship with Ilya—not that it was a relationship, just, whatever it was—to someone like Huff, or to his mom… it was enough to make him want to smother himself with the throw pillow underneath his head. 

Shane’s shoulders were tense now. He quickly shook his head. “I can’t yet.”

He left it at that, darting his eyes away, and finally picked up the remote to turn on the TV. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Ilya still looking at him. But he nodded after a moment, too, squeezing Shane’s foot before removing his hand from under the blanket, settling back onto his side of the couch. 

❄️

Shane had possibly never had a day like this—no practice, skipping the gym, not even a run—except for maybe the day after the snowstorm three years ago. But even then, they’d walked for hours through most of lower Manhattan. Today, it was already well into the afternoon, and they had barely moved from the couch. 

They had rewatched the last couple of episodes of Game of Thrones, which Shane still could not have described even if asked to now, after a second viewing. Then they’d played a few games of Chel, in which Ilya had alternated between trying to beat Shane while playing as Shane, and trying to beat Shane while playing as Scott Hunter. Shane hadn’t enjoyed either scenario, but Rozanov playing as Boston was somehow particularly menacing. 

They’d taken a break at some point for lunch. The leftover Russian food wasn’t enough for both of them, so they’d broken into the prepared food left by the chef that Shane used for most of his daily meals. Ilya hadn’t even complained about the salmon and brown rice, which either signaled some growth in his palette or just complacency in the bubble of the snowstorm. 

They were back on the couch again now, blanket abandoned, legs still carelessly thrown together. Shane was starting to get a crick in his neck from the way he was laying on the throw pillow, but he felt very little urge to move. 

Somehow they were watching a cooking show, which was a little silly, since neither of them were exactly big on cooking their own meals. But it was easy to have in the background while they alternated between talking about random shit and scrolling on their phones, occasionally changing the position of their legs and switching whose foot was wriggled underneath whose body. 

The idle silence had allowed Shane’s mind to wander. Even though he’d been distracted by the activities and good feelings of the day, it was hard not to think about the conversation they’d had the night before. Ilya had seemed lighter since then, but Shane didn’t want to take that for granted—like everything would be miraculously fixed now. If anything, he was only more aware of the need to ask better questions. 

With that in mind, he turned away from the steak sizzling on the screen and lightly nudged his knee against Ilya’s. 

“Is your dad doing okay?” 

Ilya took a moment to register the question, then tilted his head up to consider his answer to it. He looked back at Shane after a moment, then returned his attention to the meal preparation on the TV. “Not really, no. I don’t think so.” 

It came out matter-of-fact, with very little emotion behind it. Shane kept studying him, examining his face for hints of a reaction lurking underneath, but he couldn’t see anything. Ilya was still watching TV, but turned back when he sensed Shane’s eyes on the side of his face. He wasn’t frowning—if anything, he seemed slightly confused by the attention. 

“You’re going back soon, right? So at least you’ll get to see him.” It seemed like the right thing to say about a father in poor health, even if the father wasn’t a great one. 

“Yes, I am going back soon. But seeing him is…” Ilya shrugged expansively. “Is not really helpful. For me or for him.” 

Shane had learned enough over the years—through Ilya’s ambivalence, the overheard phone calls, the vague stories about his childhood—to understand that he was not close with his father for a reason. And he wanted to know about it, in the way that he wanted to know everything about Ilya, but it wasn’t something he wanted to probe. If it was given, he wanted it to be freely, at the time that Ilya wanted to give it. Especially after last night, when Shane couldn’t help but feel like something had been pried loose a little sooner than Ilya had wanted to let it go. 

But after last night, there was one question he still wanted to ask. 

“Why do you think you go back?” He asked quietly. 

Ilya tilted his head, squinting at him. He was frowning, too, but he didn’t seem angry. He shook his head after a moment, showing that he didn’t understand. Asking Shane to continue. 

“I just mean…” Shane studied the knee of his sweatpants as he tried to form the sentence that best expressed what he wanted to say. “Do you think you go back for him? Or is it for you?” 

Ilya looked at him steadily from the other side of the sofa. He had lifted one elbow to rest on the back of the couch, gently rubbing his fingers over his mouth and chin. “What if answer is neither?” 

Shane matched his steadiness. “Then… I think I would say that you should think about if you want to keep going back.” 

It was such an easy, bold thing for Shane to say, with his wonderful parents who sent him texts every day just to check in, and who had never asked him for anything they didn’t need, or anything they didn’t think he could give. 

He didn’t blame Ilya for the uneasy way he twisted his head to the side, processing the words as he considered Shane. But if no one had ever said this to him before, Shane didn’t think it was such a bad thing to be the one to give voice to it. 

Ilya breathed in slowly, then exhaled, dropping his hand from his face and turning back to look at the TV. But Shane could see that he wasn’t shutting down. Sure enough, a moment later, he spoke again. 

“I don’t think Alexei is giving very good care. I think I should go to check on how things are.” 

He paused, watching the contestants on the cooking show race around a table to grab ingredients before the others could get to them. The silly scene was at odds with the conversation, but somehow Shane thought it made it a little easier to have it. It gave them another anchor, something lighter to focus on instead of the intensity of the words. 

“He was not a good father… or a good husband. In probably all the ways he could have been bad at it.” Ilya rubbed his face again, scratching his fingers over the light layer of stubble that was starting to form. “That does not mean he should suffer like that.” 

Shane didn’t know how he would feel in the same position—his father had always been a great one, and a great husband, at least as far as he could tell. Shane had no frame of reference to consider how he would have reacted if he hadn’t been. Still—he thought that the view took courage. 

“You still send Alexei money?” Shane shifted his leg slightly, bumping it against Ilya’s foot. 

One of these things—either the question or the motion—made Ilya look over at him again. “Yes.” 

“For your dad’s care?” Shane asked. 

“Yes.” But Ilya tilted his head to one side, and then back to the other. The motion suggested that yes, it was for that, but maybe only kind of for that, or for more than just that. 

“That’s important.” Ilya’s feet were still half underneath Shane’s thigh. He shifted slightly, pulling them onto his lap. Now gently holding Ilya’s left ankle, Shane nodded at him from across the couch. After a moment, he added, “You’ve been doing it for a long time.” 

“Yes, it has been a lot of money,” Ilya said bluntly. 

That was about what Shane would have thought, even though they had never discussed it in explicit terms before. Shane still didn’t know exactly how much money Ilya earned from the various campaigns and jobs he had done over the years, but by this point, he could guess. And it was probably way more than he would have needed to afford a one bedroom apartment just north of Houston. He could only guess how much of it had gone to his brother’s Russian bank account. 

“I’m sorry that you’ve had to do that.” Sorry might not have been the right thing to say, but Shane wanted to say it anyway, because there was a good chance that no one else ever would. “That’s…” 

And he hesitated, because the only word coming to his mind was a judgmental one, and Ilya would have every right to get defensive over it. Still, because of how patient he had been through the rest of this conversation, or in the spirit of whatever had been happening between them for the past twenty four hours, Shane said it anyway. 

“That’s coercive.” 

Ilya frowned at him. Shane couldn’t tell if it was a translation issue, and tried to think of other words that would capture what he was trying to convey. 

“Forcing you,” he explained. “Like… through control.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, which made Shane understand that he knew what the word meant, but that he was trying to process its application in this situation. They stared at each other for a moment, Ilya rubbing the side of his nose, Shane waiting for the defensive reaction he was pretty sure was going to come. 

After a long moment, Ilya shook his head, dropping his hand onto his lap. “But what else would I do?” 

Shane didn’t have an answer. He was just thinking about Ilya, who had all but told him that his father had been abusive, who had sent his family money since leaving home as a teenager, who slept with men even while he contended with a Russian passport and two police officers in his asshole family. 

They hadn’t actually talked about it in years, but Shane had thought about it often, especially lately—what the weight of the immigration papers were like. Shane had gotten to know at least something about the U.S. immigration system, but it was different for him—he was Canadian, he had been here on a green card as a so-called elite athlete for years, now. Russia was different, precarious; especially with all the wild shit in the news about the election. It was too much. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. 

He squeezed Ilya’s foot in what was meant to be a reassuring manner. But Ilya gasped, yanking it away sharply. 

“Shane.” 

“Wait.” The heaviness of the conversation fell away immediately as Shane saw the panicked, wide-eyed look on Ilya’s face. 

“Are you ticklish??” 

How the fuck had he not discovered this in six fucking years? 

He grabbed for Ilya’s feet again, but Ilya was scrambling away from him. Shane was a fucking elite athlete, though, so he launched himself across the couch, ignoring the elbows and, fuck, fucking fists coming in his direction. He tried to pin Ilya with his knees, digging his fingers into his sides, his armpits, wherever he could reach. 

The wrestling rolled them both off the couch, and Shane really hoped his downstairs neighbors had gone for a walk or something when a few hundred pounds of muscle hit the floor together. Shane kept going, though, finally getting his fingers wedged under Ilya’s arms while he straddled his waist. 

Ilya was gasping underneath him, trying to squirm out of his grasp. “I will murder you and make it look like a fucking accident!” 

Satisfied that he had won, Shane finally relented. He let go, planting both hands onto the ground on either side of Ilya, and leaned down to kiss him instead. 

Ilya let him do this just long enough for Shane to get a little lost in it, to let his guard down, before Ilya flipped him over and pinned him down like they were wrestling. That kicked the whole thing off again, and Shane thought he would probably need to send his downstairs neighbors an apology gift, or at least avoid them for a little while. 

❄️

They were in a new position on the couch now, with Shane stretched out across the cushions, his head on Ilya’s stomach. He was enjoying the feeling of Ilya’s hand under his shirt, too, even as he occasionally tried to mess with Shane by pinching his nipple. 

“You know what is strange?” Ilya was stretching his neck, leaning his head slowly towards one shoulder, then the other. 

“What?” Shane tilted his head up, peering at Ilya around the hood of his sweatshirt. He was a little wary, because a question like that could mean literally anything. He tried to prepare himself to hear about the most pornographic form of sex he had never even imagined. 

“The only pictures of us are from Wimbledon.” 

“Well, yeah.” Shane frowned. “Where else would there be any from?” 

He had been slightly worried about pictures at the club, but that had been one of the first things he’d said to Ilya when the plan came up in the first place. Ilya had assured him that they’d pick a place where they wouldn’t get photographed. That had turned out to be true, which was all the better since Shane wasn’t keen on remembering the night. 

Ilya was looking at him like he was stupid. “A fucking camera?” 

Shane stared back up at him, confused, because he had clearly missed something. But it started to click, very slowly. 

For all Shane had worried about cameras over the years, Ilya was the one who really lived underneath them. Shane had hours worth of game tape, sure, and the responsibility of endorsements on top of all the NHL stuff, but everything Ilya did was in front of a camera. 

It wasn’t just his job, either. Shane had watched his social life get documented through pictures, too, for years—through other people’s accounts on Instagram, random pictures on Twitter, or blurbs in Page Six. 

Shane had always shied away from anything that might get close to that, but it was also true that Carter had posted pictures of him on Instagram before. There were photos on Shane’s own phone from trips he’d taken with his teammates, or candids from random outings. Ilya probably had thousands of pictures with Svetlana, or all of the other people Shane had seen him associated with over the years. And, by contrast, a handful from one single day with Shane, with a random person sitting in the middle. 

He considered what Ilya was saying. “You want to take a picture?” 

Ilya tilted his head down at him, eyebrows raised. 

Shane lifted his arm, gesturing at Ilya’s phone where it was sitting on the couch next to him. 

“Okay.” 

There had been points in time when Shane had been more paranoid about his phone, or at least, Ilya in his phone. The fears hadn’t even been particularly coherent: hacks, stolen phones, messages or pictures spotted over his shoulder, all of that shit. Was all of it a possibility? Yes. But Shane was always so fucking careful—with his phone, with his passwords, with his privacy. And whatever was on his phone was, frankly, probably already incriminating enough. 

There was also a little part of him that would probably always remember what Ilya had said to him that night, about his paranoia. As if Shane himself wasn’t sick to death of being paranoid. 

When he thought about the years that he had spent obsessing over the pictures of Ilya on Instagram, it felt even sillier to know that the only evidence out there to show that this thing even existed was with a Swedish stranger sitting between them. 

Shane nodded to the phone again. Ilya grabbed it, and Shane shifted his position so he was resting next to Ilya instead of laying on top of him. 

He didn’t give himself much time to think about it. He just leaned his head in next to Ilya’s and looked up at the camera. The reflection on the screen wasn’t great—Shane’s hood was up, and Ilya’s hair was wild and messy. 

Picture taken, Ilya brought the phone closer for both of them to inspect. It was actually a pretty bad one. Neither of them were smiling; Shane looked awkward, Ilya was frowning. 

“Why are you squinting?” Ilya asked critically. “Can’t you see? Do you need your glasses?” 

“I’m not putting my glasses on,” Shane responded immediately. “Those are for reading, you fucking pervert.” 

Ilya just shook his head, lifting his hand to take another. He examined his reflection first, fixing his hair with his free hand and tilting his head in a different direction. Shane watched him, huffing out a short laugh. 

“Fucking model.” But he pulled his hood down before he leaned his head back into position. 

Shane forced himself to have a more normal expression, smiling softly at the sight of their faces together in the small rectangle. Ilya took three pictures this time, before bringing the phone back down for inspection. 

Shane watched as he thumbed through all of them, lifting his hand to stop Ilya’s fingers at the third picture. “That’s a good one.” 

“They are all good ones.” Ilya let them look at it for another moment before he closed his phone, resting it on the arm of the couch next to him. Shane considered him for a second, then shifted himself back down, resting his head on Ilya’s stomach again. 

Dinner was an ordeal. They debated whether to order delivery, but after squinting down at the street together, decided that it would either be impossible or just cruel to get a delivery driver to bring them something with the roads and sidewalks still looking so bad. 

Ilya refused to eat salmon again, or the chicken and quinoa option that Shane also had. So he made them omelettes instead, while Shane looked on—which all seemed fine until Shane expressed the smallest amount of skepticism that Ilya could actually make an omelette, which was a totally fair question, since he had never seen Ilya cook anything before. Then it was just a fight, which was finally resolved when Shane actually had a bite of the omelette and agreed that it was good. 

They’d had them with rice and vegetables, which was also good. But Ilya was still hungry afterwards and told Shane that he was cruel for not having any Lucky Charms in the apartment. Shane had suggested that he just snort cocaine again instead. 

They were back on the couch, back in their old positions, backs against opposite sides with their legs stretched towards each other. Shane was starting to feel the effects of the day’s inertia, and was now stretching his arms over his head, arching his back, to try and get rid of some of the tightness in his muscles. 

“How old were you when you first had sex?” He didn’t really have a reason for asking, but he had wondered a few times before, and figured there was no harm in asking now.  

Ilya looked at him, intrigued, as he lifted his arms to mirror Shane’s stretch. “With boy or girl?” 

“Uh…” Shane tried to decide what he had been wondering about the most, but shrugged. “Both.” 

Ilya twisted to the side, his back popping before he dropped his arms down and settled again. “14, girl. 15, boy.” 

“Oh.” Shane considered this as he lowered his own arms. It wasn’t surprising, knowing Ilya. But it also seemed really young, especially when he thought about himself at 14 and 15. He wasn’t sure he had even started considering the idea that he was supposed to be thinking about girls, at that age. For a moment, he thought about asking Ilya for more details, but decided he didn’t really want them, at least for now. 

“How old were you?” Ilya asked. 

“Uh, 17 with a girl,” Shane responded. He darted his eyes back over to Ilya as he continued. “19, with a boy.” 

“Oh?” The glint in Ilya’s eye and the smirk on his face said that he had picked up on the invitation that Shane had put down, and was happy to take him up on it. “How was that, how was he?” 

“He was hot.” Ilya smiled even wider, like this was somehow new information to him, so Shane continued. “But he called me a crab right before he put his dick inside me. It kinda killed the mood.” 

Ilya was fully grinning now, though he tried to smother the expression with his hand as he raised his eyebrows at Shane. “He sounds very sexy and charming to me.” 

“That’s because your idea of setting the mood is vodka and a cigarette and a playlist of Drake songs,” Shane shot back. 

Ilya laughed, a surprised and delighted sound. He dropped his hand, looking at Shane challengingly from across the couch. “Oh, and how does one make love to Shane Hollander? Must have Canada Dry and laundry detergent on hand at all times.” 

Shane was biting down on his own grin, trying to match Ilya’s cocky expression. “That sounds extremely sexy to me.” 

“You are either very sad, or very kinky. Cannot decide which it is.” Ilya told him matter-of-factly. 

But Shane knew him too well at this point, and knew very well what he found sexy. He could see it on his face right now. 

So Shane kept eye contact as he slipped his hand into his pants, watching Ilya’s eyes dart down with the motion. Shane was already getting hard as he grasped himself underneath his sweatpants. Ilya’s line of sight was locked in on the movement, and took a long time to slowly drag back up Shane’s body, back to his face. 

Shane shrugged, when Ilya was looking at him again. “Why don’t you come over here to decide?” 

❄️

The cabin fever caught up with them too late to do very much about it. Shane suggested a late night trip to the gym in his building, but Ilya grimaced and shook his head. Shane didn’t push the issue, because he didn’t really feel like getting on a treadmill right now either. But Ilya insisted that the apartment had started to suffocate them in sex, so they’d cracked a window, letting in the sharp, cold, moist air, and a few errant snowflakes along with it. 

“Do you want to go up to the roof?” Shane asked as the possibility occurred to him. “I have access.” 

“Can I smoke?” 

“Absolutely fucking not,” said Shane, but obviously the answer was yes. 

He insisted they bundle up, even against Ilya’s asinine objections. Shane turned out to be right, of course, when they stepped out onto the roof to find well over a foot of snow. They waded through it anyway, making their way to the railing at the edge. 

The city glittered out before them, even more than it normally did. The lights from the apartment buildings around them and the tall buildings of Midtown, stretched further out into the distance, shimmered against the white snow blanketing the roofs and streets below. And for once, everything was still. It was late, and they were high up from the ground, but there were none of the usual ambient noises of the city, traffic sounds, ambulances, music, laughter. Standing here together, they could have been the only ones in New York. 

Shane took a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of the fresh air, even as the lighter clicked next to him. The cigarette glowed red as Ilya lit up, taking a slow inhale. 

“It feels nice out here,” Shane said, leaning his arms on the railing and tilting his head up to look at the sky. There were no stars, of course, but the night seemed to have cleared after the full day of snow. “We probably should have gone outside sooner.”

Ilya shrugged, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Was a good day.” 

Shane smiled at him. It was surprisingly easy to ignore the damp feeling through his pants from snow around his legs, or the cold wind on his face. It felt nice, actually. 

He looked back out at the city, studying the tall, glittering buildings. He didn’t come up here very much, and he didn’t just look at the city like this often enough. It made him think about how he’d felt when he’d first moved here, how small he’d felt. The city had felt like a machine, and his only aim was to not get caught up in its wheels. 

It was too much to say that it felt like home, exactly, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever go so far as to call himself a New Yorker. But he didn’t feel caught in the machinery anymore. He had picked up the rhythm, he had found his places, and his people. It was difficult to imagine being anywhere else, now. 

“You know,” Ilya said thoughtfully, also staring out at the city stretching out in front of them. 

Shane turned to look at him, taking in the sight of his frizzy curls sticking out from under his black hat, the moonlight falling on the slopes of his cheekbones. Ilya mirrored the movement, also turning to look at him. 

There was a strange expression on his face, and Shane immediately thought of the night in LA, at the thing Ilya had opened his mouth to say, which Shane had cut off because he didn’t think he could hear it. 

He’d spent three weeks thinking about that moment, wondering if that had been the key to everything: if stopping him had fucked everything up, maybe beyond repair. He’d spent three weeks wishing he could go back, stay there, and just fucking listen. 

So Shane stayed exactly where he was, silent this time. 

Ilya studied him, the cigarette forgotten in his hand as they regarded each other. He took a deep breath before he spoke. 

“You know that you are my best friend.” 

For a moment, Shane’s heart felt like it seized. The expression in Ilya’s eyes was so plain, so clear—it was like a window had opened. And for all of the dark clouds, the bad days, the thoughts that seemed to press him into a shell of himself, there was so much more inside: the funny, clever, stupid jokes, the thoughtful gestures, big and small, that he did even when he didn’t think anyone would notice, the careful hands, the strong, determined work ethic that had turned him into someone who couldn’t be forgotten, the undying affection for dogs, pigeons, and small children, the absolute commitment to looking, being, and sounding exactly like the person he wanted himself to be, and the capacity to say the dirtiest shit that a person could say to someone else while also making them feel like the most important person in the universe. All Shane could do was look through the window. 

The words took longer to settle over him. And when they did, a pang went through him, because friend was so specific, and because it reminded him of that phrase he had once been unable to excise from his mind: close friends, fucking sometimes. It was a reminder of the strangeness of this thing, which didn’t have a name—this non-relationship, this friendship. 

But the bigger part of him was still at the window. And he’d never felt more at peace with anything, because it was true. He couldn’t have agreed more. He had other friends, really good friends. But Ilya was the best one. 

He stepped closer, slipping his arm over Ilya’s shoulder. He drew him in close against him, and Ilya’s hand reached up to grasp him back. They pulled each other, sides touching through puffy layers of goose down and polyester. Shane leaned his head in, despite the sharp, gritty smell of the cigarette, resting against Ilya’s shoulder. 

“You’re mine, too,” he said softly. 

❄️

It was very, very late. Shane was on his side, Ilya curled in bed behind him, arms around him, fucking him slowly. 

It had finally come to him, a day late—why Ilya had looked so shocked the night before when Shane had said his name. It may have been the first time Shane had ever said it outloud, in six years of knowing each other, in six years of all of this. 

And how could that be, when it was always on the tip of his tongue—when he woke up in the morning, when he went to sleep, when he was at his lowest and searching for comfort, when he was at his happiest and thinking of the person that made him that way most of all? How had he never spoken Ilya aloud, when it was the only thing he ever wanted to say? 

Maybe the omission hadn’t been intentional. Or it maybe had been, but subconscious—another way to keep Ilya at a distance, confined in the parlance of the way Shane usually addressed guys in the locker room, safe in the way of normal friendship. 

Shane didn’t think he could stay at a distance for much longer. 

Ilya’s hand was gripping his hip and his nose was nuzzling against Shane’s ear. The stubble covering the lower half of his face brushed sharply against Shane’s neck, and Ilya’s short, panted gasps echoed as hot breaths just behind him. He was so deep inside, Shane felt like he might fall apart from the overwhelming sensation of it. 

“Ilya,” he choked out, turning his head into his pillow. 

Ilya must have thought something was wrong. He froze, until Shane reached back to pull him close again, to keep him from moving away. After a moment, Ilya relaxed. 

He curled himself tighter over Shane, releasing his hold on his hip to touch his face. Shane let himself be turned, twisting his body so that his face was closer, leaning his head against him. 

“Shane,” Ilya breathed into his mouth. He kissed him. 

❄️

The next day opened like the rest of them. The Admirals had already confirmed that they’d be traveling in the snow, so Shane had a few hours left to get ready to leave for Pittsburgh. Everything was moving again. 

A new change of clothes came out of the backpack, and Ilya was ready to go shortly after breakfast. Shane remembered last time—how he had almost given Ilya a carton of eggs just as a way to keep a hold of him for a little longer. 

He was calmer this time. But he stayed in the hallway again while Ilya got ready to leave, watching him as he knelt on the ground to tie his boots. 

It felt like some of the pressure inside of him had been released since Friday. It was so simple, now that he had articulated it in his head and said it out loud. He was gay. He was definitely gay. 

Ilya, though, was still something different. And though he was bad at a lot of things, bad at this specifically—Shane wasn’t stupid. There was something here. He knew Ilya felt it, too. 

But Ilya wasn’t naming it, either. He was calling Shane his best friend, and staying quiet in the tense moments, and letting the last questions go unasked. 

And in the absence of those answers, Shane refused to be the one to take the leap into making this something other than it was, this strange, nameless thing. Because what if this was it? What if Ilya didn’t actually want more? What if this was where he wanted to keep them, so that he could still keep combing through his DMs, meeting actresses at clubs, spending days on yachts with models? 

Or even if he didn’t. Then—what? Ilya would be his boyfriend? Shane hadn’t actually been a boyfriend since he was nineteen, and he’d been a really shitty one then. And how would that even work, now? Publicly, contending with the league and the media and all of the attention of Shane’s narrow but sharply focused slice of the world? Or, what, they’d just keep it all private? Stay inside forever, hiding from the snow? 

Shane couldn’t crack it yet. And he couldn’t risk losing it altogether by doing the wrong thing. 

Ilya was watching him as he stood up from the ground, and Shane tried to wipe this thought process off his face. He smiled, instead, from where he was leaning in the entryway. 

Ilya’s hand came up to rest at Shane’s abdomen, gently keeping him pressed against the wall as he stepped towards him. “Thank you for having me.” 

“Any time,” Shane answered, reaching up to hold him by the front of his jacket. 

“See you next snowstorm, then?” Ilya brushed his nose against Shane’s, close enough to kiss, still holding himself back. 

Shane tilted his head from side to side, enjoying the light contact between them. “Maybe a little sooner.” 

Ilya smiled, closing the distance to kiss him gently. Shane pulled him back after, for a second one. 

“Goodbye, Shane.” 

“Bye, Ilya.” 

Chapter End Notes

If you wish they said more—I think they both feel the same way. But progress isn’t linear and love is fucking stupid.

Writing this chapter took absolutely everything out of me. If you liked something in particular, I'd love if you let me know.

Thank you for reading. ☃️

Chapter 14: ten seconds

Chapter Summary

Making plans, suitcases, acts of service, Lucky Charms, a leaf, a bubble, and too many eyes.

Chapter Notes

January 2017, New York City

“Okay, but, Hudson Yards?” Ilya said, judgment etched all over his face. He paused over the suitcase with the Adidas sweatshirt bundled in his hands. 

“It’s closer to Madison Square Garden,” Shane shrugged, shifting onto his hands. He was sitting on the pillow in the window seat in Ilya’s bedroom, leaning back as he watched him unpack from his recent trip to Moscow. Ilya was only in town for a few days before turning around to go to Paris, and then Milan, for the January menswear shows. Shane was surprised he’d come back to New York at all rather than staying in Europe, but he wasn’t complaining about the chance to see him for a few days. 

“It’s a better area than it used to be,” Shane continued. “There are great buildings going up.” 

“You sound like all of these reasons have been rehearsed.” Ilya tossed the sweatshirt along with several other articles of clothing onto his bed. He zipped up the now empty suitcase, standing it upright on the floor. “What else is on your list of yes and nos? Come on, let’s hear them all.” 

“Pros and cons list,” Shane supplied, watching Ilya roll the suitcase back to his closet, returning to grab the clothes to take to his laundry hamper. He started to move off the window sill to help, but Ilya shook his head as he gathered everything into his arms. 

Shane stayed where he was, then, waiting for Ilya to come back. He wasn’t about to admit that, yes, he did actually have a list, and yes, the reasons he had mentioned so far were all in the “Pros” column. 

“Easy access to the West Side Highway,” he said when Ilya returned. “The High Line is nice.” 

“Too many tourists,” Ilya shook his head. He walked over to him, though, and nudged Shane’s knees apart to stand between his legs at the window sill. “But let me see again.” 

Shane pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and tapping around for a moment to find the email with the link to the mock-up of the apartment he was considering. He handed it to Ilya, who tilted the phone so they could both look at the details together. 

The building was new, and units were already mostly completed. The designer had sent over a detailed graphic showing what the place could look like if Shane decided to go ahead with purchasing and finishing it according to the specs they had talked about. 

“Is not bad,” Ilya considered, scrolling through the pictures, stopping at the kitchen, and again at each of the three bedrooms. “How long is it going to take?” 

“Not that long.” Shane leaned back again, letting Ilya scroll at his own pace, and adjusting in his seat so that his legs were more comfortably spread to make room for him. “The building is pretty much done, and the additional stuff I’d want would probably only be a few extra months. I’d probably be able to get in there before next season.” 

“Not a bad idea. Building is pretty nice. Probably can get more room, since who the fuck wants to live over there?” Ilya closed the phone, and handed it back to Shane, who lifted his hip to slide it into his back pocket. Ilya didn’t move away, though, leaning forward to rest his palms on the ledge, caging Shane in. 

“Maybe I should look into it, get a bigger place,” Ilya added, glancing around at the high ceilings of his bedroom, before looking back down at Shane. 

“You just bought your place two years ago.” Shane rested back on his elbows, keeping a good foot of distance between them as he smiled up at Ilya. 

“What, you have never heard of investment, Mr. Real Estate?” 

Shane rolled his eyes, slowly moving his knees in to grip tightly around Ilya’s hips. Ilya straightened up, taking the weight off his hands and moving them to Shane’s hips in return. 

“Could make good return from selling, building has increased in value now that Sage Cooper has moved in.” Ilya continued, pulling Shane closer to him by the hips. 

“Who?” Even with his dick now flush against Ilya’s, both of them pressing against each other through their jeans, Shane couldn’t help the wary feeling that he still got whenever Ilya dropped a name that evoked a mental image of a sexy and famous woman. 

“Very famous model, also daughter of famous director.” Ilya shrugged, moving his hands from Shane’s hips up to his shirt, tugging lightly for him to sit up. Shane stayed where he was. “Paparazzi are all over the place now when I come in the building.” 

“Oh?” Shane looked involuntarily over his shoulder towards the window, even though the one behind him didn’t even face the front of the building. 

He hadn’t seen anyone outside when he’d come over just a little while ago, but it was disturbing to think that it was a new possibility. It was probably going to be the only thing he thought about when he left, and again the next time he came over. He didn’t particularly want to get photographed on his way into Ilya’s building, especially considering how often he was here. 

On the other hand, if Ilya had really been concerned, he probably would have given Shane a heads up before he’d arrived today. And what would getting photographed outside really mean, anyway? It was just a building. Other people lived there. 

But Ilya was still talking about the possibility of a new place, now leaning some of his weight onto the hand still resting on Shane’s abdomen. “Hudson Yards would not be so bad, I guess. Close to water. High Line is nice.” 

He paused, dropping his eyes to Shane’s. “And if I move there too, could make it more like two blocks.” 

Despite the pressure of the hand on his torso, something felt like it fluttered in Shane’s chest at the words. Two blocks. 

Shane raised himself from his elbows, slowly, shifting so that he was sitting up and bringing himself eye-to-eye with Ilya. He hovered there for a moment, watching the blue eyes running over his face. 

“So are you going to finally suck my dick?” Ilya asked, pleasantly, bringing his hands back to Shane’s hips. 

“Finally?” Shane’s mouth dropped open slightly as he laughed. 

Ilya grinned, gripping him tightly. “I have been waiting so patiently, while you forced me to unpack my suitcase and put clothes in laundry. And look at your fancy apartment plans.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I really twisted your arm.” 

“You did, sitting here and making me think about all the times I have fucked you right on this pillow.” Ilya squeezed him again for emphasis. Shane couldn’t stop himself from flushing even as he rolled his eyes for a second time in less than a minute. 

He nudged Ilya away, though. Ilya moved reluctantly, until he realized Shane’s plan. He slid off the window sill, standing in front of Ilya only long enough to pat his cheek affectionately, mimicking the same gesture Ilya did to him all the time, before dropping down to his knees. Finally.

_____

The pressure of the season should have been immense on the repeat champions. The expectations were high—fucking sky high. 

But Shane had good practice at ignoring the media, the internet, and all of the other outside noise. And his team had remained largely the same since the win in 2015, especially in the core group of players. They knew each other, they trusted each other. They understood how to put their heads down and get through it. 

And Shane understood his place at the center of it now, too. It was strange to think that it was his fourth season as captain. After all the time he’d spent worrying about whether he was the right person, whether he’d be able to find the skill and leadership within himself—the proof was there, tangible. Of course there was something that worked. They’d won two Cups. 

It was probably the trio of them together that made it the most effective: him, Vaughn, and Huff. There were still occasionally times when he wondered if the triangle would be stronger if someone else was at his point. Someone who Vaughn didn’t have to occasionally prompt into speaking up, or who Huff didn’t occasionally have to make quiet, informed suggestions to. Someone, he thought wryly, kind of like Scott Hunter. 

But that was the ghost of his insecurity from his rookie season speaking. Hunter had been with Boston for almost a decade now, and Shane, insanely, had been with the Admirals for almost as long. They were both perfectly fine where they were, and had each had plenty of success to show for it. (With two Hart trophies and a Conn Smythe, Shane had had a little more.) 

Sometimes, though, he looked at Hunter and wondered: how did that actually work? Not that the Boston guys were all, like, violent hooligans—he actually liked the ones he knew. Marleau and Connors had been pretty funny, he’d discovered one time when they had all been hanging out together in a cluster at the NHL awards. But there was some incongruence with Scott Hunter in the middle of them—Hunter, with his spotless, Nice Guy reputation, compared to the bruising form of Hammersmith literally knocking guys toothless as he shouldered through them. 

But by that logic, did Shane fit with the Admirals? They were his team, all the way to the center of himself, but sometimes he wasn’t totally sure. Sometimes it felt like he was swimming a little separately from the rest of the group, a little on his own path, a little out of sync with everyone else. 

And if that logic kept going—where would he fit? 

He knew his mom’s answer. She would have said the Montreal Voyageurs before the question had even left his mouth. And maybe that would have worked, maybe he could have helped pull them up from the middle of the pack and into a real contender. Montreal was a great city, would have been a good place to live. He knew some of the guys from Canada, and they were alright. Maybe it would have worked, and maybe he would have fit. 

But it didn’t matter. It was all just a silly thought exercise, anyway, something stupid to think about while on the plane to Tampa for the All Star Game. 

It wasn’t his life, and he was happy with the one he had. 

_____

February 2017, New York City

Ilya came back from Paris and Milan and immediately rolled into a stream of obligations in New York. Even after observing from afar for so many years, Shane still didn’t totally understand all of the commitments on his schedule. Shows for different menswear designers, photo shoots, events, parties, after parties—it was like a wholly different universe than the cycle of practices, flights, and games that Shane was caught in. 

But he followed it online, anyway, pausing every time he saw a picture or clip of Ilya. In some of them, he was almost unrecognizable from the handsome guy Shane had met years ago—still as confident, but now taller, with harder edges, more serious, more sophisticated. An extremely sexy, grown man. 

Shane was fresh off a trip to Buffalo. He’d stopped at home only to change and get ready to meet Ilya, who was finally free after his last event. It hadn’t been that long since they’d seen each other, but Shane was antsy, anyway. 

He’d remembered what Ilya had said about photographers outside of his building, and as a consequence, had probably overdone it. He was wearing both sunglasses and a black baseball cap, even though it was well after dark. 

And then, of course, there was no one outside of the building. It was kind of a lesson for him, actually: how often his paranoia had ended up torturing him for absolutely no reason. 

The door was open, like it occasionally was when he came up to apartment 5H from the lobby. Shane was somewhat surprised not to find Ilya waiting in the entryway, as he often was. He slipped off his shoes, leaving them lined up neatly against the wall, and made his way into the living room as he looked around for him. 

Ilya was on the couch, laying on his back with his arm pressed over his eyes. Shane felt something cold run through him as he paused, considering the pose.

He had seemed fine when they’d texted earlier, but that didn’t mean anything. It had been a long few weeks, and Ilya had had the kind of schedule that could slowly build pressure in anyone. It wouldn’t have been surprising if it had all become too much. 

“Hey,” Shane said tentatively, stepping towards him. 

A groaning noise came from the man on the couch. “Hi.” 

Okay, so it was just whining. 

Shane bit down on a relieved smile, making his way over to the couch at a normal pace now. He bypassed pleasantries and straddled Ilya’s hips, settling down on top of him. 

“What?” Ilya squinted up at him from behind the arm. Shane slid his hands up towards Ilya’s ribs, not to tickle—but maybe just for the suggestion of it. It was enough for Ilya to gasp, though, removing the arm from in front of his face. 

“I am so tired, Hollander, and here you are to torture me.” Ilya lifted his head from the throw pillow, then dropped it back down. 

“Oh, sorry, should I leave instead?” Shane removed one of his hands to push himself up, like he was going to get off the couch. As he had anticipated, Ilya’s hands immediately came up to grab his hips, pulling him back down. 

“See? All you do is torture,” he grumbled, closing his eyes and leaning his head back dramatically against the throw pillow. 

Shane pushed himself out of Ilya’s grip only enough to stretch himself out on top of him, laying down carefully. “I don’t know, I feel like I’m getting mixed messages.” 

He settled with his face directly in front of Ilya’s, smiling when his eyes cracked open to look up at Shane. 

“And what is this one telling you?” Ilya mumbled, moving his hands to squeeze Shane’s ass, then bringing them up to slip his fingertips under the waistband of his pants. Shane’s body was responding to the light contact, and he pushed his hips more firmly against Ilya to make sure he was aware of it. 

“I think it’s telling me that maybe we should get up from the couch.” Shane made no attempt to move, though, instead bringing his forearm up to lean more weight on it as he brought his face closer to Ilya’s, studying his tired eyes and soft smile from only inches away, now. 

“Wrong.” Ilya followed it up by making a croaking noise that might have been meant to imitate a buzzer. “Back to the video room, Hollander, must keep studying the game tape.” 

“Yeah, there’s definitely never going to be any video of this,” Shane retorted, leaning down to kiss Ilya’s neck, enjoying the soft groan he received in return. 

But he was only able to do this for a few moments before he was pushed back, somewhat unceremoniously, as Ilya came to life, sliding out from under Shane and getting up from the couch. Shane barely had time to blink his eyes open before he, too, was being lifted up from the cushion. 

“Jesus, Ilya!” He tried to balance himself properly before the motion sent them both back onto the couch or the floor. 

Unsurprisingly, Ilya was just smug as he held him aloft, confident in his stable grip. “Spend all the time you want in the weight room, still getting carried like a princess.” 

“You know I could lift you too,” Shane argued, before he realized it really wasn’t the point. He let Ilya carry him halfway out of the living room before he pushed himself down onto the ground again, grabbing Ilya by the shirt to pull him the rest of the way into the bedroom. 

They hadn’t made it out of most of their clothes yet when Ilya’s phone started buzzing. Shane yanked his hand out of Ilya’s pants, startled at the sudden jolt, like something zapped him. Ilya removed his own hand from Shane’s pec to pull the phone from his pocket, tossing it onto the bed away from them without looking at it. 

A moment later, though, it started buzzing again, the motion vibrating through the bedsheets. 

Ilya groaned, clearly understanding the twist of Shane’s head to mean that this was the bad kind of distraction. He slid away, grabbing the phone again and looking at the screen. 

The dark frown that fell over his brow and irritated exhale let Shane know that it was Alexei. Ilya pushed the button on the side of the phone, placing it facedown on the nightstand before returning his lips to Shane’s collarbone. Shane tried to put it out of his mind, even when the phone started vibrating a third time. 

But then the phone buzzed yet again, and it had been years since Alexei had called this many times in a row. Shane finally pulled himself away, forcibly pushing Ilya’s head back from his bare chest. 

“Ilya, just answer it.” 

The groan Ilya let out was a far cry from the playful, sexy one he had emitted when Shane entered the apartment. The look on his face said enough—that he didn’t want to know about whatever was on the other end of the fourth call in a row from his brother. Shane couldn’t blame him, either, but he could only shrug. Pushing it off was only going to make it worse. 

So Ilya heaved himself up, grabbing the cell phone from the nightstand and adjusting himself in his pants. Shane exhaled, slowly unfolding his legs to stretch out across the bed, trying to catch his breath. Ilya was already leaving the bedroom as he answered with a gruff, single word in Russian. 

Lifting a hand to rub his face, Shane almost missed Ilya stop in the doorway. But the motion—or lack of it—caught his eye, and he looked over, immediately catching the rigid posture, the slightly lifted shoulders. He sat up. 

The conversation wasn’t long. Ilya’s voice sounded short, curt, but even. It was obvious from his body language that something had happened—and Shane had a pretty good guess about what it was—but Ilya sounded essentially the same as he always did when he spoke to his brother. 

He hung up after only two or three minutes. But Shane watched him standing there, not moving from his place half in, half out of the bedroom, silent, clutching the phone in his hand, arm limp at his side. 

Shane didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he should say something, but he was filled with absurd relief that they hadn’t actually gotten undressed. 

“Hey,” he said quietly, after a moment, an echo of the same word he’d used upon entering the apartment. It was actually appropriate now. 

Ilya turned to blink at him—not quite like he had forgotten Shane was there, but maybe more like he’d forgotten that he was.  

Shane looked back, and waited. 

“My father died.” Ilya’s face was as blank as his voice sounded. 

Shane pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I’m so sorry.” 

There wasn’t much more he could say, and he was sorry. Because of the death, but also because of the complicated relationship Ilya had had with his father, and because they would never have the chance to have anything better. There was a lot more loss in that than simply the disappearance of the person. 

But Ilya shook his head in return, brushing off the words as he shoved the phone into his back pocket and raked a hand through his already messy hair. 

“Fucking hassle,” he said, coming into the bedroom. “Going back to Moscow already again. Just finished traveling.” 

Shane didn’t know if he really meant this. He probably did, to some extent, because he’d looked exhausted all night—but it seemed like obviously displaced emotion. Shane wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it, though. He’d never been in this situation, especially not with anyone close, especially not with someone who had already lost one parent. He chewed on his lip, trying to figure out what to say or do. 

But Ilya was already coming back to the bed, and Shane wasn’t even sure what was going on until he was climbing on top of him again. 

“Whoa,” Shane said, holding out a hand to stop him, or at least pause. 

“What?” Ilya sounded annoyed, and Shane stared, suddenly wondering if they were about to have a fight because Ilya was going to try to fuck him minutes after learning his father died. Shane would do a lot of things for Ilya, but he wasn’t sure he could turn his own brain off enough for this one. 

So he took a deep breath, pulling together every ounce of patience he had within him, keeping his hand pressed gently against Ilya’s chest. “Are you going to Moscow?” 

“Yes, I just said that, you have gone deaf?” Ilya pressed back against him, frowning as he tried to push him down onto the bed. But Shane was strong, too. He held steady. 

“Why don’t you figure out the details first?” 

“Oh, you do bargains for fucking now?” Ilya scowled. 

Shane didn’t even bother to answer that. It was clear to him now that Ilya wasn’t actually annoyed with him. It wasn’t even displaced emotion—it was just Ilya finding a way to fill the silence. Shane watched him, and the muscle jumping in his jaw, the deep brow set over his stormy eyes. 

And eventually Ilya exhaled as he sat up, rolling over to pull his phone out of his pocket again. Shane watched as he opened it, muttering to himself in Russian. 

After a moment, though, Shane noticed that his hands were shaking. 

“Ilya.” Shane put his hand on his back. Ilya froze. 

When Shane looked, he wasn’t looking back. He was staring in the middle distance, jaw tense, eyes still narrowed, but now filling with a glassy sheen. 

Shane swallowed against the dryness that felt like something sharp in his throat. He didn’t know what it was like to be in this position, and now Ilya had to know twice over. It was unbelievably unfair. He didn’t say sorry, or draw attention to it, though. He simply fisted the hand on Ilya’s back through the material of his shirt, bunching it in his grip, holding him there tightly. 

But after a moment, he let go. 

“Okay,” he said, standing up from the bed. “You get the flight. I’ll work on the other stuff.” 

Ilya was pulled out of his daze at this. He looked up at Shane questioningly, blinking through the moisture in his eyes. 

“Or, wait. Do you want me to get the flight? No, that doesn’t make sense, you know all of your passport details and stuff. Yeah. You get the flight.” Shane waved his hand at Ilya as he went through this thought process, turning to go into the closet. 

He found what he needed relatively quickly, and came out rolling a suitcase. Ilya still hadn’t moved from the bed. He was staring at Shane in confusion. 

Shane didn’t bother explaining. Unlike Ilya, he would never put a suitcase on top of a bed, so he unzipped it onto the ground, bringing both sides flat before he went to the dresser to start with the easy stuff. He hadn’t actually dug around in Ilya’s drawers before, though, so it took him a second to find the socks and underwear. 

“How long do you think you’re going to go for?” Shane pulled out a few pairs of each to start, waiting for Ilya to answer. 

The response came after another long pause, but this time when Ilya spoke, it sounded closer to a normal voice, albeit a tired one. “A week.” 

Shane nodded. He tossed the socks and underwear into the suitcase—he would pack them properly once he had everything that needed to go in there—and knelt down to check the other drawers. 

“Do the flights usually leave at night? Or are you going to wait until the morning?” He asked, making it sound conversational. He may have never had to do this before, exactly, but he had talked plenty of rookies through a new play, and sometimes the best thing to do was guide them through all of the steps until they started taking it over for themselves. 

“Both. Night is better.” Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Ilya looking down at his phone again. After a moment, he exhaled, swiping at the screen. 

Shane nodded to himself as he tossed a few pairs of sweatpants and t-shirts into the open suitcase, leaving the dresser to go back to the closet for options that could be worn to a funeral. 

“Do you want me to call Svetlana?” He asked on his way back out, a couple of sweaters and shirts in his arms. He wasn’t sure what Ilya would want to wear, or exactly how cold it was in February in Moscow, but he figured he would give him a few options. 

Ilya shook his head, still staring at his phone. “No, I will do it.” 

Shane put the nicer clothes on the chair, rather than dumping them into the suitcase. He was thinking about shoes, and also comfortable clothing, when he realized Ilya had stood up from the bed. Before Shane knew it, he was in front of him, and then his arms were around him. 

He breathed out as Ilya rested his head on Shane’s shoulder. His brain turned on then, and he brought his arms up, embracing Ilya. 

They had touched each other in so many different ways over so many years, but somehow, this was new. Shane sighed again, letting himself take in the feeling of Ilya’s arms around him, the feeling of his body against him. He held him tightly. 

They had sex before Ilya left for the airport. Shane had worried about the time, at first, but it had ended up fine. He kissed him inside the apartment, and hugged him one more time, before they left the building together. Ilya got in the car waiting outside, and Shane looked over his shoulder, watching it pull away from the curb, before he walked ten blocks home. 

_____

Ilya called him on his first full day in Russia. Shane was at home, in the stretch of time between practice and an evening game against Calgary, and jumped to take the call. He didn’t know why he was so surprised that it only took five minutes for Ilya to suggest they turn their cameras on and take their clothes off. 

He did it, though. He’d heard that grief took different forms for different people. 

The grief was different, again, after the funeral itself. He was glad that he was still at home, glad that he had been there to take the call. Shane sat on the floor in his living room, his back against one of the big windows, as he listened to Ilya talk. It was raining outside, fat drops of water hitting the glass behind him in a steady patter. 

Ilya had sounded shaky from the moment Shane picked up the phone. He didn’t say much, so Shane was left to fill in the blanks: he assumed that the funeral had been hard, probably not only because of his dad, but also because of Alexei and the rest of his extended family, such that it was. Shane was glad that Svetlana had been there for it, but even still, Ilya had clearly needed to get out and get some air. 

He couldn’t identify the emotion he felt at the idea that he was the one who Ilya turned to when he needed this comfort—not his oldest friend, Svetlana, who was actually, physically, there with him right now, not anyone else.  

It was relief, maybe, most of all: that Ilya had actually listened to him, in bed, in December, when Shane had said that he could talk to him if he ever needed to. 

But after a few stilted moments at the beginning of the conversation, listening to Ilya stumble over his words, Shane wasn’t sure that it was actually working. The idea came to him suddenly: that it really wasn’t about Shane listening, it was more about Ilya talking. So he suggested that Ilya just speak in Russian, just to get it all out of his system. 

Ilya had immediately pivoted, and with such obvious relief, Shane wondered why he’d never thought about telling him to do this before. He launched into his first language, speaking more quickly and smoothly than, Shane realized, he had ever heard him speak, even when he occasionally lapsed into Russian with Svetlana. 

Shane hadn’t spent enough time considering the intense effort that Ilya had put into learning English. They had talked about it only once—Ilya telling him about how his agent had told him that his English was good, which would help him in the industry. But then he’d gotten to his first job, and he’d barely understood what he was being told to do. He had resolved not to let the language barrier be an impediment, and so, even back at 16, he’d pushed himself to spend his free time improving his English. Shane had expressed his admiration when he’d heard this, but Ilya had brushed him off, telling him that the lessons had largely been watching Friends. 

Friends aside, though, Ilya’s English had been very good for a long time. But as he listened to the rhythmic tones of Ilya speaking in Russian, Shane marveled—as he had many times in the past—at how fucking smart Ilya really was, to be so adept at communicating in a second language when all of this was still left under the surface. He should have gotten every offer to act in every dramatic, tragic role he had ever considered. He should have gotten everything he had ever wanted. 

And Shane wondered if he should have spent just a little bit of his own down time, on long flights and bus rides, trying to learn Russian. 

It occurred to him on Thursday, when he was ordering his groceries for the next week, that there was a refrigerator full of food that had been sitting unused for several days, ten blocks south of his apartment. Either that, or there was an empty fridge that was waiting for a person to return to it a few days from now. Neither option seemed great. 

He didn’t add much to his order—just the basics: eggs, organic whole milk, Lucky Charms, soup, a couple of decently healthy prepared meals, some vegetables that he was willing Ilya to eat by physically placing them in his fridge. He got everything delivered along with his own order when it arrived on Friday. 

He walked down with two bags on Saturday. Ilya’s building had moved to using an app for entry, and Ilya had granted Shane permanent access when it had been installed. Shane thought it was fucking stupid—it didn’t exactly seem secure—but it came in handy today, letting him simply lift his phone to the electronic scanner to gain access into the lobby. The doorman nodded at him as he passed, and Shane tried not to fixate on how often he must have seen him coming here to be so comfortable with him passing through. 

Maybe it wasn’t that, though—maybe it was just the fact that Shane had gotten in using the app, and he looked trustworthy enough, carrying two bags full of groceries towards the elevator. 

He let himself into 5H, hitting the familiar code on the keypad on Ilya’s door. The apartment felt different when he came in—quiet, stale. It was missing its most important component. 

But Shane did what he needed to do, throwing out the things in the fridge—a couple of takeout containers, wilted spinach, a half-empty smoothie—and replacing it with the new stuff he’d bought. He did a small sweep of the rest of the place, too, including cracking open the living room windows to let in a little bit of fresh air. 

The cleaners had come at some point, replacing the sheets on Ilya’s bed, which Shane remembered, belatedly, that they had left rumpled and dirty the night of his flight. But Shane didn’t know when they would be coming back again, so he took the garbage out with him as he left, sending the bag down the trash chute at the end of the hall before he headed home. 

It was the kind of thing a person would do for a friend, he told himself. Or anyone they cared about. 

_____

Ilya came home a couple of days later. 

Shane had been trying not to count down the days, but it was hard not to think about its approach, especially when he found himself home with nothing to do after a game against Colorado, aware that Ilya’s plane would be landing at JFK any minute. 

It was late when he texted, though—and it wasn’t exactly what Shane expected. 

IR
Fucking cameras outside of my fucking building
I am so sick of this shit
Don’t even want to get out of the fucking car

Come over here.

Ilya arrived fifteen minutes later, with his suitcase, and looking absolutely wrecked when he slid his sunglasses off. His eyes were puffy and red, and his hair looked like it may not have been washed in days. It had barely been over a week, but his black wool coat looked like it was hanging on his slumped shoulders. 

Shane couldn’t hold back his concern, grabbing the bag from him and rolling it to rest against the wall. He took the coat, next, draping it over the back of a chair. 

“Did they get pictures of you?” 

He didn’t even really know if this was something Ilya was concerned about. He was famous, but Shane didn’t really understand what level of fame somebody needed to be at to get photographed at random in the street. It wasn’t even about the photo itself—it was about the idea of the intrusion, at a time when Ilya needed peace, that made Shane want to go downtown and throw their cameras into the street.  

“No.” Ilya’s voice was tired, gravelly. The sound of it made Shane’s stomach hurt, and he reached out to grab his arm, squeezing gently. 

The motion made Ilya tilt forward, bringing his hands up to grip Shane at the waist and shoulder. He leaned down, resting his head against him, exhaling a slow breath against his neck. Shane adjusted his grip, bringing both arms up, moving them into a tighter hug. 

“Come on,” he said after a moment, muffled slightly by his face pressed against the side of Ilya’s head. “Sit down. Are you hungry?” 

He said no, but Shane went into his fridge anyway. He thought Ilya would complain about the chicken, brown rice, and vegetables, but he ate without complaint, quickly enough that Shane suspected he hadn’t had anything on the plane, and probably had been hungry, even if he hadn’t realized it. Shane sat with him, trying not to watch too carefully. He wasn’t sure what to say, either, but part of him got the sense that it wasn’t necessary to say anything at all—maybe just his presence was enough. 

He sent Ilya to the couch after he was finished eating, and put the dishes in the dishwasher before he joined him. He took his usual position on the opposite end, but Ilya started shifting as soon as he sat down. 

He maneuvered himself so that he was closer to Shane, stretching out until his head was on top of his thighs. Shane let him settle before lifting his hands, resting one on Ilya’s shoulder and letting the other gently push against his scalp. Even though he could only see the side of Ilya’s face, he caught the immediate relief the motion brought. Ilya visibly relaxed, closing his eyes against the sensation of the fingers on his head. Shane kept going, gently scratching against his scalp and down towards his neck. 

Ilya exhaled, a quiet puff of heat against Shane’s sweatpants. 

“Shane,” he said softly. 

The quiet, gentle way that he said it was at odds with the way that it pierced into Shane. He kept moving his hand through his hair, massaging gently, gratified by the way Ilya leaned into the contact. After a moment, Ilya spoke again. 

“I am so tired of people looking at me,” he mumbled, his face pressed against Shane’s leg. 

And fuck, Shane knew exactly what he meant. But it wasn’t the same. Shane was under his own kind of spotlight, a unique magnifying glass peering down over him at all times, the numbers he produced, the gossip coming out of his locker room, the motion of his legs, and arms, and stick. 

Ilya’s pressure was different. Ilya’s was, literally, a camera. Everything he did depended on his performance, his willingness to show his face, his body, and to never let them see what he was really thinking, or the fact that he could even think at all. And he had to do it all the time, if he wanted success. 

Shane felt exhausted just thinking about it. Did he ever get to hide? Shane had the offseason, at least, and the cottage. When was Ilya free from the cameras? Was it only when he was alone? Or with Shane? 

He thought about it, then: the memory of Ilya in the summer sunshine, even though it had been in the stands at Wimbledon, with a woman, multiple people, sitting in between them, cameras on the whole time.  

How would he look in real, open space? What would it be like for him to exist in a place where he could fully be himself, outside in the open, the way that Shane was able to for just a little bit of time every year? He had thought about Ilya so many times over the past two summers at the cottage—but he’d never actually considered the prospect of him being there. Why had he never invited him? 

He wanted to do it now, but Ilya’s breathing had changed. Shane looked down, taking in the slow deep breaths and steady rise and fall of his chest. He let him sleep, keeping his hand gently threaded through his hair. 

When he woke up an hour later, Shane’s leg had started to cramp and his back was starting to hurt. He hadn’t moved, though. Ilya sat up slowly, leaning against Shane for a second before he pulled himself off the couch. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

Shane was already shaking his head, though he took a second to stretch his back before he followed suit and stood.

“Don’t apologize. You’re fucking exhausted.” 

Ilya was still so tired he couldn’t do much more than nod his agreement. Shane almost wanted to ask him to stay, but it wasn’t far for him to go, and Shane had an earlier practice than usual in the morning. So he rolled Ilya’s suitcase to the door, and rubbed his back before he left. 

He couldn’t stop himself from saying one more thing, though. “Just come back if there’s anyone outside, okay?” 

Ilya smiled, despite the exhaustion. “Okay.” 

He kissed Shane gently. Shane held him there for a moment by his coat, then let go. 

Half an hour later, he was getting ready for bed when his phone buzzed. He wiped his face with a washcloth, blinking against the moisture, as his eyes adjusted to the screen. 

IR
The food. 
Thank you.

Shane smiled as texted him back, and set the phone aside. 

_____

March 2017, New York City

There wasn’t another word for it: Ilya had been really fucking depressed since he’d gotten back from Moscow. 

Of course it made sense. The winter was stretching onwards, and New York was grey, wet, and cold. Ilya had lost both of his parents, and had apparently had a rupturing fight with Alexei before leaving Russia. Shane was privately not so upset at that, but even if Ilya hadn’t been close with his family, the circumstances were still really hard, too much for any person to take in all at once. 

Shane’s season was at an inflection point, too. The Admirals were in a decent position, but not as strong as two-time champions probably should have been. He was trying not to let it get to him—some of his team was already in their heads enough about it, despite all of the attempts he, Vaughn, and Huff had made at trying to remind them that playoffs were playoffs, it didn’t matter where they were in the standings going into them. 

But it was only a few weeks to go before playoffs began. Shane’s body was already aching. He was exhausted thinking about the schedule and the travel. 

And then there was Ilya. He hated the idea of going into a stretch of at least three months without really seeing each other, but that’s what it would have to be, between the schedule Shane was hoping to have, at least, and the commitments that would start for Ilya in late May and continue into the summer. 

He still wanted to ask Ilya to see him in the summer. At the cottage, if he wanted. Or somewhere else, if he preferred that. Even just in New York. The place itself didn’t really matter, though it was true that Shane couldn’t stop wondering what Ilya would think about his cottage. He’d have plenty of shit to talk about Canada, probably. And probably also about Shane’s well. 

But Shane hadn’t found the right time to ask. On one hand, he was probably just putting it off for his own bullshit reasons, but at the same time—things had been undeniably difficult lately. The last few times they’d seen each other, Ilya had seemed like a shell of himself. Shane was doing his best not to obsess over it after the conversation they’d had back in December, but it was hard, when Ilya was so quiet, withdrawn, and tired. 

Like always, they had sex each time they saw each other—and Ilya would be present, maybe too intense, gripping Shane a little too hard, like he was trying to anchor both of them into something together. But like Shane remembered first noticing years ago, he’d drift away slowly afterwards, resting quietly in the bed or on the couch. 

There was one difference now, though. These days, Shane had the confidence to reach for him. And when he did, Ilya always came, resting his head against Shane’s shoulder, or chest, or leg. 

Today, they had a whole afternoon together, and a whole night ahead of them—Shane wasn’t doing anything until practice tomorrow, before a night game against New Jersey. They were in what was becoming a familiar position, with Ilya slumped on the couch with his face pressed against Shane’s arm, staring blankly at the television in front of him. 

Shane, for his part, was forming a particular kind of plan for maybe the first time in his life. 

“We should go out,” he said, breaking the silence for the first time in several minutes. 

He felt Ilya’s brow furrow against his arm even without looking down at him. 

“Out, what do you mean, out?” Ilya asked after a long pause. He sounded blank, tired—but also at least mildly curious, which Shane took as a good sign. 

“I mean, we should go somewhere.” Shane turned his head, shifting back a few inches so that he could meet Ilya’s eye.

He kept his face as deadpan as possible. “Do you want to go to a club?” 

It took a second, but the look Ilya gave him as he turned his head slowly was among the most withering Shane had ever received. Shane smirked back, though, and Ilya just rolled his eyes before turning his head straight again, towards the cooking show he definitely wasn’t watching. 

Shane took the opportunity to pick up his phone. He had the sense that this was actually a pretty good plan, if he could get it right. 

Hey. Do you know of any decent bars we could go to tonight by any chance? Ideally something private but also fun.

Svetlana Vetrova
Wow. I’m honored that you asked me for advice on something fun. 
[LINK: june bar]

Thanks, this looks good. Do you know if it’s easy to get in without a reservation or anything? 

Svetlana Vetrova
You should be fine, but I’ll text the owner. 
All set. Just give them my name. 

Thanks. I really appreciate it. 

Svetlana Vetrova
Have fun.

“Hey,” he said, putting his phone face down on the couch. Ilya’s head tilted slightly without lifting up. 

“Get dressed,” Shane continued. “In real clothes. We’re going out.” 

“What do you mean, we’re going out?” Ilya stayed stubbornly pressed against Shane’s arm, but he took the irritated tone as a good sign. He shrugged his shoulder a few times, jostling Ilya until he sat up properly. 

“I mean, we’re going to a bar. So get dressed.” Shane stood up, smiling down at Ilya, who was still scowling at him in confusion. 

“If you don’t want to wear what you came here in, you’re welcome to borrow some of my clothes,” he added innocently. Ilya let out a loud, raspy groan, which Shane took as the clearest sign of normalcy yet. 

It took a little more coaxing, both less than Shane might have anticipated given Ilya’s recent mood, but still more than he might have ever needed to get Ilya into a bar. Ilya obviously wore his own clothes, and Shane had tried to sweeten the deal by letting him pick Shane’s shirt, too. Ilya had still managed to bitch about it, insisting that Shane didn’t even have any good options to choose from. But Shane thought he looked pretty good when they made it out the door.   

The place Svetlana had suggested was in the East Village, not very far from Ilya’s apartment. The entrance to the bar was behind a nondescript door, up a narrow flight of stairs. Ilya had looked curious as they entered, until Shane explained that he had gotten the recommendation from Svetlana. 

“Ah, that makes sense. You would never know about a place like this, unless they had a sign on the door that said ‘free pucks inside.’” Ilya nodded as he led Shane up the stairs. 

“That doesn’t even make sense. I could get free pucks at the rink.” Shane shot back, which sounded incredibly lame even to his own ears as soon as it was out of his mouth. Ilya just laughed at him, which was yet another sign of improvement. 

Once inside the bar, Shane could see why Svetlana had suggested it. It was small and narrow, situated in a strange room with a sloped roof that reminded Shane of an attic. The walls were covered with a vibrant wallpaper, modern lamps hanging intermittently across the ceiling. The space was tight, but it was buzzing. It was packed wall to wall with people, all of whom seemed too wrapped up in their own conversations to bother looking at anyone else. Shane was gratified to see Ilya looking around with interest, too. 

As Svetlana had instructed, they gave her name at the host’s stand, and were taken to a small, two-person booth at the back of the room. They squeezed in across from each other, Ilya’s knee wedging between Shane’s legs underneath the table. At first, Shane’s back stiffened at the intimacy of the contact—Ilya’s knee was dangerously close to his dick—but it didn’t seem like anyone would be likely to look under the table to see their legs, and he wasn’t sure anyone really cared, anyway. 

The menu of cocktails was absurd, and also outrageously expensive. Shane didn’t even know what half of the ingredients were, so he picked something at random when the server came to take their order, because it had cucumber and vodka and seemed like a safe enough choice. 

Ilya smirked at him, like he could tell Shane had no clue what he was doing, and was of course charming and confident when he ordered his own drink. Which, Shane thought, probably meant that he had no idea what was in it, either. 

Shane’s arrived with a massive leaf on top of it. He blinked at it for a long moment, trying to figure out if he was supposed to take it off to drink from the glass, or if he was supposed to somehow drink around it. Drink through it? 

His companion wasn’t much help. 

Ilya slowly started laughing, the kind of delighted cackle he only ever let out at Shane’s expense. “You look so fucking confused, it is too much.” 

“Fuck you, why does yours have a fucking bubble?” Shane shot back, nodding at the glass in front of Ilya, which had some kind of elaborate opaque dome covering the top, a hazy substance trapped underneath. 

“No fucking taste. It’s for smoke.” Ilya picked up the drink to demonstrate, piercing the bubble to emphasize his point before sipping from the glass. “It is good. Reminds me of Russian tea.” 

Shane couldn’t hold in his eyeroll as he picked the leaf off the top of his glass and rested it on a napkin before he took a tentative sip. “Pretentious prick.” 

“Xenophobe.”  

Leaf or not, the drink was decent. Ilya insisted that Shane try his, too, which he did. It was fine and it didn’t taste anything like tea. 

But Ilya actually seemed to be enjoying himself, which meant Shane was too. They ordered a second round—with another leaf and another bubble—and Shane let himself relax in the booth, his leg leaning against Ilya’s. 

“You know who would like this place?” He looked around at the elaborate decor on the walls, artfully lit, but creating shadows that gave each of the small booths around them a little veil of privacy. “Vaughn.” 

“Ah. So he is still dating the movie star?” Ilya sipped from his glass, watching Shane over the rim. 

“Yeah. They’ve seen each other a couple of times here. And he went to LA during the All-Star Break. I think he’s usually looking for places they can go out but get some privacy.” Shane nodded at the room around them, and Ilya followed his gaze. “Svetlana always knows best, I guess.” 

“I have been saying this,” Ilya agreed. 

Shane put his glass down, playing with the edge of the second leaf that he had also taken off and placed to the side. “I was thinking, uh. Maybe you could meet Carter again.” 

He’d been thinking about it a lot since the club debacle, but there hadn’t been a good opportunity for it. But since the subject had come up, and with the offseason looming, he couldn’t help but mention it. 

“Okay.” Ilya agreed much more smoothly than Shane had anticipated. He was nodding when Shane looked up. “I am intrigued to meet him.”

“Oh?” Shane didn’t bother pointing out that they had technically already met. It didn’t really count, and he was happy to forget the memory. 

“Yes.” Ilya leaned back in his booth, stretching his leg out under the table to slide further between Shane’s. Shane straightened up, pulling himself back in his seat a little bit. He was going to get distracted otherwise. 

“What kind of person must someone be, to be friends with Shane Hollander for so long?” Ilya continued, making it sound like he was seriously contemplating the question. “Either has the patience of a saint or nothing between the ears.” 

Shane laughed before he could help it, and barely held himself back from kicking Ilya under the table. 

“You’ve been my friend for longer,” he pointed out. Which was true. He and Carter hadn’t met until after he had met Ilya, and while they’d been friendly teammates right away, their real friendship hadn’t started until a little after that. His friendship with Ilya—as weird, confusing, and filled with other elements as it had been from the very start—had formed quickly. 

“Yes, and I am a saint.” Ilya winked. 

“You sure that’s the right option?” 

“Anyway,” Ilya ignored him, wrinkling his nose as he sniffed. “Yes, I will meet Vaughn.” 

“Cool.” Shane let the banter drop, allowing himself to feel pleased at how easily the plan had come together. “I’ll figure out a time.” 

Ilya knocked his knee against Shane’s under the table, and Shane couldn’t hide his responding grin. 

They lapsed into an easy silence for a few moments, each of them working on their drink. Talking about Carter had made Shane’s mind wander, a little, and, probably, the two cocktails might have loosened his tongue. He probably should have been alternating with a little more water. 

“I was thinking about what we talked about awhile ago.” It was a vague statement, but he could tell that he had Ilya’s immediate attention—which meant he knew what Shane was referring to. 

Shane had his near-empty glass in his hand, and was slowly rotating it atop the table, staring down at the ring of condensation it was leaving behind. “I was thinking about telling my parents.” 

“You should.” Ilya leaned his elbows on the table, hands folded in front of his face as he regarded Shane. 

“Maybe,” Shane shrugged, keeping his eyes on his glass. “I have to think about when to do it, and how.” 

“You don’t think they would be good about it?” It was kind of remarkable, how they were able to carry on with this entire conversation without saying anything too specific. 

It was a huge relief, actually, especially when paired with the discomfort Shane was feeling at the substance of it. He shrugged again, bringing his hand up to run through his hair, tugging lightly on the longer pieces. 

“No, I think they would. It’s just… been a lot of lying.” 

Ilya was the one who shrugged this time. “Is it a lie? Omission, maybe, at most. But an understandable one.” 

“It feels like lying.” 

That was the best way he could describe it. It was one thing to brush off intrusive or sometimes crass questions about his dating life when it came from teammates or guys he’d met around the league, but it was different when it was his mom or dad asking if he was interested in anyone. Even if he didn’t plan on telling them that, it felt like a lie when he didn’t even correct them when they asked about a woman or used the word she. 

“What has been stopping you from telling them?” Ilya was looking at him seriously, hands still folded in front of his face. 

Shane was quiet, because he didn’t know how to explain it. Because they know me, he could have said. And they’d see it on my face, and I’d have to tell them about you and how you’re all I think about. 

But Ilya took his silence in a different way. When Shane didn’t say anything right away, Ilya glanced around the bar, and then shook his head quickly, as if trying to erase the question. He had one more thing to say, though, as he rested his forearms on the table. 

“I think you should. If you think they will be good, and if you want to, you should.” 

Shane nodded slowly. It still didn’t feel so simple, but he thought that Ilya sounded right, at least. And maybe that was the first step, and it could finally start to sink in for him. 

Ilya seemed to be able to tell that he was in his head. Shane watched as he leaned forward, putting more weight on his arms as he shifted across the table. 

“Now, Shane.” He reached out, circling his fingers into a quick squeeze around Shane’s wrist. When Shane looked up at him, Ilya’s eyes were bright, his expression earnest.

“How much do I have to pay you to eat this leaf?” 

Shane laughed, pulling his arm back as he settled back in the booth, a movement that pushed his knee forward, sliding between Ilya’s legs. “You’re stupid.” 

They were laughing again, about some other stupid thing, as they left. Shane was pretty fucking proud of himself for getting Ilya to seem better, to actually feel better. And really, when he thought back over the evening, Ilya had done the same thing for him. 

They had clearly figured things out about each other over the years. Shane had learned to identify the times when Ilya’s mood was low—dangerously low, he understood now—and Ilya had learned enough about Shane to understand when to encourage him to do something that might make him feel better. 

Because that’s what Ilya had asked him, back in December: wouldn’t it make him feel better, to tell his friends and family? As the time passed, it felt like he might be right. Shane didn’t have to tell the whole world, or the league—but his parents, and maybe his friend. If that went well, maybe his team. Or maybe not. But there were options. 

They walked back to Ilya’s because it was closer. It was a nice night—clear, crisp; not yet spring, but maybe bringing a little hint of it. It was still cold out, but Ilya had taken his jacket off and was carrying it over one arm. Shane was walking with his hands shoved in his pockets, baseball cap flipped backwards. 

He was kind of drunk, or at least tipsy. Enough, it seemed, to drift over a few feet over the sidewalk to bump against Ilya while they walked. 

It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d usually do—usually they walked together normally, with a few feet of space between them, expressions and body language as blank as possible. 

But tonight, Shane felt smug that his plan had worked, that he had successfully gotten Ilya back to his usual self. And it was a nice night, and Shane was enjoying himself. 

So at the next intersection, while they waited for the light to turn, Shane reached up, flipping the cap around on his head so that the brim was facing forward. 

Then he bumped Ilya again, making this one closer to a body check.

Ilya wasn’t expecting it, of course, so the motion sent him stumbling several feet to the left, until he finally reached out to catch himself on a post box. Shane laughed loudly, and louder still when he caught sight of Ilya’s shocked, insulted expression. 

“Who needs to get in the weight room now, Rozanov?” Shane called out, still laughing as Ilya pulled himself straight. 

“I never said you needed to get in the weight room,” Ilya snapped back, marching back over to meet him at the corner. “You are the size of a fucking horse.” 

“It’s that big, huh?” Shane beamed. 

Ilya looked at him for a moment with his mouth open, and Shane felt the laughter bubbling out of him. A moment later, Ilya was doubled over with him, laughing just as hard. He reached out, clutching at Shane’s arm through his jacket. Shane reached out to grasp him back as they crossed the street together. 

And it was close, actually, as close as they’d ever come to something like holding hands, let alone holding hands in public, and it warmed him even while he couldn’t stop laughing at the dumb hung like a horse joke he had just made. 

They stumbled the rest of the way to the apartment building, still gripping each other, still laughing. 

“You have the stupidest sense of humor,” Ilya told him, tugging him closer by the sleeve of his jacket as they crossed Lafayette. 

“Yeah, but you laugh every time.” 

“I am a simple model, not very smart.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Shane shoved him away with a forearm, but then pulled him back by the grip on his sweater. “You’re the smartest person I know.” 

“Oh?” Ilya turned to look at him, his smile briefly spotlit by a streetlight as they passed underneath. 

“Yeah, it’s really annoying, actually.” Shane tried to sound actually annoyed, but the smile on his face made it really hard to succeed. “You’re so smart.” 

Ilya was glowing under the compliment, even as he geared up to say something else insulting based on the shithead smile that had appeared. Sure enough, he gave Shane a sympathetic look first. “Not a lot of competition, everyone you know barely finished high school.” 

“Shut up.” Shane rolled his eyes, groaning as he rolled his head towards the sky as they reached the apartment building. 

And, yeah, it was because they were both buzzed. And giddy. And because they’d spent months, now, chipping away at the little ways that they’d kept each other at arms length. And so they had gotten way too comfortable with leaning on each other, grabbing at each other, touching each other in whatever way came to mind. And it was because they’d gotten so complacent with their morning runs and Admirals games and bar visits. And because it was late, and they were wrapped up in each other, and all Shane could think about was how good it would feel to have his mouth on Ilya’s mouth. 

So neither of them seemed to think twice about it as Ilya backed Shane against the outer wall of the apartment building, and Shane let himself be backed, dropping his head against the side of the building with a loud thunk. Ilya reached up immediately, cradling his hand behind Shane’s head, creating a new barrier between him and the wall. And Shane was already grabbing for Ilya’s sweater, pulling him in, and Ilya was already approaching, moving his hand from the back of his head to the side of his face. And then they were kissing, outside, in the cool March air, under the lights in New York. 

For ten seconds, it was the best kiss of Shane’s life. 

And then there were sounds, a car pulling up, the quick noise of other doors opening, voices approaching, commotion. Shane’s eyes were closed, he was preoccupied, he didn’t know what was happening. 

“Sage!” 

“Sage—over here, Sage!” 

“Come on, just give us a quick look over here!” 

Shane was only half present for all of it, but the next words cut through everything the instant he heard them. 

“Oh shit, wait, I know that guy!” 

He might not have been talking about Shane—he wasn’t the only guy there. But it didn’t matter which of the two of them the words were meant for. In that moment, it was all he could think about: that they were so totally fucked. 

If Shane was saved, it was only because of Ilya’s big hand on his face, by his annoying habit of carrying his coat even when it was cold enough that he should have been wearing it. Shane had no idea how Ilya moved so quickly, except that he must have noticed the photographers approaching before Shane did. In one quick motion, the coat was out of Ilya’s arms and dumped over Shane’s face. Shane doubled over, trying to keep the coat on top of himself and trying not to immediately lose his shit while Ilya fumbled next to him for his phone to let them into the building. 

But Sage Cooper herself had apparently made it to them. Shane could tell by the clipping sound of her heels on the pavement, approaching quickly. She let them in through the door, Ilya’s arm on Shane’s back to direct him even while the coat was draped over his head, rendering him blind as well as wholly, truly, unbelievably, fucking dumb. 

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” a female voice said as soon as they were in the lobby, the sound of the photographers fading on the other side of the door. 

Ilya made some kind of noise in response and Shane stayed under the coat. He wasn’t even sure he had the capacity to move. 

“Are you guys, like… okay? Are you...?” Sage Cooper seemed to have understood the import of what she was seeing in front of her eyes, because she groaned loudly. “Oh my god. I am so fucking sorry.” 

“Is okay.” Ilya said stiffly, but he sounded like it wasn’t okay. It would never be okay. Shane was too shell-shocked to speak. 

They had to share an elevator with the model, who continued babbling apologies to them until they got off on the fifth floor. Shane had stayed hunched over the whole time, hiding like some fucking child in some fucking ghost costume. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

He stayed under the coat while they went into the apartment, Ilya’s hand still on his back to guide him, pausing outside the door. Shane listened to the familiar four beeps, and stepped forward when he heard the door open. 

He still didn’t take off the coat even when the door shut behind them. But he straightened up, trying to control his breathing. 

“Did they see me?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya admitted. His voice was hoarse, raw sounding. 

“Did they see you?” 

“Yes.” 

Shane couldn’t see his face, but he could see his hands, could see them lifting, probably to rake his fingers through his hair. He finally threw the coat off, letting it fall to the ground. He was still shaking. All he could think about was how happy he had been lately. All of the stupid fucking plans he had been making. 

“Fuck,” Ilya dropped his hands, leaving his hair messy and wild, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He looked furious. 

“Fuck,” Shane echoed. 

Chapter End Notes

Maybe I could just write a third snowstorm, instead, and send that to them, I fretted. Maybe I can just flood New York and keep them inside together forever!

But nope, I guess you had to get this instead.

All I can say is: please trust me and please don’t yell at me! (A little yelling is ok if you also tell me something you liked in this chapter... and if it wasn’t “it's that big, huh,” why not?)

Chapter 15: give me a reason

Chapter Summary

Hollander vs. Rozanov.

Chapter Notes

Shane didn’t leave that night. 

He slept for a few hours, but only because his body was on an intensely rigid sleep cycle. At some point, he couldn’t hold his eyes open for any longer, and had succumbed to some kind of fitful rest.

But he was up again at 5:30 a.m., lying awake until the dawn light crept in from behind the shade in Ilya’s room. 

It was the first time he had slept at this apartment, though the thought barely registered. They laid side by side under the covers, not quite touching, but never staying more than a few inches apart from each other. Shane could feel his warmth over the sheets, through the small gap of space between their bodies. 

Ilya appeared to be asleep when Shane woke up, but it also seemed restless, judging from the way he shifted on his side, then onto his back. Shane realized he was awake only when he grabbed his phone from the nightstand at just after six.  

Shane watched the blue light from the screen illuminate Ilya’s tired face, and knew what he was checking for. But he said nothing, so Shane assumed there was nothing to see. 

They migrated out of the bed at some point, and sheer anxiety was the only thing keeping Shane from checking the windows to see if there were still photographers outside. 

There wouldn’t be. There couldn’t be. They had only been here for Sage Cooper in the first place, an enormously famous person—Shane had Googled her profusely the night before and figured this out. It was different. He and Ilya weren’t anywhere close to that level. 

He didn’t fucking know, though. The photographer’s voice kept echoing in his head, oh shit, wait, I know that guy. He didn’t know what had happened after the coat had been thrown over his head. But in his imagination—which had gone over last night so many times the scene might as well have been etched onto the back of his eyelids—there had been a camera flash, capturing God knows what. His imagination had presented several possibilities and not a single one made him feel any better. 

Ilya stayed on his phone, refreshing for something that never seemed to appear. Shane managed to hold himself back from doing the same—if only because every time he picked up his phone, his breath started to get short and panicky. Instead, he paced around the apartment, his mind circling over the potential scenarios of what was coming for him today. 

As the morning went on, though, there was still nothing. Ilya was on his phone the whole time, and would have said something if anything had surfaced. Shane could also tell that he was texting at some point—he assumed with Svetlana—but he didn’t ask for details and Ilya didn’t give any. 

Just after eight, Ilya had excused himself to the bedroom to make a phone call. Shane didn’t ask who it was, but he could guess—if not Svetlana, then maybe his agent. 

That, of course, sent him into another spiral. He wondered if he should be calling Farah, too. Or, fuck, his mom??

It would be the smart thing to do, if there was even a possibility that something might be coming out, but Shane couldn’t even think about how to start the conversation. Even considering dialing Farah made his mind go blank and his fingers start to feel numb. 

Ilya didn’t look much better than Shane felt when he re-emerged from the bedroom and took a seat on the couch, a few feet away from where Shane had dropped down to cradle his head in his hands. 

“You are hungry,” Ilya said after a while. It was a statement, not a question. 

The truth was, Shane wasn’t actually hungry, like, at all, but he was already going on only a few hours of sleep—and he had only a couple of hours before morning skates, and then, fuck, a game tonight. 

The thought of trying to play hockey with this hanging over him made him need to put his head between his knees for a quick second, which turned out to actually be a few minutes. 

Ilya shifted over on the couch until he was sitting directly next to him, and placed his hand on the back of Shane’s neck. Shane inhaled slowly, trying to remember how to breathe, focusing on the warmth of the hand and the solid, grounding feeling it brought with it. 

“Morning skates are optional?” Ilya asked quietly. 

Shane didn’t think he had actually said anything out loud, but his brain didn’t feel attached to his body, and in any case, it wasn’t a surprise that Ilya knew what he was thinking about. He knew Shane’s usual gameday schedule by this point. 

He took a slow, controlled breath before he answered. “Yes.” 

The hand on the back of his neck flexed gently. When Ilya spoke again, there was some hesitation in it, but also a mild urging. “This is maybe a day to take the option, no?” 

Shane had never missed a morning skate, optional or not, in his entire life. But the idea of leaving here, going outside, going back to his apartment, driving to the rink, getting dressed, and getting on the ice was so far beyond him at the current moment, it was almost absurd. 

So he nodded. “Yeah.” 

The hand on the back of his neck squeezed again lightly. “You need to eat. I can’t make smoothie. Eggs, okay?” 

Again, it wasn’t really a question. Shane nodded, exhaling as he tried to release his shoulders down, away from his ears. The hand removed itself, and Ilya got up from the couch. 

As he moved into the kitchen, Shane pulled out his phone to send a quick text to Coach Murdock, and then to Vaughn and Huff, to tell them that he wouldn’t be there this morning. 

He stared at his phone afterwards, trying to resist the urge to pull up Google, or Twitter, or ESPN, or anything that might bring a sledgehammer to his life. It had felt safer to let Ilya be the one to keep an eye on the internet this morning. Of the two of them, Ilya was much less likely to get trapped by a fixation the way that Shane always did. 

The phone buzzed in his hands—three messages, in quick succession, from his coach, Vaughn, and Huff. All amounted to the same thing: an assurance that it was fine for him to miss, and a quick expression of worry about his well-being from the uncharacteristic absence. He wrote the same response twice—All good, don’t worry, something came up this morning. See you in a few hours—and sent it in both message chains, to Coach and to his alternates.

But as soon as he put the phone away, the fear rose in him like a flood. What if it came out during morning skates? What if it came out while he was at the game? But he couldn’t miss the game. Could he miss the fucking game? 

His breath was getting short again. He stopped himself—clamping the thoughts off like he was slamming a door shut—and took a deep breath. It took a few more deep breaths before it actually sank in, and he finally pulled himself up from the couch. 

He went into the kitchen just in time to get plates down from the cabinet for the toast and eggs Ilya had finished making. 

They stood at the counter together. Shane ate the bread and eggs without complaint, or even without a second thought. They tasted good, and his body needed them. 

He had never had this particular rye bread before. When he looked at the loaf, still sitting out on the counter, he wasn’t surprised to see the label in both English and Cyrillic letters. He took another careful bite of the bread, chewing more slowly this time as he tasted it for real: the earthy, nutty flavor, the dense texture. He hadn’t known that Ilya bought Russian bread. He should have known that. 

After he had swallowed, he turned his head to Ilya. “Are you okay?” 

Ilya didn’t lift his eyes from his plate. He was almost finished with the food, too. 

“Yes,” he said after a long moment of silence. “I think so. Hard to say without knowing what will happen.” 

Shane knew what he meant. It made him feel sick, thinking of it hanging over both of them like a guillotine. They didn’t know what it was, exactly, or when it might fall on them, but it had the capacity to completely change their lives, in two completely separate ways. He couldn’t imagine how Ilya was thinking about it, with Russia, on top of everything.  

He took a step closer to Ilya, so their elbows were touching as they ate. He felt Ilya relax against him, the arm pressing in closer as they finished their food in silence. 

Shane realized, too, as he was chewing, the depth of his relief at not needing to turn around right away to drive up to the practice center, at not needing to pretend to be Captain Shane Hollander this morning. If he had to do it later tonight, sobeit. But for this morning, Ilya had been right—it was a day to take the option. 

He stayed there for as long as he could. He stayed glued to Ilya’s side, actually, for as long as he could. But at some point, he knew he had to leave the sanctuary of the apartment, and go outside again. 

It was well into the afternoon when he finally got himself together, after hours of refreshing more screens, sitting quietly together, and after Ilya had cobbled together a lunch of chicken and vegetables that they both ate without enthusiasm. Shane still didn’t want to leave, but it was time. 

He was doing his best to control himself, and his breathing, as he got his coat and shoes together. 

It hadn’t come out during practice. But what about the game? What about tomorrow? What about next week? 

Ilya brought him a winter hat and a pair of sunglasses to wear. Shane hadn’t even thought to ask—hadn’t even registered why he might need them—but he took them gratefully, pulling the toque onto his head instead of the baseball cap he’d been wearing the night before. He felt more covered up. 

Ilya was still standing in front of him, between Shane and the door. Shane could tell he was trying to figure out how to say something, so he waited, holding the sunglasses in his hand. 

“I don’t think they know it was you, Shane,” Ilya said, finally. “If they did, I think it would already be out by now.” 

He stated this plainly, almost apologetically. But Shane understood what he meant: that in his own bubble, Shane’s name loomed large, and the news would create its own shockwave in his corner of the universe. It would be different for Ilya: the consequences were intensely personal, the stakes high in a completely distinct way. But their bubbles were different. 

Shane wasn’t convinced, though. It took time for things to… what, go through the channels they needed to? To clear… legal? Were there even laws against this kind of thing? Probably not in the United States. But right now, someone could be taking the time to ask the Admirals for some kind of comment, or the front office, or Coach Murdock. They could be reaching out to Farah right now, or fucking shit, his mom—

The overwhelming rush of thoughts made him lean against the wall in the entryway. He felt smothered by the urge to stay here, with Ilya. Or he wished desperately that Ilya could come to the game tonight, just for Shane to know he was there. But it was a selfish wish: bad for him, and worse for Ilya, who would have been forced to sit amongst thousands of eyes while waiting under the guillotine. And while Shane wanted to stay, he had also never had a stronger urge to flee. 

Ilya was still standing in front of him, watching these thoughts run across Shane’s face. He said nothing, though, as Shane took a deep breath and stood up straight again. He slid the sunglasses onto his face before they left the apartment together. 

He thought it was a horrible fucking idea for Ilya to come down with him, but Ilya had insisted. Neither of them knew what was downstairs, and it was comforting to know that Ilya wasn’t going to let him face it alone.  

As it turned out, there was nothing. 

Nobody was outside of the building, and nothing happened on his walk home. 

But Shane felt like every person he passed was staring at him, anyway. 

It was a full day before anything came out online, and in the end, it was a small item on TMZ. 

Underwear Model Ilya Rozanov Makes Out With Mystery Man in NYC!

The accompanying text identified Ilya, in separate instances, as the ex of Arizona Fletcher, Sola Brown, and Laura Kennedy, who Shane had never heard of before. The whole tone was casual, like they were trying not to make it seem like a surprise or a revelation that he had been caught with a man—like they weren’t outing him. But of course, that was what it was, even if they were pretending it wasn’t. And that was what all of the comments were focused on, anyway. 

Shane studied the pictures over and over. 

There were three of them. In each, Ilya’s head was turned slightly, enough to be clearly recognizable, especially in the second one, where the flash made the familiar mole on his cheek stand out starkly against his washed out skin. He was stretched out above the person standing against the wall. The intimacy in the pose was clear: chests, abdomens, hips pressed together. The other person’s face was in shadow, a combination of the baseball cap on his head and Ilya’s hand pressed to his cheek. The only visible markers were a hand clutching Ilya’s arm, non-descript dark jeans, and at the feet, Reeboks. 

It was enough to be clearly a man, but not—judging from the so-called article with it, or from any of the comments—enough to determine who it was. At least, that was what it seemed like. Shane had no fucking clue if that was true, or if there were other pictures still to come. 

Ilya came over to Shane’s apartment in the early evening. Even though Ilya’s place had seemed like a sanctuary the night before, Shane didn’t know if he would ever be able to step foot into it again—at least not for a long time. 

Shane didn’t know what to expect when he opened the door to let him in—so he wasn’t really sure if what he found was surprising. 

Ilya looked tired and unhappy, but not wrecked. Was that what Shane had expected? Shane didn’t even know what he looked like right now. 

He stood back to let him in, and Ilya slipped past him into the entryway. 

There was something strange in the air—some weight of tension, or maybe discomfort. Shane didn’t know what to say. 

“How are you?” 

It seemed profoundly stupid, but it was the only thing Shane could get out of his mouth as they both made their way into the main room. 

Ilya didn’t give a real answer. He waved his arm vaguely, the other one stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. He hadn’t taken it off. 

Nor his shoes, which Shane tried not to focus on. He couldn’t blame Ilya if his mind was on other things than Shane’s feelings about wearing shoes indoors. 

He didn’t know what else to say, as the silence stretched on. 

“Um,” he started eventually, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “Would you like a drink?” 

The phrasing was clunky, and too formal. Shane wasn’t sure he had ever offered him a drink like that before, and Ilya seemed to notice it. He gave Shane a strange look as he took a seat on the couch, on the side farthest away from the wall, the side that Shane usually occupied. 

Shane couldn’t tell if that was a yes or a no. So he went to the kitchen anyway, occupying himself and filling the strange silence by opening the refrigerator to get a can of Coke, and pouring a glass of water for himself. 

Ilya accepted the drink with a quiet thanks. But as soon as it was in his hand, before he could open the can, a buzzing sound filled the air. Shane tried to tamp down on the flare of alarm that shot through him at the noise, touching his pocket to assure himself that it wasn’t from his own phone. 

Ilya pulled his out to look at the screen, then leaned forward to set the unopened Coke on the coffee table. “Sveta. I called earlier but she couldn’t talk.” 

Shane just nodded, gesturing for him to answer. He sipped from his glass of water to control his sense of disquiet. 

Ilya greeted her in Russian, but immediately took the phone away from his ear to put it on speaker. It surprised Shane, but he stayed where he was, hovering next to the arm of the couch closest to Ilya, still standing. 

Svetlana responded in Russian, the worry evident in her voice. Ilya answered in English. “I am okay.” 

Taking a cue from him, she switched to English, too, her voice tinny and slightly breathless as it came through the speaker. 

“It’s bullshit. They’re fucking vultures. This should be illegal, but of course the laws in this country are completely fucked.” 

Obviously Shane agreed with her. But something about it—her frankness, the edge in her voice, the combination of sympathy and fear—felt like a hammer on the softest spot of his anxiety. He turned, clutching the glass of water in his hand, starting to pace around the living room. 

Ilya just grunted his agreement, even as Svetlana continued. 

“The nerve they have to write about it in this way, pulling in every big name they can to attach to you to make it juicier. Laura Kennedy, God, have you even spoken to her more than twice? At all in the last three years? They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.” 

Ilya didn’t say anything to this at all, only tilted his head up towards the ceiling as he listened to Svetlana. Shane glanced at his face as he kept pacing. 

“You were a little stupid, though.” Her voice shifted, sounding gentler, more affectionate. “You’ve been complaining about Sage Cooper for months. You couldn’t have gone back to Shane’s?” 

Shane suddenly went cold, and he stopped in his tracks somewhere between the window and the coffee table. 

“You could tell it was me?” He blurted out. 

He realized, then, that it was the first time he had spoken and that he had never announced himself. Svetlana wouldn’t have even known he was there, if he hadn’t fucking said anything. 

But then, the second realization—that Ilya had put her on speaker phone at the start, that they had both switched from speaking Russian to English. Of course she had known Shane was there. 

Svetlana was silent for a moment, taken aback, maybe, by Shane’s shrill tone. 

“Not from the picture,” she said after a pause, using the same gentle tone as before. “But please do not insult my intelligence, Shane.” 

He deserved that, but somehow, it still made him feel like the wind had been knocked out of him anyway: that it had been so obvious to her, that she had known about it for so long. It should have brought some comfort, maybe—he had suspected as much since the first time he had met her two and a half years ago—but somehow, it only shaped his anxiety into a sharper spike. 

If Svetlana knew, he thought as he started pacing again, who else did too? The doormen at their buildings, surely. Were any of them hockey fans? Had he ever stopped to ask to figure it out? How many of his neighbors? How many bartenders, servers across the city?

Ilya was watching Shane as he circled through the living room. He had barely moved from his position on the couch. 

After another long moment, Svetlana spoke again. “Ilya, the less you say, the more worried I’m getting.” 

“I said I’m fine,” Ilya answered, the sound lifting Shane’s gaze from its fixed focus on the floor. 

He didn’t sound fine. He sounded angry, and frustrated, and tired. 

“It is not so crazy,” Ilya continued. “Oh, male model. Queer. Shocking.” 

This time Shane stopped to look at him directly. Ilya looked back. 

The expression on his face was raw, and angry. Which was expected—that was how he should have felt. So, Shane couldn’t understand for the fucking life of him why he was otherwise acting like he was fine. 

They hadn’t talked about it after it had happened—not the night of, not the next day, when they’d spent the entire morning and early afternoon quiet and stressed in Ilya’s apartment, staring at the blank screens of their phones. Shane hadn’t mentioned it, outright, even after he’d contemplated the Russian bread. 

But it had to change everything for Ilya. How could it not? 

“Have you talked to Vika?” 

Svetlana’s question was swallowed by Shane’s, who stopped pacing in front of Ilya and spoke at almost exactly the instant that her voice had come from the phone. 

“Why are you not freaking out about this?” Shane demanded. On the phone, Svetlana went quiet. 

Ilya slowly turned his head towards him, fixing him with the kind of look that, a few years ago, would have made Shane instantly stop whatever line of questioning was about to come out of his mouth. But he was so far past that now. 

“What about Russia?” Shane threw his hands out, staring at him. 

Ilya simply looked back, still holding the phone up to talk into the speaker. 

His voice was quiet when he answered, and it seemed like he was talking to Svetlana, not to Shane—though he kept his eyes on Shane, who had stopped pacing. 

“Yes, I talked to Vika yesterday, today also. She says I should be okay. Russia could be complicated, would have to be careful going back.” He took a deep breath, sighing out in a slow exhale. 

“But that is fine, nothing there for me now, anyway. Hasn’t been for a long time.” 

Shane was reeling, and it took him a second to even gather his thoughts to speak coherently. “What do you mean, there’s nothing there for you? What about your passport?” 

Ilya blinked at him, his brow furrowed. “I have a green card.” 

Shane felt like his mind had been wiped blank. “You what?” 

From the phone, Svetlana said something, too, possibly in Russian, but Shane couldn’t focus enough to tell for sure. He vaguely registered her own tone of surprise. 

Ilya was staring back at him, confused, but also, slowly starting to scowl. “A green card, Hollander. Long term permanent residency.” 

I know what a fucking green card is, Shane could have said, if he had regained the power to process speech. He hadn’t, though, so all he could do was stare at him as he tried to take in this completely new information. 

So Ilya shook his head, like he was the one who was confused, and continued. “I have good agent, good attorney. Got green card last year.” 

He lifted the phone closer to his mouth like he was about to say something else directly to Svetlana. But before he could, Shane broke in again. 

“Why the fuck did you never tell me that before?” 

When Ilya looked at him this time, his eyes were searing. “Oh, I need to show my passport to come see you now? You never fucking asked.” 

“Ilya,” Svetlana said from the phone. 

Before Shane could say something obvious, like, how the fuck would I even know to ask, Ilya continued. “Do you have a green card?” 

“Yeah, I do,” Shane shot back, trying to control the short feeling in his chest as his breathing got quicker. 

“Oh, why’d you never tell me?” Ilya challenged him, raising his eyebrows. Shane had never wanted to punch him more than this moment. 

“Because I’m not from FUCKING RUSSIA, ILYA.” 

Shane didn’t mean to yell, but he did anyway. His hands were shaking as he stared at the equally angry man staring back at him.  

“Shane,” Svetlana’s voice came sharply from the phone speaker, and he immediately cut himself off, turning around with his hands on his head, staring out the window at the city view stretching ahead of him. 

Svetlana followed up immediately with something curt, tense, in Russian. Whatever it was, Shane heard Ilya slowly exhale a long, shaky breath. After a moment he responded, also in Russian. 

They continued the conversation only briefly. Before the call ended, Shane heard Svetlana speak to him again. 

“Shane, I will talk to you soon. This will work out, okay?” 

There was no way that she could possibly know that. But he was already embarrassed enough that she had needed to scold him once, so he swallowed his immediate denial. 

“Yeah,” he choked out, turning slightly so that he could be heard by the phone’s microphone. “Thanks.” 

“Take care of yourselves,” she instructed, with a sternness that made Shane think she genuinely meant it, and would be disappointed to learn that they hadn’t listened to her. 

Shane started pacing again as Ilya put the phone down on the coffee table, the screen black once again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ilya lean forward, resting his elbows onto his knees, still watching Shane’s path around the room. 

“What is wrong with you?” 

“What do you mean?” Shane stopped near the TV and stared at him. He couldn’t believe the question—but more than that, he definitely couldn’t believe the hostile way in which it had been delivered. 

But of course, Ilya didn’t say anything. He only shook his head, and gestured at Shane. As if that was supposed to fucking mean something. 

“What just happened, Ilya.” Shane was incredulous. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be worried about that?” 

He had barely processed the new revelation about Russia—or the lack of Russia, the fact of the green card. Combined with the barely suppressed feeling of panic he’d been feeling all day—stress that the guillotine was still hanging over him, combined with guilt at the fact that it had already fallen onto Ilya—it was starting to make him feel light headed. 

“You heard what he said,” Shane continued, starting to pace again. “The photographer. That night. Didn’t you? He said, ‘I know that guy.’” 

Ilya lifted his arm and dropped it again, which Shane knew meant that he had heard him. “You don’t know that he was talking about you.” 

“But you don’t know that he wasn’t,” Shane couldn’t help it, the fear in his stomach climbing into his throat, making everything feel frozen as it traveled through him. 

But Ilya’s jaw was set, and his face looked tight, angry. “Of course, because why would he have recognized me, right?” 

“That’s not what I said,” Shane insisted, trying to breathe normally to lessen the feeling like there was glass in his chest. “But it’s different for me.” 

What he meant was, their bubbles were different. Their orbits were different. Whatever the right metaphor was, they existed in different spaces, with different pressures, with different spotlights. Not that one was bigger than the other, or worse than the other. But that wasn’t how it came out. 

“Right,” Ilya let out a short, bitter laugh, leaning back onto the couch. “Yeah, gay model, who cares, right? Not like manly NHL player. Thank God no one thinks he is gay.” 

“What? I didn’t say that,” Shane said, startled, watching him as he rose from the couch. He was bewildered at the sudden turn all of this had taken. He didn’t understand where, and how, everything had suddenly shifted underneath him. 

But he was also confused. Because, yeah. It was fucking different for him. Ilya, who had played hockey, knew that it was different for him. 

“No, you didn’t say that,” Ilya agreed curtly. It didn’t really feel like agreement—it felt like an accusation. 

Shane had no fucking clue what he was being accused of, he had no clue what he had missed. He stopped pacing, staring at Ilya as he turned away from the couch.  

But all Ilya said was, “I have to go.” 

Even if Shane had known what to say in that moment, he was fairly certain that there was nothing he could do to keep him in the apartment. 

So he let him leave. The Coke can on the coffee table had never been opened.  

_____

April 2017, New York City

Things were festering again, like after Los Angeles. But it was different this time—this time, it felt like a test. And Shane knew he was failing. 

It had barely been over a week, but it could not have been more obvious that Ilya was avoiding him. Shane was well past the point of alarm. He knew that every day that went by with more silence between them was another failure, another missed opportunity. And he couldn’t shake the thought—which felt much more real, after Los Angeles, after what had happened the last time they had seen each other—that failing this time might mean losing Ilya for good. 

But every time he opened his messages, he was frozen. Useless. Fucking cowardly. 

Nothing had happened to Shane in the ten days since the photograph and the TMZ article. He tried to convince himself that it meant nothing else was going to happen—tried to tell himself that if it was going to, it would have already. But Shane couldn’t shake the feeling of the guillotine. 

What if it was ready, loaded up somewhere like a gun, ticking like a bomb, waiting until the perfect timing? The end of the season? The start of the playoffs? The night before a big game? The night of the Stanley Cup Final? 

The stress of it was affecting every part of him. He was playing like fucking garbage, to the extent that even Coach Murdock had taken him aside after Philly to ask if he was healthy or hiding some kind of injury. Carter and Greg looked like they were ready to stage an intervention, if they could only figure out what they were supposed to be intervening in. He was barely speaking to his parents, and when he did, even the simplest sentences had to be dragged out of him. 

And with Ilya, he spent hours staring at their text chain, trying to figure out the words to break the silence. He was still at a loss. 

But they were about to go into the playoffs. Depending on what happened, Shane wouldn’t see Ilya for, at minimum, two weeks. At maximum, it might be three months, depending on Ilya’s own schedule. 

If he didn’t figure this out now, it wasn’t going to happen for a long time. And it felt like an inflection point, like there were fissures in everything between them, and that it all might snap—like ice cracking open under their feet—if they didn’t address it now. 

So the day after the regular season ended, two days before Columbus came to MSG, Shane finally texted him. 

Ilya came over sometime after seven, when the sun was setting. Shane’s apartment faced east, but the light from the golden hour poured in anyway, illuminating everything it touched in a deep orange glow, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. 

Shane felt the same trace of tension when Ilya came in as the last time they had seen each other. But this time it felt less jagged—like it was lurking underneath everything, not flaring out sharply between them the way it had the last time. It didn’t feel any less unsettling. 

Ilya took his shoes off this time. Shane watched from the entryway as he lined them up on the shelf, then stepped back to let him pass towards the living room. 

Neither of them spoke as they moved into the new room together. Shane had been right about something, at least—the quiet, distant way that Ilya came in, the way he wouldn’t meet Shane’s eyes. It was all wrong. 

He watched Ilya stop in front of one of the big living room windows to look down at the park and streets below. The light streaming in made his hair look golden. 

“It’s not just me, right?” Shane asked. 

“Not just you, what?” Ilya didn’t turn to look from the window. 

Shane didn’t really know what he was asking, but he was grappling—trying to find the words to open this up. He stood behind the couch, resting his hand on the cushion, watching Ilya. “You feel it too, don’t you?” 

“Feel what?” 

“Things feel… bad.” Shane shook his head, even though Ilya couldn’t see him. 

It was the feeling in the air, it was the dryness in his throat, the stale tautness between them—like something had been pulled beyond the point at which it should have been stretched. 

Ilya didn’t say anything, but he turned from the window, finally. His silence felt like the answer that Shane needed. 

“What you said last time,” he pushed ahead, walking around the side of the couch to bring himself a few feet closer to Ilya. “About the gay model and gay NHL player. Do you really believe that?” 

Ilya still didn’t say anything, but he turned his body fully so that he was facing Shane. Even from this far away, Shane could see the tension in his jaw, a small muscle pulsing under his cheek. 

He kept going, because this was important. It was very important to him that Ilya understood this—they could talk about other things, figure out whatever they needed to figure out, but this part was important to Shane. 

“You know what it’s like for me,” Shane pressed. “Right?” 

When Ilya stayed silent, Shane continued. “I know that you have pressures, Ilya. Believe me. And I’m so sorry that this fucking happened to you.” 

He could see Ilya’s brow slipping down, the tightness coming over the rest of his face as his frown deepened. But Shane kept speaking, because he had to get this out. 

“But it is like, a fucking… magnifying glass.” He clutched the arm of the couch under his hand, fingers digging into the soft fabric as he spoke. “It would change everything. How everyone sees me, how I’m supposed to act—it would just… it would change everything. And I don’t know if I can…” 

He trailed off. He’d been thinking about saying this for the past week and he still wasn’t sure he had said anything at all. How could he describe the way he felt when he thought about stepping into the locker room, if it all came out? Into the showers? Onto the ice, if not at Madison Square Garden, then everywhere else—in Toronto, where the Guardians were already used to hurling slurs along with their checks, in Florida, where the shitty words came raining down from the stands just as often as on the ice itself? He didn’t know if he could put words to it. But he didn’t think that he had needed to, with Ilya. 

“So will you ever come out?” 

Shane looked up. 

Ilya was looking at him. The question had seemingly come out of nowhere, a complete nonsequitur—or so it seemed to Shane—to everything he had just put out on the table. 

“What?” Shane asked, trying to get his bearings. 

“Will you ever come out?” Ilya repeated. He still had the same stiff, angry expression on his face—a far cry from the way he had looked when they’d first broached this subject, in this very room, on the very couch currently under Shane’s fingertips, four months ago during a snowstorm. 

“Like… publicly?” Shane frowned, shaking his head slightly as he tried to understand. “We already talked about this.” 

“At all, Shane.” Ilya was standing still by the window, his arms at his sides. His eyes didn’t move from Shane’s face. “To anyone except me when you want me to fuck you.” 

And that was so unfair that Shane’s head snapped back as he took in the words. But he felt his face turning red, anyway, because was that what Ilya really thought? That he had only spoken the words out loud because of the lack of touch between them in December? 

“That’s not why I—” Shane started, but Ilya shook his head, sharply. 

“Answer the question.” 

“Why do I need to?” The defensiveness burst out of Shane from the shock of Ilya’s hostility, the sudden realization that there had been so much more lurking in the silence than he had been prepared for. Why did he need to—why did he need to answer the question, why did he need to come out? 

“I already told you,” Shane continued. “The league—”

“No.” Ilya shook his head, again, one cutting motion to the left. “It is not about hockey, Shane. It is about your family. Your friends. The people who actually know you. Me.” 

“You? What about you?” 

He didn’t mean it the way it sounded when it came out of his mouth, but Ilya looked at him with bright, blazing eyes—every inch of his face furious, hurt, raw. 

Shane was shaken by the force of the look, enough to back up a few feet, shifting around to the back of the couch once again. He quickly amended his words to what he had really meant. 

“You already know, I mean. And,” he added. “I said I was going to tell my parents.” 

“And have you?” Ilya asked, challenging. “And Vaughn, what about meeting him?” 

“Well, I’m fucking sorry, the last couple of weeks have been kind of insane, don’t you fucking think?” Shane burst out before he could help it. “And you’ve barely been talking to me!” 

“There is always going to be a fucking excuse, Shane.” Ilya sounded angry, but he also sounded exhausted. It was this second note that made the panic slowly start to build up in the pit of Shane’s stomach again. “You will continue to find reasons to keep pushing this off. You don’t think I have seen you do it enough by now?” 

The accusation felt so fundamentally unfair, but even still, Shane knew there was truth in it. It was uncomfortable: a slick feeling of shame at being seen in some essential way that embarrassed him, when laid bare like this. 

Even worse: the growing understanding that this was something coming from deep inside of Ilya, that he had been holding it back—and hurting from it—for a long time. 

“That’s not true,” Shane said. But it sounded weak to his own ears. Still, he kept trying to explain himself. “But I’m not just going to drop everything and just do it without, like, thinking it out. Not just for… like, no reason.”

Somehow, this was exactly the wrong thing to say. Shane saw it in the way Ilya’s face dropped, from the way he let out a short puff of air, before his jaw set and his mouth tightened. 

The succession of these expressions, all in a row, made Shane’s heart start to race. He could feel what was coming next, the simmering, heated anger building between them. 

“Of course,” Ilya said bitterly. “Why would you need to? Nothing more important than perfect golden boy image, right?”

“Perfect Captain Hollander,” he added, coming up level with the couch. 

“Oh, fuck you.” It came out shocked, almost shaky. Shane’s heart rate was increasing even faster now, and he was suddenly having trouble catching his breath at the sneering, contemptuous tone. Was that really what Ilya thought of him? Was that how he thought Shane thought of himself? Worst of all—was it true? 

Shane was sure that couldn’t be it. He had never thought about anything like that, his… status, or whatever it was. It wasn’t that at all. It was the essential aloneness of the thing. He couldn’t be the first one, the only one. He couldn’t stand alone amongst everyone else, not when they already saw him as so different, as so fucking weird. The Hockey Robot, the perfectionist, the stats freak, all of the other shit, the racist shit, that he had been called since he was in fucking Mites, all of which he still carried with him today. 

But Shane didn’t say any of that. Fuck you, was what he had said. And then he continued, “You weren’t out, either. Not before.” 

It was a horrible thing to say, he realized, as soon as the words were spoken. To act like the forcible outing had been anything close to a favor, anything other than the loathsome invasion of privacy that it had been. It was utterly understandable, then, the way that Ilya’s face twisted at him in disgust. 

“That is not true, Shane,” Ilya said. And it was disdainful, but it was also clear and crisp. “Do not talk about what you don’t know about.” 

“What, you were out to people?” As he asked, it dawned on him that he had no idea. 

It wasn’t a public fact about Ilya, because he had never seen it on Instagram, or heard about it anywhere else online, but that didn’t mean anything. All that meant was that Ilya had kept something shielded from public consumption, in part because up until a year ago, apparently, he had had a Russian passport. 

But that didn’t mean that Shane knew what Ilya told other people. He didn’t even know what Ilya had ever told Svetlana. 

As if reading these thoughts on Shane’s face, Ilya shrugged, tilting his head back slightly as he regarded him from across the back of the couch, the challenge written all over his face. 

“Have to say you fuck men for men to know you want to fuck them. Come on, you know this.” 

The words were designed for impact, and Shane felt every one of them land within him. He had rarely ever let himself contemplate the idea of Ilya with other men; seeing the women in photographs online was hard enough. But the mental images that came with Ilya’s words now cut into Shane more deeply than he was ready for. He took a long, slow breath in, trying to steady himself, failing miserably. 

“No hiding now, anyway, so doesn’t really matter.” Ilya shrugged, his casual voice completely at odds with his rigid spine and stony expression. “But you can stay exactly like you want to be. Lucky Hollander, always in control.” 

Shane couldn’t even focus on these words. There was a thread running underneath everything, something he could sense without fully grasping. There was a fundamental premise that he was still resisting—because Ilya had never made it seem like he was waiting for him to do this. Every conversation they had had about it before, none of it had ever been anything like this. 

“I thought you were telling me to do it for me,” Shane said, fumbling for the words. “I didn’t know you wanted me to do it for…” 

And he couldn’t say you, because was that what Ilya was saying? He wanted Shane to come out for him? And if so, since fucking when? When, in between the yachts, and after parties, and hotel rooms in Paris? 

“I was trying not to pressure you!” Ilya threw his hands up, rounding the couch, coming closer to Shane. Shane responded by taking two large steps back, going around the other way, to stand behind the other arm of the sofa. 

“Oh, is that what it was?” He shot back angrily. His cheeks felt hot, flushed with emotion. “Good thing you had lots to distract yourself with.” 

“What the fuck are you saying?” Ilya shook his head at him, like Shane’s words were small irritations, like he couldn’t be bothered to understand them. 

“You just fucking said it! I’m saying you fuck all these models, actresses,” he swallowed, the images crowding in again, the ones from Instagram that he had seen through all of these years, and now the mental images, too. “Actors.” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” Ilya muttered, still shaking his head, now in wide, bitter sweeps to each side. “You don’t have any fucking clue what I do.” 

“You sleep with Svetlana.” 

Even as the words, so accusatory, came out of his mouth, the tense didn’t seem right. Because he didn’t know if it was true anymore. But it was true at one point, which was why he said it, even if it came out all wrong, even if it was fundamentally the wrong thing to say. 

“This is what I fucking mean.” Ilya was really getting angry now. Shane could see it building in him, as he lifted a hand to point in his direction. “I have not slept with Svetlana in years, but you don’t know this, because you never ask, you just assume.” 

“Why the fuck would I ask you about that?” Shane burst out. And now that this had started, it was pouring out of him, built up over so much time. 

“You never said that you didn’t, you only said that you did, and then you never brought it up ever again. And you’re always supposedly dating or sleeping with these women, you said it yourself, you’ve fucked lots of models and whatever, and you say shit about the hot women that DM you, and now you’re talking about telling men…” 

He trailed off, losing his breath in the middle of his sentence. His chest felt tight, and he grabbed the back of the couch, just for something to steady himself with. 

Ilya spoke in Russian, a short, sour laugh punctuating what was almost certainly a curse. “It never fucking ends with you, the jealousy and paranoia.” 

“Paranoia?” Shane shouted, his breath back. “Who turned out to be fucking right??”  

He ignored the fury on Ilya’s face, letting the emotion continue to pour out of him. “Don’t act like you haven’t known what you’ve been doing when you say shit like that about other people. You just fucking did it. It’s a fucking mind game, and then you make me feel like shit for being jealous about it!” 

“Oh, you are one to talk about games,” Ilya was shaking his head again, backing away from the couch and crossing back towards the window. “It is always games with you, always fucking games.” 

“You think I play games with you?” Shane was incredulous. 

Ilya turned on him again, scornful. “You are athlete, no? Mr. Team Player.” 

“Oh fuck you, Rozanov.” Shane mirrored his movements across the living room, backing away from the couch and taking several steps towards the windows, the width of the room still between them. 

But Ilya had reached a new level of fury, now. Shane could see it etched all over his face, even from across the room. 

“Rozanov, Hollander. That is fucking game. I am what, your fucking bro?” 

Shane wanted to scream, you called me Hollander first, you fucking asshole, the first time you texted me, you think I don’t remember that? He remembered everything Ilya had ever said to him. But he couldn’t scream, because he could barely breathe. And Ilya was angrier than Shane had ever seen him, or had even considered him being. 

“Last six years have been entire set of games by Shane Hollander,” Ilya snapped. “Like fucking playoffs.” 

If he didn’t stop making snide remarks about hockey, Shane thought he might actually reach his breaking point. “Stop fucking—”

“You don’t tell me where you live for fucking years, we meet where you want, when you want, only as much as you want.” Ilya cut in over him, his volume increasing. He was pacing again, but he didn’t take his eyes away from Shane. 

“Making me drag you to go outside, always three feet away from each other in public…” 

Shane tried shaking his head, but it didn’t work. He reached his hand out, balancing himself against the window. He tried to keep himself grounded in the feeling of the cool glass underneath his fingertips, but he was starting to feel lightheaded as Ilya kept talking. 

“Playing boyfriends in a snowstorm—that is a fucking game.” 

And suddenly Shane couldn’t breathe, because how fucking dare he say that, how could he throw that in his face like that? He wanted to tell him—scream at him—to shut the fuck up but his throat had closed up and Ilya was still going anyway. 

“What do you think all of this is, if not your games?” Ilya’s voice was changing, though, as he paced in a wide circle, still keeping a room-worth of distance from Shane. 

“And I will play them, Shane, I have played them, but only if you can—” 

He cut himself off, but not before Shane heard his voice break at the end. 

“Only if I can what, Ilya?” Somehow, he found his voice within the depths of his abdomen. It didn’t even sound angry, it was just unsteady, like he was standing on the edge of something steep. 

Ilya shook his head. He was clearly working hard to bring himself under control, if only for this moment, but it wasn’t working. “You don’t know what you fucking want. Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want from me, tell me what you are doing. Because if you don’t even know…” 

He trailed off, breathing heavily as he finished. “I am tired of going in circles.” 

But Shane barely heard this last part, as he stared at him helplessly, trying to catch up with what felt like a decade’s worth of information suddenly being thrown at him in a single minute.

“What do you mean, what I want? When the fuck have you ever told me what you want? What do you want, Ilya?”

“What does it fucking matter?” Ilya shouted. “If you’re not going to—” 

And there it was again: the realization that it would be over, unless Shane did something. Unless he did the one thing that felt impossible to do, address the weight on his chest that was impossible to remove. Of course he wanted to remove it. Of course he wanted to do it. But he was fucking terrified. And his breathing was short and his chest felt like it was being squeezed slowly from the inside and his head was buzzing. 

And he didn’t mean to yell again, but it came out that way anyway, a burst of volume and emotion that he couldn’t control. 

“Ilya, I can’t fucking do it. I can’t be the first one, I can’t be the one who has to say it, I can’t be the one who everyone looks at and talks about—” 

“Shane, you do not have to be,” Ilya was only loud enough to be heard over Shane, but his frustration seeped into every word. “I am not talking about hockey, I am talking about our lives.” 

“It’s the same thing, Ilya, this is my life!” 

He could see Ilya’s frustration, and he understood it. Really, truly, he did, but he could not fucking help it. He could not stop himself from being like this, and if he could have, he would have done it a long time ago. 

All he could say was, “I know there’s something wrong with me, don’t you think I fucking know?” 

“There is nothing wrong with you, Shane,” Ilya sounded raw, anguished. 

But Shane couldn’t look at him. His hands were over his face now, as he struggled to get anything close to his composure back. He felt choked up, and it was catching all of the words he might have wanted to say, clogging them all up in his throat. 

Ilya stayed where he was, anyway. And when he spoke again, he sounded tired and quiet. “But I do not think I can keep doing this.” 

Shane still couldn’t speak. The words felt like they were pressing in on him. 

This must be what it felt like for his heart to break, he suddenly thought. He didn’t realize it would be so literal—he didn’t know it would feel like somebody was reaching in and squeezing his chest in a tightly closed fist. It was more like a tear than a break. He felt like his heart was tearing. 

What could he do? Come out to his parents, to his team? He had thought that he could do it. 

It occurred to him then: he had thought he would do anything for Ilya, even though the thought had never presented itself to him in that way before. 

But it turned out he was wrong, anyway. Because he hadn’t. He hadn’t done anything, at all. He couldn’t even say the words, right now, to keep him here. Because Shane was a coward. 

And because Shane couldn’t say anything, because he could only stand there shaking, there was nothing to keep Ilya there. 

“I am going to leave now,” Ilya said quietly. 

And Shane, of course, did nothing to stop him, even though Ilya moved so slowly, like he was waiting to be blocked along any step of the way: while he got his coat from where he had thrown it over the back of the couch, while he walked to the front of the apartment, while he tied his shoes on again. 

But Shane was immobile. Shane was weak. Shane was so lightheaded that he felt like he might pass out. Shane was sorry, so fucking sorry that he couldn’t have done this any better. 

“Bye,” Ilya said from next to the front door. 

And he said nothing as the door opened, and then closed again a moment later. 

Because Shane was a fucking coward. 

Chapter End Notes

For many chapters now, I have been stressing about Ilya’s immigration status in this universe. I know enough about The U.S. Legal System for it to feel very important to get it right, but not nearly enough about immigration law to actually do it justice.

So, perhaps I took the easy way out—by giving Ilya a very good agent, who has had an eye on him since he was young, and who set him up with the right immigration lawyers to help him get legal permanent residency as soon as he was able to. To the extent that you have more knowledge about the system and LPR in the United States and have opinions on how feasible this is, I hope you can grant me some artistic license on the details, if only for Ilya’s sake.

And then, well. It’s one more thing they probably should have communicated about.

Speaking of communication… feel free to communicate at me in the comments 🫣

See you in the playoffs...

Chapter 16: don't you see them shining?

Chapter Summary

Cowardice, bruised ribs, too much screen time, tidal waves, and cameras on the ice.

Chapter Notes

As someone naked once said, you think I am asshole? I would not leave you like that.

Enjoy.

It was playoffs. Ilya was in London. And Shane was a fucking coward. 

He had gone over it so many times since it had happened, replayed the tape back in his head. 

Answer the question.

You? What about you? 

Not for like… no reason. 

Perfect Captain Hollander. 

Have to say you fuck men for men to know you want to fuck them.

You sleep with Svetlana. 

Always fucking games. 

I am what, your fucking bro? 

Playing boyfriends in a snowstorm, that is a fucking game.

The thing that stuck out to him the most was that, at the core of it, neither of them had really said anything. Neither of them had laid their cards on the table. They had asked, what do you want? They had demanded, tell me what you want. But neither of them had gone so far as to say the actual words: I want. 

It had just been another stand off, another push and pull. Ilya pushing, for Shane to move. Shane pulling, to keep himself from moving. 

(But he knew the words he wanted to use now. They had come to him quickly, which meant they had already been there, waiting to be called into action. 

I love you, Shane would have said, if he had been here on the other side of the couch right now. I love you I love you I love you. I’m sorry. Please come back.)

For the first few weeks, Shane had waited for something to happen—not with Ilya, but with everything else, with the picture, with the guillotine. But nothing had happened. 

It had been long enough, now, that he was starting to doubt whether it ever would. There was still the possibility that it could happen sometime during the series, at the worst possible timing for Shane and the Admirals. But the farther they got away from it, the less likely it seemed. 

Which meant, then, that the only consequences for the photograph had been for Ilya. And maybe it hadn’t had the same impact that Shane had worried most about—with Russia—but it had still happened. There were still consequences. It was still horrible, and it had still affected him. And Shane had only been focused on himself and what might happen to him. 

But in the end, he was able to keep going forward, the same as before, like nothing had changed at all. It made him feel ashamed. 

He had texted after Ilya left the apartment that night. And then again, the next week. But after that, he stopped himself. It still wasn’t enough. It was still nothing. 

I’m sorry. 

I’m so fucking sorry. 

It was playoffs. Ilya was in Milan. And Shane was still a fucking coward. 

Carter had tried to talk to him so many times over the past two months, since the night everything had happened outside of Ilya’s building. Not that Carter had any clue about that particular marker of time, or anything about the incident. 

From Vaughn’s point of view, Shane had woken up one day and was suddenly just a dog shit hockey player. Shane couldn’t blame him for worrying—it was a miracle that they’d made it past Columbus, past Pittsburgh, and into the Eastern Conference Final against Boston. Shane hadn’t had much to do with either effort. 

So apparently, Vaughn had finally reached his breaking point. 

It was Game 2 of the series against Boston. They were at home. Shane was re-lacing his skate for the third time, because the first time had been too tight. The second time had been too loose. He felt like fucking Goldilocks. 

Vaughn dropped into the seat next to him, bending down low so that his face was right by Shane’s. Shane blinked at the sudden closeness, his hands going still, clutching his laces. 

He looked up briefly, glancing around the locker room. No one was left, except for Andersson, who was already on his way out to join everyone else for warm ups. Shane hadn’t realized that he’d been moving so slowly. 

“Shane,” Vaughn said quietly, even though there was no one else there with them. 

He wasn’t sure that Vaughn had ever used his first name before, and something about it—Rozanov, Hollander, that is fucking game, I am what, your fucking bro?—made him tense up. Shane looked at him over his shoulder, waiting. 

Carter was staring at him intently, dark brown eyes serious, over a set jaw. Shane had rarely seen this kind of a somber expression on his face, aside from the shit that had happened with Frank Zullo a couple of years ago, and when O’Brien had fucked his leg on the ice in 2013. 

And now, that was how he was looking at Shane. 

Carter continued studying him for a moment, like he was trying to figure something out for himself. Clearly, he didn’t find whatever he was looking for. 

“Are you okay, man?” He asked, still leaned in close to speak quietly. 

Shane looked back at him, laces hanging limply in his hand, forgotten. With the serious, caring eyes of his close friend locked on him, he was seized with the sudden urge to say something truthful for once in his life. 

I suck dick, he wanted to say. Sometimes it’s all I think about. And the one I think about all the time is attached to a man who fucking hates me right now, but I’m so in love with him, I just want to go home and cry and try not to think about him or his dick. So that’s what’s going on with me at the moment.

“Just thinking about the game, man,” he lied. 

He could tell that Carter was disappointed by the answer. Worse, he could tell that Carter was worried. And Carter clearly wanted to say something else, but Shane could see the coaching staff hovering at the door, obviously wondering what was taking them so long to get onto the ice. 

So Carter patted him, a heavy thump over his shoulder pads, and reluctantly got up. 

“We’re gonna fucking crush them, dude.” Vaughn assured him. Shane looked back at his skates. 

They did not, in fact, crush them. 

Somehow, miraculously, Shane managed to score in the second period. But early in the third, Marleau and Hunter came together, with Shane in the middle. 

Shane was checked into the boards so hard that for a moment, he thought he might vomit. He stayed bent in half, breathing hard with his hands on his knees, head tilted down towards the ice. The boos from the MSG crowd were raining down around him at the hard hit to their team’s captain. 

Marleau got the cross-checking penalty, but fucking Hunter got away with it. And Shane was left with bruised ribs that hurt every time he lay down on his side, and sometimes even when he was on his back. 

They lost the series to Boston. Shane took some comfort in the fact that they took them to seven games, but the writing had been on the wall since Game 4, when the Bears had beat them 7-0. Unlike the last time Boston had played for the Cup, Hunter was on fucking fire. 

So the Admirals were out of the playoffs. Ilya was still in Milan. And Shane was on the couch, bruised ribs and all. 

He didn’t go back to Canada right away. He told his parents it was for meetings, that he would book a flight at the end of June. His mom had pressed him a little, because she was the conduit for most of the meetings related to any of his endorsements, and she had access to the rest of his calendar. So he’d kept it vague, and had made it sound like it was team-related. 

There was at least a modicum of truth to it: Huff had made the depressing announcement that he was going to retire after the end of next season. There was still one year left, but the idea of moving on without one of his closest friends on the team, who he’d looked up to since his first invitation to play with Team Canada, did nothing to improve Shane’s shitty, low mood. 

But he was waiting, just for one day, when he and Ilya were both in New York. 

He watched everything on Instagram and Twitter: all of the accounts he’d found over the years, which gave him videos from runways, pictures from parties, schedules of events. He watched Ilya move around Europe. Shane was waiting for a lull, waiting to see if it would bring him back across the Atlantic.

On the first day of the Stanley Cup Final, which Shane was watching from his apartment, Svetlana called him just as Boston was taking the ice against Nashville. 

He answered right away, because it was the first time it had ever happened—and he couldn’t stifle the sudden sharp pang of worry that came along with seeing her name on his screen. 

But, of course, it was just about hockey. 

“I am sorry,” she said, her smooth voice coming over the line from Paris. “You know what I think about Scott Hunter. But I think this might be his year.” 

“Yeah,” Shane responded. He didn’t know what else to say, and it was hard to focus on the substance of her words. It was hard to think about anything else, aside from Ilya. Surely she had talked with him. 

In the time since he’d gotten to know her, he’d come to understand the tether between the two of them. It was embarrassing that he had misrepresented it in his fight with Ilya—there was closeness there, yes, but it was different from what he’d insinuated. It was different, too, than whatever there had been between him and Ilya. 

He knew that whatever was going on with Ilya, she would know. 

But she was still talking about his game performance. Because it was Svetlana, she was truthful—she didn’t pull punches and make it sound like it had been his best set of playoffs. They both knew it hadn’t been. 

“That was a bad hit in the second game,” she said, pausing in her analysis of the difference between his performance against Boston versus how he’d played against Pittsburgh. “Did you get hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” he answered, but the disbelieving sound she made in return was a fair reply. He stretched himself out, grimacing at the twinge in his ribs. He really should have been putting more ice on them. 

Then, finally, there was a pause. So he gathered the courage to ask the question he had been wanting to since he’d picked up the phone, which he was fairly certain she had been trying to avoid this whole time. 

“How is he?” He asked hesitantly. 

Svetlana was, as she had reminded Shane some weeks ago, an intelligent woman. So she didn’t bother pretending like she didn’t understand. 

“He’s here in Paris.” 

But that wasn’t what he had asked, so they were both quiet for a moment. 

“You know I can’t talk to you about this, Shane,” she said, but with sympathy in her voice. 

“I know.” He was quiet. Because he did know. But he had to ask anyway, just in case. 

She shifted the subject back to Boston, and he let her, half-heartedly joining in on a prediction for how tonight’s game, and the rest of the series, would go. 

“Your rule needed to end sometime,” she teased after a little while. “And you have plenty of time for a third. Next year, maybe?” 

“What happened to ‘it’ll be the Boston Bears every year until the end of time?’” Shane asked wryly, the ghost of a smile on his face as he shifted his position on the couch to stretch out on his good side. 

“You have to promise you won’t say it in front of my father, but it turns out I have a soft spot for the Admirals these days,” Svetlana replied. He could tell she was smiling. “They have the best player in the league.” 

Shane let out a breath that was something close to a laugh. “I won’t tell him.” 

“I should go. It’s late here, and I have a very early morning,” she sighed into the phone, and he could imagine her reclining in a big hotel bed. 

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” As strange as the call had felt when it started, now he suddenly found that he didn’t really want to give it up. Talking to her had felt like the first normal thing in weeks—maybe because she was the only one who really knew what he was thinking about. 

“Take care of yourself,” she said. Her voice was still soft and kind, and he felt a weird tightness in his chest at the sound of it. “I will see you soon, okay?” 

“Okay.” He didn’t know if she was just saying it because she thought it was the right thing to say, or if it was true. 

Would he ever see Svetlana again? It was a crazy thought, actually. After he had spent four years burning with jealousy every time he had even thought about her, he was miserable at the idea of never talking to her again. 

It was incredible, after six years of convincing himself that it wasn’t a relationship, how much this all felt like a break up. 

He cried once, when looking at the six cans of Coke in his fridge. Only one of them had been taken out of the pack—the one that had briefly rested on his coffee table two months ago, and had been left unopened. He wondered if he should just throw them away. No one was ever going to drink them.

Instead he’d just folded his arms onto the kitchen counter, put his head down, and cried. 

He watched the rest of the Cup games alone, at home, barely paying attention. Vaughn was in Los Angeles visiting Gloria, anyway; Huff had gone up to his place in Canada with his family. The rest of his team had similarly scattered. There wasn’t anyone else in New York who he would have wanted to spend the time with. 

The Bears won the first three before Nashville pulled one back. The trajectory was obvious, though. He couldn’t believe he and Scott Hunter were both going to have two Cups. 

He was looking at his text messages again, at his two stupid texts that had been left unanswered. 

He was looking online, at Ilya’s pictures from an event for YSL. His hair had gotten longer, the curls held back and tamed through careful styling. Shane knew what it would look like at that length after he had just woken up. He knew how soft it would feel under his hands. 

He was thinking about what he should have done differently, thinking about whether he would have actually had the courage to do it.

What would it take from him, just to say it out loud? Not just out loud—but to the whole world? What would it really cost him? What was stopping him from doing it right now?

The hours—his phone had helpfully told him the exact amount, and it was indeed hours—that he had spent on Instagram had clearly done something to his brain, because something strange was happening inside of it. 

And wouldn’t that be fucking something? Shane Hollander, coming out on the internet, in the middle of Game 5 of the Stanley Cup Final? The Commissioner would be distracted, at least.

It was an insane idea, but somehow he was talking himself into it. 

He sat up on the couch, pushing the hood of his sweatshirt back as he bent over his phone, opening up a blank note. It had gotten dark, and he hadn’t turned on any lights—the room was only illuminated by the glow from his phone and from the television, showing the aftermath of a goal by Connors. 

Shane stared at the blinking cursor, considering the best way to start. He had never been a writer. Anything he had ever posted for public consumption had always been drafted by Farah or the PR firm he had worked with over the past few years. The reminder of both his agent and the public relations people made his shoulders start to tense up, but he quickly shook his head, pushing away the hesitation, and just made himself start. 

I have always thought that a private life should be private. I really value privacy 

Fucking terrible. He tried again. 

Nobody actually knows anything about me so I’m going to be truthful for once in my fucki

He hit the delete button. 

Hi. I’m gay.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and ignoring the horn sounding from the TV that signaled the end of the second period. Once he’d gathered himself again, he muted the television and started on a new, blank draft. 

I’ve never felt very comfortable sharing much of myself online. In a lot of ways, I’ve never really ever been all that comfortable with myself in general. It’s always been easiest to put my head down and do what I like best: just play hockey. 

I love hockey. I’m honored to get to do it for a living every day. It’s been the best part of the last two decades of my life. 

There’s more to me than hockey, though. 

Using all of the media training he’d ingrained in himself over his seven years as a professional athlete, he kept typing until it said everything he needed it to: clearly, plainly, without hesitation. I’m gay. This doesn’t change anything about me or my accomplishments. I’m going to keep playing hockey and I believe that the sport can grow around me, too. 

He actually got close, with the last one. He even had it loaded up, ready to go, before the insanity of all of it sank down on him like a stone. 

What the fuck was he thinking, posting something like this without telling Farah? His PR team? The Admirals? His parents? In the middle of Game 5 of the fucking Stanley Cup Final???

He was suddenly filled with a rush of self-loathing that was so intense he thought he might need to actually scream out loud just to be free from it. He closed out of the app and hurled his phone across the dark room, hearing it land with a thud somewhere several feet away from him. He was so fucking stupid. 

And, so, things would stay exactly the way they were. Shane would stay the same, and nothing would have to change. He pulled his hood up again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the pressure of the angry tears building up behind them. 

He pulled himself together through the third period, the anger cooling into something more forlorn. He was stretched out on the couch, ice against his ribs, as the game ended. 

When Boston won, he watched the team crowd together in their black and gold jerseys. The home crowd around them was euphoric. 

He watched Scott Hunter grab the Cup, holding it triumphantly over his head. It couldn’t have been more different for him than it had been in 2011—Shane thought there was a decent chance he might take one of the big individual trophies home, this time. 

He watched Hunter finish his lap, and pass the Cup to Cliff Marleau, who took off with it. 

He watched the families pour onto the ice. 

Shane remembered what it was like the last time for him, almost exactly a year ago. He remembered staring up into the lights and thinking, what is this all for? Who is this all for? Is it just for me? That was so fucking sad. And not a single thing about his life had changed since that time—at least not for the better. 

He watched Hunter stand on the ice alone, surrounded by teammates skating to meet girlfriends, wives, children, parents. 

He had never noticed it, or at least never really thought about it—Hunter was alone, too. No wife, never a girlfriend. And he knew Scott’s story, about the St. Thomas scholarship—Shane had even joined Vaughn at the fundraising gala last year—so there were no elder Hunters with him, either. Hunter was even more alone, actually. 

Shane really was fucking selfish, he realized. Why had none of this ever occurred to him before? In all of that time he had spent obsessing over whether he was doing better than Hunter, all the time he spent being shitty about Hunter’s stats—why had he never noticed how much Hunter was going through it alone? Why did he have such a hard time seeing people? 

The camera was lingering on Hunter, maybe to highlight this sad, dramatic fact about him. It felt intrusive. Shane wished they would show something else—Fellers and his baby, maybe, who Shane could just see over Hunter’s shoulder. Or Marleau, who was trying to pick up and carry Hammersmith. But no, the camera stayed on Hunter. 

Shane didn’t realize that anything was off until he registered that Hunter had started skating in the wrong direction—away from his team, towards the crowd. 

There was a strange expression on his face. At first Shane wondered if there was something wrong—an altercation in the crowd, a fan saying something fucked up—but then Hunter smiled. Shane hadn’t spent a lot of time cataloguing Scott Hunter’s smiles, but it wasn’t one that he had ever seen on his face before. 

He watched as the Boston captain, sweaty-haired, beaming, lifted his hand to gesture towards the crowd. 

The cameraperson made it easy for Shane to understand what was happening. The view on the television fixed on the crowd instead of the ice, catching the movement of one man making his way towards the aisle of the arena. 

Shane had turned the volume down low over the last twenty minutes of the game. He grabbed the remote, turning it up again to see if the commentators had any insight into what was actually happening. But they seemed as confused as Shane, and also the other people in the crowd at TD Garden moving aside to let the man pass. 

Hunter was conferring with rink security. Shane didn’t know how the fuck he did it—it probably never would have happened at MSG—but a few minutes later they were letting the fan pass through the barricade, and onto the ice. 

The man was shorter than Hunter, who loomed over him in his skates. He was good looking, Shane registered; with short brown hair, wearing round glasses. He wasn’t wearing any Bears gear—just a denim jacket over a shirt, maybe a sweatshirt, that looked like it said Boston University. 

But the most notable thing was the way he was looking up at Hunter. There was a mix of confusion, nervousness, and, maybe most starkly, pride. 

And then Shane looked at Hunter, and he understood everything. 

He sat up so fast that there was a sound almost like a tidal wave as the blood rushed into his brain. 

Hunter was beaming, and he was embracing the man on the ice with him. He was leaning in, and he was kissing him. 

Was it really so easy? A wave in the crowd, a word with security, carefully balancing in shoes on the ice, leaning down over the height difference in skates—and just kissing him, right under the lights in Boston, for the whole world to see? 

And of course it was not. Who but Shane knew better than that? It was the hardest thing in the world, and Scott Hunter was fucking brave, and good, and strong. But they made it look so fucking easy, and for one instant Shane mourned what could have been in 2015, or in 2016, if he had just tried to be a little bit braver, too. 

But then it clicked into place—what it could be now. All because Scott Hunter had gone first. 

He scrambled up from the couch, ignoring the ice pack dropping to the floor, ignoring the protest from his ribs. He hurried across the room, bumping into the coffee table and a chair as he searched for wherever he had thrown his phone. 

The room was too dark, even with the television—the kiss—illuminating several feet around it. Shane rushed around, skirting around furniture, to turn on the lamps, across the room to turn on the overhead lights. 

He found it, finally, hiding halfway underneath a chair, near the window. He seized the phone from the ground, swiping frantically to unlock it and to find the contact he needed. His chest hurt from the quickness of his breath, his aching ribs. He didn’t fucking care. 

It was late in Europe—well past four in the morning. He was almost certainly sleeping. He might not be sleeping alone. Shane really didn’t fucking care. 

Ilya answered on the first ring. 

“Shane?” His voice was cautious, but clear. Maybe even concerned. He didn’t sound like he had been sleeping. 

Shane took a deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Come to my cottage. Please.” 

Chapter End Notes

It’s not a cliffhanger. You know he said yes.

(But did you think Shane was going to come out on Instagram? I genuinely did for a moment, too.)

When I started writing this a few months ago, I wondered if the circumstances of this story would lead Shane to bringing Ilya down on the ice out of the crowd, or to be the first publicly out player in the league. I wasn’t directing it there—but I was definitely feeling it out as a possibility.

I realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t going to happen even with this version of Shane, who is—I think—more comfortable with himself and his relationship with Ilya in a lot of ways (maybe not all the ways you, dear reader, want to see, but it’s happening). I thought about a lot of different possibilities, but it always came down to this.

So I let Scott Hunter have his moment again. I actually love the idea that Scott paving the way for Shane and Ilya is a common thread in so many universes… maybe especially here, with Shane’s one-sided beef against him. Shane can be as shitty as he wants about Scott’s hockey… he’s always going to owe him something, now.

Speaking of Shane: stick with him. He’s more than ready to make something happen.

See you in Canada! 🌅

Chapter 17: crossing the threshold

Chapter Summary

The cottage.

Chapter Notes

July 2017, Lanaudière

Shane drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He squinted through the windshield, finally exhaling and shoving his sunglasses up to the top of his head. 

He’d been sitting here for more than five minutes, and if he kept it up for any longer, they were going to come out and ask him what he was doing. 

He sighed again, trying to expel some of the nervous energy that had been building inside him since he’d made the decision to come here and do this. He’d been in countless pressure scenarios before. He knew how to handle stress and adrenaline. What made this so different? Why the fuck couldn’t he just do it now? 

Finally, fucking finally, he put his hand on the car door and let himself out. 

Sure enough, he only made it around the car before the front door opened and his mom stepped out of the house. 

“Everything okay?” Yuna Hollander called down as he came up to meet her, taking two steps at a time up the front steps. 

“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly convincing, even to his own ears. But she didn’t seem to notice, smiling as she stepped back to let him in. 

“Dad’s just finishing up lunch. Salad and chicken. We also picked up way too many blueberries yesterday, you’re going to have to take some home with you.” She touched his back lightly, closing the door behind him. 

Shane could only nod, hands shoved in his pockets. 

He’d gone over this plan so many times in his mind, and he still wasn’t sure it was the right one. But the only alternatives he’d thought of were all stupid, convoluted lies: that he needed to rest for something medical (which would make his mom freak out), that some of his team was coming up for a visit (his dad would want to have them over for dinner), or that he was doing a silent retreat (?????). 

So he’d finally settled on telling them the truth, or at least a version of it. He knew it was just going to generate more questions, but it was the best he could do for right now, on his own. And he hoped they would be able to take that for what it was. 

“Hey kiddo,” his dad said, coming out of the kitchen with a big bowl in his hands. “We were thinking about eating outside, that sound good to you?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll get…” Shane gestured to the kitchen vaguely. 

He went in and grabbed the platter with the roast chicken, mostly to give himself something to do to expel some of his nervous energy—and definitely not to delay everything a little longer. 

But eventually, as the meal and the afternoon stretched on, he knew he had to just do it. 

His mom had spent the beginning of lunch talking about the upcoming renewal for his Reebok deal and a potential opportunity with Calvin Klein, then his dad had chatted about the new way he’d prepared the chicken and the good seasonal ingredients they’d seen at the farmer’s market earlier in the week. Then they’d both talked about the upcoming trip to Italy they were planning to take in September. 

By around then, though, they’d picked up on the fact that Shane hadn’t done much more than nod, eat his food, and say “yeah” in a slightly new inflection each time. His dad was frowning at him, and his mom had just inhaled like she was tactfully figuring out the right way to ask him what was going on. 

Shane knew it was time. He just had to fucking get it over with. 

“I, uh,” he put his fork down. Even without looking at them directly, he could see that he had their full attention. “I wanted to tell you guys something.” 

He’d gone over the words to use so many times, and still, it felt like he blacked out when he actually said them. 

But he was confident he’d managed to impart the essential messages: he was gay. He was sure about it. He was sorry he hadn’t told them before. He was sorry that he’d lied for so long about it. 

His mom’s eyes had filled with tears as soon as the first words came out of his mouth, which didn’t make it any easier to get through the rest of them. His dad had also grown teary somewhere in the middle. And by the time of his second apology—when they’d both left their chairs and come around the table to hug him, his mom wrapped around his shoulders from behind and his dad kneeling next to him—Shane realized that he was crying, too. He lifted his arms up to hold them back as best as he could. 

“I’m just—sorry,” he said, thickly, pressing his face into some combination of Hollander arms in front of him. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” his mom said, fiercely, the way she always did when she wanted him to believe in the strength of what she was saying. 

She kept her arms around him, letting her tears fall freely without lifting a hand to wipe them away. “I’m sorry, Shane. I’m sorry we didn’t make you feel like you could tell us.” 

Shane didn’t have much room to shake his head in the tight embrace around him, but he did his best. “No, it wasn’t you. I knew you would…” 

He trailed off, not able to articulate any confidence in their reaction. Because how many times had he second guessed himself? But still, it hadn’t been about them, not really. It had just been about himself, his own feelings about the whole thing. 

He tried again, to see if he could get closer to saying it properly. 

“It wasn’t you. It was me, it was…” 

He couldn’t get any further, because a lot of things had changed in him over the past few years, but he was still terrible with words. This past spring had given him enough proof of that. 

“Hockey,” his dad supplied. He spoke sadly, with the quiet understanding of a man who had spent years of his life in locker rooms, too. And that was only part of it—but it was a big part. Shane glanced at him, and nodded when his father tightened his embrace. 

“Shane, you are a very brave man.” David Hollander managed to get through the entire sentence before he started crying again. Yuna and Shane weren’t far behind him. Shane pressed his face into the arm in front of him, squeezing his eyes shut for a second while he let his parents hold him for a little longer. 

But eventually, he lifted his head again. 

“There’s, um, something else I wanted to talk about.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, because this was going to be a whole other thing. He sat up straight, too, because he couldn’t be caught in this tight embrace while he struggled to explain it. 

“Oh,” his mom blinked. 

She pulled away after a moment, dabbing her face lightly with the heels of her hands. Shane could see her trying to put her serious listening face back on, the one that sometimes reminded him of his own game face. His dad stood up from the ground, too, groaning slightly as he came out of a squat and made his way back to his chair. 

Shane wiped his face, too, and took a deep breath. He’d rehearsed how to say this, too, but everything seemed to have been wiped from his mind from the emotion—and relief—of the last few minutes. 

“Um,” he paused. “There’s also, uh… someone. A, uh, guy. Who I…” 

He trailed off, but it was enough for his parents to understand the gist. His mom looked shocked, and his dad looked intrigued, and Shane tried not to feel confused about why they looked so surprised. They had spent literally years asking him if there was anyone he was interested in—why was it so shocking for him to announce an interest in someone? 

He used this little fizz of irritation to steel himself, and kept going. “Yeah. I’ve been, um, seeing someone? Or, I guess, I was seeing someone. I don’t really know.” 

He didn’t know the right way to put it—it seemed like the right words, even in this strange not-present, not-past tense. He wasn’t really sure what tense his relationship with Ilya existed in at this point. But he kept talking, because he needed to get the rest of it out there. 

“It kind of went to shit, actually.” Shane crossed his arms, staring at the table as he tried not to think about the last three months. 

“I really fucked up. And, um, I’m trying to fix it. So… I invited him to the cottage.” Out of his peripheral vision, he saw his mom’s eyebrows shoot into the air. He kept his eyes fixed on the plate in front of him as he tried to get through the part he was most nervous about. 

“He’s coming for two weeks. Or, I mean, I invited him for that long. I hope he stays that long. But, um… I just really need some time… and space… to fix it. If it works out. So…” 

Shane finally looked up then, brow furrowed in expectation of his parents’ reaction—he didn’t exactly know what it would be, but he knew there would be one. 

As he thought, both of them looked like they wanted nothing more than to ask him a thousand more questions. His dad was leaning forward, blinking repeatedly, like he was hanging on the edge of his seat at the story, waiting to hear the ending. His mom literally had her hands pressed together in front of her mouth, like she was physically trying to stop herself from speaking. Shane braced himself, feeling his shoulders creeping up towards his ears. 

But after a long pause, his dad just nodded, slowly. “So… I guess we’ll see you in two weeks.” 

“Time and space, right?” David added. He looked at his wife then, who exhaled as she let her hands fall back to the table. 

The look Yuna gave him in return suggested to Shane that she would rather die than agree, but that she would do it anyway, out of love for her husband and son. 

“Just send us a text every couple of days so we know that you’re alive, please,” she instructed Shane sternly. 

It was a reasonable request, so he nodded, trying not to make his overwhelming relief too obvious as he picked up his fork again.

And because they were good parents who loved him, they let the subject drop after that, with one exception. 

“Have you talked to Scott Hunter?” His dad asked, helping himself to a handful of blueberries at the end of the meal. 

Shane shook his head at him, confused, as he reached to do the same. “Why would I talk to Scott Hunter?” 

From the chair next to him, his mom just started laughing. “Oh my God, Shane.”

☀️

If Shane was famous, there was nowhere in the world he was more famous than in Ottawa. 

With that in mind, it was pretty insane that he’d actually chosen to stand here, inside the Ottawa airport, waiting at the easiest meeting spot for arrivals. People had definitely noticed him—he’d seen a bunch of sidelong glances and ducked heads, whispering—but he hadn’t seen any obvious cell phone cameras pointed at him. That didn’t mean there hadn’t been any. 

He tried to put the thought out of his head. He’d considered waiting in the car—but something about it, making Ilya come find him in the parking lot, made him burn with embarrassment after the way they had left things in April. 

So he’d forced himself out here as a first impression: a first way of showing Ilya how serious he was about this. 

That also meant, unfortunately, that he was in public when he saw Ilya come down the hallway, rolling his suitcase, backpack slung over one shoulder. 

He wasn’t even wearing anything special. It was a little ridiculous, actually, for summer in Ottawa: the black tank top and pants, the black backwards cap and sunglasses on in the middle of a fucking airport. Shane had never seen anything that screamed New York more than all of that. 

But maybe it was because he hadn’t seen him in person in three months. Because suddenly it was a lot of work to keep his face perfectly straight, while he battled two simultaneous urges: to grin like an idiot, and to direct him straight into the nearest bathroom so that he could push that fucking hat off his head and get down on his knees in front of him. 

Instead, Shane just lifted his hand in greeting. He saw Ilya’s eyebrows go up behind the sunglasses, and realized that he may have actually failed to clue Ilya into where and how he would be meeting him. 

Shane stayed where he was, ignoring the curious stares from a couple of people around him. Once Ilya was level with him, though, he turned to start walking towards the exit. Any kind of actual public greeting, especially under the few looks still following their progress through the airport, was still several steps too far for him. 

Ilya didn’t seem bothered, though, as he followed in the direction Shane led. 

“Usually drivers have a sign when picking you up at the airport,” Ilya said conversationally as they headed to the parking area. “With last name, on little white board.” 

“I couldn’t remember how to spell it,” Shane replied. “Too many concussions.” 

Ilya laughed softly, keeping his eyes ahead as he rolled his suitcase through the exit. 

When they were finally in the car, suitcase securely in the back and Ilya securely in the passenger seat, Shane allowed himself to turn and look at him. They were both still wearing sunglasses, but it didn’t matter. The sight of him was everything Shane had been thinking about for weeks. Months. 

They still hadn’t spoken since the fight, not really. Other than Shane’s call to invite him to the cottage—which hadn’t gone far beyond the question itself and a stuttered, confused-sounding okay, I will—there had only been a few conversations, mostly through text, about logistics. 

Well. Aside from one night, about a week ago, when Ilya had called and whispered the dirtiest shit he had ever said to Shane, ever, for eight wild, filthy minutes, until they had both come and Ilya had to hang up, because it turned out that he was in a bathroom at an after party in Paris. And Shane had been left on his couch, his stomach covered in come and feeling like he’d just been hit by a train. 

He was trying hard not to think about that, nor the fact that they had a two hour drive in front of them. He wasn’t exactly keen on kissing Ilya in a public parking lot, especially when he was pretty sure he had spotted some phone cameras on them during their walk out of the airport. 

More importantly—it felt like he’d be jumping the gun. Sure, Ilya was here, and sure, he was smiling at Shane like he was also thinking about the phone call from Paris, but Shane wasn’t going to take anything for granted. He had work to do first. 

So he dragged his eyes away from Ilya’s skin—already golden from the first month of summer—and turned on the car. He had pulled out of the airport parking lot and got them started on the drive before he realized that Ilya was watching him with a weird amount of interest. 

“What?” Shane asked, glancing between him and the road. 

“I have never seen you drive before.” Ilya still had his sunglasses on, but Shane could tell without seeing that his eyes were crinkled with amusement at the corners. 

“Oh.” That was true, actually, and strange. They’d walked so many places together, and shared a few cars or Ubers, but they’d managed to go this long without sharing this one mundane activity. 

Something else occurred to Shane, too. “Wait, do you know how to drive?” 

Ilya looked affronted. “What do you mean? Of course I know how to drive.” 

“But… when did you learn?” Shane ignored Ilya’s offended look to run through the chronology of Ilya’s life as he could remember it. 

Based on Shane’s recall, he had lived in Moscow before he started modeling, and after that, had basically lived in an assortment of cities, mostly New York. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity for him to learn how to drive, as far as Shane could tell, unless he’d done it in Moscow, before leaving. 

“This is a stupid conversation. I can drive,” Ilya retorted, with the kind of confidence that made Shane think that he probably shouldn’t let him borrow the car at any point during this trip. 

“Have you ever even been outside of a city?” Shane continued, since this thought had also occurred to him while running over the places Ilya had lived since leaving Moscow. Rural locations for a photo shoot didn’t really feel like they counted, either. 

“What the fuck are you saying? Of course I have been outside of a city.” Ilya flicked his hand at him impatiently. “I’m not a… pigeon.” 

Shane laughed a little, both at Ilya’s defensiveness, and because the smug way he sometimes strutted around was actually kind of like a pigeon. 

After a moment, he offered, “Rats are also city dwellers. Could have gone with that as a comparison.” 

“A rat?” Ilya twisted his head around to stare at Shane, open-mouthed. “Wow. Welcome to Canada.” 

Shane laughed again, louder this time. He could see Ilya biting down on a smile as he shook his head, still pretending to be offended, and looked outside the window. 

Ilya’s insistence that he had spent time outside of cities was somewhat belied by the interest with which he looked outside of the window at the passing farms and stretches of trees, cut through with dappled sunlight, and at the wide and open spaces. Shane let it go without comment, because he was less interested in banter and more focused on the fact of this man’s presence beside him. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t admit that he was undeniably a city boy. 

The car ride was mostly quiet, which was completely at odds with how much Shane knew they had to say to each other. But he didn’t want to start everything off here, with too much to risk about things going sideways, while they were confined in the car together. Not that it would be better if things went sideways when they were confined at the cottage together, but… at least there would be more room to spread out.

About halfway through the ride, though, one of those thoughts came into Shane’s brain—the kind that was hard to dislodge once it had gotten there. Something incredibly stupid. He was already certain he knew the answer, and he knew that asking at all could backfire on him, if only because Ilya was probably not going to react well to the question. 

But he also remembered, very well, what Ilya had said to him—that Shane never asked, he always just assumed. 

“Um,” he spoke aloud in the car, over the soft music that Ilya had turned on at some point. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ilya’s head turn towards him.

Shane opted to just blurt it out. “You’re not seeing anyone, are you?” 

Even without looking at him directly, Shane could see Ilya’s neck stretch forward, a dumbfounded expression on his face clear even with the sunglasses covering most of it.

“What? No?” 

The tone was enough to confirm what Shane had already thought. He shook his head, already waving at Ilya to stop, to show that he understood, that he wanted to just move past it and pretend he’d never asked anything at all. 

Ilya was shaking his head back at him, even as he turned to look out the window again. But after a moment, his head whipped back around to look at Shane. “Are you seeing anyone?” 

“No,” Shane answered. He swallowed slowly against a sudden dryness in his throat, reaching for the one of the water bottles he’d brought along for the drive. After a pause, he couldn’t help but add, “Why would I invite you here if I was seeing anyone?” 

“Why would I come here if I was seeing anyone?” Ilya shot back incredulously. He snatched the water bottle out of Shane’s grasp, twisting off the top and handing it to him. 

Which was a great point, Shane realized. He opened his mouth, then closed it, just grabbing the water bottle for a quick drink. There was absolutely no need to say anything else about this subject. 

Ilya exhaled next to him, taking the water bottle back when Shane was finished. He screwed the top on, muttering something in Russian that Shane could only assume had something to do with brain damage. But a moment later, after Ilya had replaced the bottle in the drink holder it had come from, he reached over. Shane felt the weight of Ilya’s hand settle onto his thigh, squeezing gently. 

Shane rested his hand on top, threading their fingers together. 




His nerves started to pick up again as they turned down the road that would lead to the cottage’s driveway. Ilya sensed the impending approach, too; Shane could tell from the way he twisted his head to look around with interest at the trees flanking the narrow road. By the time they were pulling up to the house, he was leaning forward, looking at the structure through the windshield. He had finally taken off his sunglasses, slipping them onto the collar of his shirt. 

They got out at the same time. With Ilya still focused on taking in the view of the house, Shane walked around to the back, opening the hatch to grab his suitcase. The sound caught Ilya’s attention, and before Shane knew it, he was at his side and immediately reaching for the bag. 

“What are you doing?” Ilya scowled, pulling the suitcase out of Shane’s grasp. “I know your ribs are fucked up.” 

Shane was surprised—that hadn’t been public, and he didn’t think that Ilya would have known it. “They’re fine.” 

“I will be the judge of that,” Ilya insisted, holding the suitcase out of Shane’s reach. Shane got his backpack, at least, slinging it over his shoulder on the side where his ribs hadn’t been injured. 

“Didn’t think you’d spent the last few months getting a medical license,” he said, leading the way up to the cottage’s front door to let them in. 

“Have spent many years studying Shane Hollander and his body,” answered Ilya, two steps behind him. 

Shane didn’t know how to respond to that. He looked at him over his shoulder, pressing his lips together, then turned back to let them into the cottage. 

The light did Shane all the favors he needed to make a spectacular entrance. The weather had been overcast when he’d left several hours earlier, but now, the sun was out and the sky was blue, reflecting brightly onto the lake, cut only by the occasional white, fluffy cloud. A gentle breeze rippled the surface of the water and through the branches of the trees leading up from the shore. The vista was perfect through the large glass windows in front of them. 

Ilya stood in the middle of the room, taking it in. Shane suddenly remembered last year, in London—the giddy feeling that had settled into him at his first chance to ever really see Ilya in the summer sunshine. The same feeling was settling into him now. 

It was better, though. Because—hopefully—it wouldn’t only be for one day. 

Maybe Ilya was thinking the same thing, or feeling the same way, or maybe he could just read everything on Shane’s transparent face. He turned his head to look at him. They stood like that for a long moment, just taking each other in. 

Ilya moved first this time. He took off his hat and removed the sunglasses from the collar of his shirt first, depositing both on the kitchen island as he slowly made his way across the room towards Shane.

He walked faster as he came closer, softly taking the two steps down into the sunken living room. He met Shane face-to-face, eye-to-eye, and paused for a moment, before reaching up to lightly rest his hands on his waist. He slid them up the sides of Shane’s torso, drawing himself in a little closer. 

Shane relaxed into the touch. He didn’t want to close his eyes, though—he didn’t want to lose the sight of Ilya so close to his face for the first time in so long. 

Like he was thinking the same thing, Ilya moved one hand away from his abdomen to cradle his face gently. It reminded Shane of years ago, the way Ilya would hold his chin between his thumb and forefinger, keeping Shane focused on him. It had taken him a long time to realize that was what Ilya was doing—but what he had said was true. Ilya had spent years understanding Shane. 

Eventually, he leaned in. Shane closed his eyes. 

They hadn’t kissed in three months. There had been longer gaps between seeing each other before, but nothing so long in the last two years. It was tentative, at first, Ilya’s fingers holding Shane’s face softly, their lips touching with only slightly more pressure. 

It deepened quickly, as their bodies caught up with the kiss. Shane brought his hands to Ilya’s arms, squeezing up past his biceps to his shoulders, then into his hair. It was longer than the last time Shane had seen him, long enough for him to grip a fistful in his hand, the curls spilling out between his fingers. 

Ilya was already backing him towards the couch, Shane stumbling with him. They nearly knocked over a lamp as Shane turned him around—and the jostling motion brought him back into his head just before the backs of Ilya’s legs hit the edge of the couch. 

“Wait,” Shane said, pulling himself away. 

The change in motion made Ilya stumble. He caught himself on the lamp, almost sending it to the floor again. They reached for it at the same time, steadying it. 

Ilya’s eyes immediately found Shane’s as soon as the lamp was righted. Shane was somewhat taken aback by the expression he saw there—Ilya looked expectant, a little vulnerable. 

Shane took a deep breath. “I think we should talk.” 

This time Ilya inhaled slowly, and Shane got the sense that he very much would have liked to say no. 

Well, tough shit, so would Shane, but it was going to happen anyway. Even if Ilya seemed to be satisfied to let Shane’s actions speak for themselves—Shane wasn’t, not this time. He was too ashamed about their last conversation. 

It hadn’t escaped him that Ilya had come to the cottage without knowing what he would find here—without knowing what would happen. He had said he was done when he’d left Shane’s apartment in April. But he’d come now, in July, after only an invitation, not knowing what he’d get on the other end of it. He’d come without knowing if he would be asked to simply keep doing things the way they had been doing them for the past six and a half years, even though Ilya had said that he couldn’t do that anymore. 

Coming here, without knowing what he was walking into, had been a massive leap of faith in Shane. Shane was not going to fail to meet that challenge. 

So, he started at the starting point. “I’m sorry.” 

The words stood on their own for a moment, before Shane filled them in. 

“I was so selfish. I wasn’t thinking the right way about this huge thing that happened to you—this huge, shitty thing. It shouldn’t have happened to you.” He swallowed slowly. “And I was way too focused on myself. That was bullshit, and I’m sorry.” 

He took a deep breath, because this was the even harder part, but that made it even more necessary to say. 

“You were right. About pushing things off, I mean. Because they were too hard to deal with. I made it about hockey, but you were talking about something else. With just the people in my life.” He paused, blinking a few times, struggling to maintain the eye contact that seemed like an important aspect of this apology. “With us.” 

He saw Ilya react to that. It was slight, but Shane saw his head move back slightly as he took in a small breath—like he was holding himself ready. Shane kept going. 

“I made up all of these stories in my head. About what you did with other people, how you thought about things, how you—” He faltered over this slightly. “...felt about me, but it was just that, making stuff up in my head.”

“Especially about Svetlana.” He grimaced as he said it, feeling tense with embarrassment at the memory of what he had said. 

But Ilya had been shaking his head from the moment Shane had stumbled over his words. He interrupted, quietly. “I did not tell you how I felt.” 

And Shane desperately wanted to stay stuck here, to dig into that a little bit, but he had more he needed to say. So he lifted his hand just slightly, silently asking Ilya to wait. 

“I never meant to play games with you. Never. But I can see now that I did, and I’m sorry.” He watched him, a few feet away, breathing steadily, his eyes locked on Ilya’s. “I should have done a lot of things differently.”

“And I’m going to, if you’ll let me try.” He pressed his lips together after he finished, finally reaching the conclusion he had needed to express. 

Ilya gazed steadily back at him for a moment. Shane tried not to hold his breath as he waited for him to speak. 

“I should have done different things, too,” he said, finally. 

He fidgeted with his hands at his sides, and Shane’s eyes dropped to the movement, watching him rub his fingers together, sliding them down his thighs, over his pants. He didn’t think he had ever seen Ilya move restlessly like that before. 

But Ilya was still looking at him. “I hurt you. I left.” 

And yes, those things were true, but they didn’t matter to Shane. Not when he thought about everything else, the weight of his inaction. He shook his head, sending the words back to Ilya. “I hurt you. And I pushed you away.” 

Ilya’s jaw was tense. Shane could see a muscle flexing there, lit by the golden sun coming in through the window. He had always known that Ilya would be even more beautiful at the cottage, but he hadn’t known how agonizing it would feel to see it. 

“There is nothing wrong with you, Shane. Nothing.” 

It was clear that this was important for Ilya to say—that this was the thing that had been weighing on him in the time and the silence that had stretched out between them for the past three months. Shane exhaled slowly, because he heard the emphasis in the words: the care, the imploring note. He didn’t know what to say, or if he really would be able to say anything with any kind of steadiness in his voice. So he nodded. 

Ilya nodded, too, and kept speaking, slowly and carefully. “I was upset with you because I did not think you were being clear to me, and because I thought you were keeping me at arms length. At a distance. That hurt me. I appreciate you understanding that.” 

He was still fidgeting, Shane noticed. And he finally looked away, tilting his gaze down towards the floor. 

“But I said very cruel things to you, Shane. And it was not fair for me to make it all your fault, I am sorry for that, too. Because I was not clear about what I wanted, either.” 

Shane felt like his heart was lodged in his throat. Hearing Ilya speak so clearly—so openly—felt almost unreal. He could see the effort it was taking Ilya, from the careful way he spoke, to the squinted look he always had when he was concentrating intensely. And it was almost hard for Shane to hear, to process all at once. But this time, he let himself press for more. He was greedy for the words. 

“And… what do you want?” 

Maybe it was unfair for him to ask first, after everything they had both just said, after everything Ilya had correctly accused him of in April. But Shane was selfish. He was going to try his hardest to change that, but in this moment, he couldn’t help it. 

And Ilya didn’t seem to mind. He looked up from the floor, back at Shane. His eyes didn’t move, for once, the way they usually did over Shane's face, cheeks, and mouth. They stayed on Shane’s eyes, and Shane didn’t look away, either. 

“You.” 

Hearing this out loud made Shane feel like his heart may have dropped to his stomach. But he forced himself to speak the words that he had felt for much longer than three months. 

“I want you, too.” 

Ilya inhaled slowly, his shoulders lifting with the motion, and he nodded. His eyes finally moved down now, to Shane’s mouth, then back to his eyes. “Then we will figure out the rest of it. Together.” 

Shane crossed the distance then, pulling him in, bringing Ilya to him. He kissed him against the glass wall of the cottage, which reminded him of the big windows in his apartment. But instead of looking down onto the park, and the city, it was just trees, and lake, and earth. 

He would kiss this man like this everywhere, if he could. 

He let himself enjoy it for a few minutes before he decided that he wanted more, and he didn’t want it on the couch. He backed Ilya up a few feet, pausing when his Achilles heel hit the steps leading up from the sitting room. He pulled away enough to let Ilya glance over his shoulder as he walked backwards, up the steps and into the kitchen. 

Shane took the lead towards the bedroom, grasping Ilya by the wrist. He seemed to have picked up on the direction they were headed, though, and grabbed his suitcase as they passed. Shane laughed, even as he kissed him again, because it was ridiculous to be kissing a man while he was carrying a suitcase but somehow he couldn’t make himself stop. 

Ilya took a sweeping glance around the bedroom when they made it inside, placing his suitcase down just beside the door. He looked at the bed first, then the windows, and the view. But he didn’t make a long detour from his mission. 

He turned to Shane, backing him onto the bed. Shane let himself drop down onto his elbows, holding his breath as he watched Ilya climb on top of him, straddling his legs as he pulled off his shirt. 

Tossing the garment somewhere behind him, he leaned down to kiss Shane again. Shane met him halfway, pulling him down with a hand on the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair. He thought he might just keep his hand here for the next two weeks, if he didn’t find better places to put it, instead. 

Ilya was kissing him slowly, and deeply, and Shane was struck with the insane thought that he had actually missed his tongue. Then the thought lodged itself a little too far into his head, and he was thinking about his tongue a little too much, and he had to push Ilya back. Shane twisted his hips to the side, fighting for control over himself before he did something completely insane like come in his pants. 

“Uh. I’m definitely not going to… last long. And I didn’t…” He trailed off, nodding towards the bathroom vaguely, assuming that Ilya would understand his meaning. 

“That’s okay.” Ilya pulled Shane back towards him on the bed, nudging his head back so that he could press a wet kiss under Shane’s jaw. “I am not, either.” 

Shane didn’t have time to really think about this—the idea that Ilya thought he wouldn’t last long, either—before he was being rolled onto his back again, his legs stretched out, Ilya still on his knees above him on the bed. 

Pulling himself up, Ilya reached down to slowly begin unbuttoning Shane’s shirt. The gentle movements of his fingers on Shane’s chest and stomach made the muscles in his abs contract, and he had to fight to take a steady breath. 

He was so hard he could barely see straight. He could see the tent in Ilya’s pants well enough, though. He swallowed slowly, trying not to stare at it, trying to force his head to tilt back again so that he could look at Ilya’s face instead. 

When he did, he saw Ilya smirking down at him. He pushed open the shirt, leaving Shane’s bare chest exposed but the sleeves still over his arms as Ilya abandoned it in favor of unbuttoning his shorts. 

“We will do this now,” Ilya said, his tone of voice shockingly reasonable considering his hand was already squeezing the base of Shane’s erection. His eyes were still on Shane’s, too, even with Shane’s body half on display. Ilya himself remained maddeningly clothed from the waist down. 

“And then more later,” he continued. “When I can take all the time I want with you.” 

He gripped his hand more tightly, pulling a strange, choked out noise from Shane. It was harder for Ilya to remove the rest of his clothes with one hand, so Shane helped him, kicking his shorts and underwear to the foot of the bed and sitting up to fling his shirt away. 

“It will get all wrinkled,” Ilya mused, pushing Shane back onto the bed, splaying his free hand across his stomach. 

“There’s time to wash it later,” Shane mumbled. He reached for Ilya. When he didn’t move any closer, Shane dropped himself down in frustration, flexing his abs against the hand on his abdomen. 

“Two weeks,” Ilya agreed, finally shifting himself to press his lips against Shane’s neck again. 

He kept moving downwards, draggling his mouth—tongue, teeth, and all—from Shane’s neck to his collar. Ilya’s free hand roamed along with his lips, skating lightly over Shane’s ribs, until both hand and mouth found his stomach again, kissing and sucking the skin lightly. Shane was squirming the whole time, the small shifts in his hips working against the firm hold Ilya kept on his dick. He wasn’t even moving his hand at all, just holding him tightly. 

Ilya kissed his way down to Shane’s thighs, taking his time as he brought one leg up and over his shoulder to settle himself more comfortably. 

It was really sinking in for Shane that there were two weeks of this. Not a few hours, not overnight in a hotel in London, not a weekend of pretending the snow was keeping them stuck inside. Two weeks, just the two of them, alone, together. 

Ilya seemed to have had the same thought, because Shane felt the kisses along the inside of his thigh become a little firmer, a little more like bites. Shane made a frustrated sound, moving his hips against the bed to try and create some friction in Ilya’s hand. Ilya didn’t let him, though, only tightening his fist as he eventually left Shane’s legs and came back up level with his face. 

But he bypassed his mouth again, bringing his lips to Shane’s neck. Ilya nudged his face up, finding a spot just under Shane’s ear. He nipped first, then sucked, hard. Shane groaned at the shock of light pain and then the warm tongue that came out to touch his skin afterwards. 

He was sure of two separate things: that there was definitely going to be a hickey there, and that Ilya had probably been wanting to do that for a long time. Probably for as long as Shane had been wanting him to. 

Shane shivered when Ilya’s mouth left again, taking a detour past his chest, back to his stomach. Ilya made himself busy by biting, kissing, and licking again, this time over the ridges of his abs. Shane was starting to worry that he might actually come just from Ilya kissing his body and his hand literally just holding his dick. 

“Ilya,” he managed to choke out. “Please.” 

When Ilya lifted his head to glance at him, it wasn’t with heat or any kind of teasing look in his eyes. It was just simple, open desire.

He nodded at Shane, and kissed his hip. He shifted over, settling himself over Shane’s lap. 

It felt so good when Ilya took him in his mouth that Shane’s knees came up, his feet sliding onto the bed, thighs rising to frame Ilya’s messy head of curly hair between them. 

“Oh, fuck, Ilya, holy shit,” he blurted out. 

He didn’t usually talk much, unless prompted by the man currently between his legs. But Ilya had him practically all the way down his throat and it had been months since he’d last felt anything like this—and he had spent a good amount of that time thinking he might have lost it forever. “Fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good.” 

He kept talking, somehow unable to stop himself from babbling more, even as his head started to feel too jumbled for real, coherent thoughts. “Yes, please, keep sucking me like that, just like that, Jesus Christ, I missed this, I missed your fucking mouth.” 

This cheerleading only seemed to encourage Ilya more, as he gripped Shane’s legs tighter in around him, sucking harder, deeper. Shane reached down, in turn, for a fistful of hair. He wasn’t even pulling anything—it felt like he was the one along for the ride. 

“Fuck, you are so good at this, you make me feel fucking crazy,” he said, still groaning, as he lifted his hips up, straining towards Ilya’s mouth. Ilya’s strong hand stayed on his stomach, rooting Shane onto the bed even as Ilya kept up the steady motions of his thorough blowjob. 

“Oh my God,” he panted, as Ilya pulled himself off with a wet, obscene sound, barely pausing for breath before licking downwards towards Shane’s balls. He sucked one into his mouth, then the other. Shane moaned loudly, twisting his fingers in Ilya’s hair, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it felt like he was seeing stars. “Please, Ilya, I need to come, please let me come in your mouth.” 

It almost shocked him that Ilya obliged, but he could probably tell from the hand planted on Shane’s stomach how close he already was to the edge, his breath coming out in gasps and his muscles twitching. 

He curled his toes when Ilya took him deep into his mouth again, sucking hard. Shane’s hand—the one not in Ilya’s hair—scrabbled at the mattress. After a moment, Ilya reached up to grab it, bringing it onto Shane’s abdomen and lacing their fingers together. 

Shane felt his mind going blank as the sensation took over, a sharp feeling of tightness starting at his toes and traveling up his spine. He let out a strangled kind of yell, holding Ilya’s head with one hand, the other one squeezing his fingers, as he came. 

Ilya kept sucking, swallowing everything, until it was too much for Shane, who was suddenly too sensitive. He made a noise somewhere between a hiss and a whimper, gently pushing Ilya’s head off. 

He reluctantly moved away, releasing Shane from his mouth with a satisfied smile. He kissed the inside of his thigh, then his knee, letting go of Shane’s legs and allowing them to drop down to the bed. 

Shane couldn’t do much more than try to catch his breath, staring up at Ilya from the mattress. He could imagine what his face looked like—how red it must have been—but he was already trying to pull himself back to real consciousness, his eyes already jumping to Ilya’s dick, which was somehow miraculously still covered by his pants. 

Ilya was smiling, now with all of the heat and teasing in his expression that Shane hadn’t seen there before. He crawled up the bed, bringing his face above Shane’s, planting a smacking kiss to his cheek. 

“Wow, what a very dirty mouth you have. Who taught you all of that?” He kissed Shane’s neck again, too, teeth digging in lightly. 

Shane took a deep breath, bringing his arms up slowly so that they were around Ilya’s shoulders. He pulled him down to let Ilya’s weight fall on top of him. 

“You did,” Shane said, rolling them over so that he was the one on top. “Taught me a lot of things to do with my mouth, actually.” 

Ilya was practically beaming. Shane shoved himself down the bed this time, grabbing the waistband of Ilya’s pants, which should have been dispatched with long ago. 

“Here,” he said, situating himself between Ilya’s long legs, nudging them farther apart to make enough room. He smoothed his palms up, against the grain of the hair on his thighs, keeping his eyes on Ilya. “Let me show you.” 

☀️

They ate outside, one of those meals that was too late to be lunch but too early to be dinner. They’d both worked up a decent appetite, though. Shane had stocked the fridge with enough food so that they wouldn’t be obligated to leave for at least a few days, and they’d each made and put away two sandwiches.  

Shane felt languid, settled into a full-body kind of relaxation that he didn’t think he’d ever experienced before. It had barely even been three hours since Ilya had arrived. 

Ilya was looking at the lake, and the sky, and twisting around to look at the structure of the cottage behind them. Shane could tell that he was assessing something, and didn’t want to interrupt. 

“It feels like you,” Ilya said after a while. “More than your New York apartment, I think.” 

He didn’t elaborate, but Shane thought he knew what he meant, and not simply because he had actually had this place built, unlike his Manhattan apartment. He’d been intentional about it, sure—taking into account what he wanted in the space, what he liked; ultimately shaping it into a place where he’d feel comfortable resting during the only time of the year that he got to fully be himself. 

But there was still an intangible quality about it, something that seemed to be present in the house and space itself, that made Shane love it more than any other place he had ever been. It made him happy to think that Ilya might have sensed it, too. 

“Are you still moving to your new apartment? Hudson Yards?” Ilya asked, reaching into the bag of chips in the table between them to grab a few. 

Shane nodded, waiting until Ilya had removed his hand to do the same. 

The apartment, the move—it was all set, ready for August, when he got back to New York. Everything had come together and been finalized in the months when they had stopped speaking. 

The reminder of the upcoming upheaval made him feel suddenly tongue-tied. He had been putting off thinking about it. It was the first time, after all, that he would be leaving his apartment building, the same one he had lived in since moving to New York seven years ago. He couldn’t help but think that the change would be like stepping into a whole new version of the city. More than that, it sort of felt like he could be leaving behind the version he had been living in for seven years, the one he’d fallen in love with, the one he had shaped with Ilya. 

There were so many memories together centered around the building near Union Square. Walking downtown to meet Ilya for the first time. The running routes they’d mapped out together, downtown and uptown. The bars around the East and West Village they’d wandered into over the years. The routines of ducking into each other’s apartments for a few hours, in the morning, afternoon, or evening. There were a lot of things to miss, even if technically none of them had to actually go away. 

It was overwhelming, though.  

“Must be coming up soon?” Ilya asked, looking over at him. Shane realized he’d been watching him—and had probably seen the wave of memories overtake him for a moment. 

“Uh, yeah. It is.” Shane brushed off the subject, leaving it there. He wasn’t ready to talk about the rest of it yet. 

Ilya watched him for another moment, then nodded to himself, letting the subject change. 

“Scott Hunter,” he said, conversationally, turning to look at the lake again. 

Shane’s eyes slid over to Ilya. They hadn’t actually talked about it—what had prompted Shane’s call, what had happened on the night Boston had won the Cup. He had wondered if, or maybe when, it was going to come up. He stayed quiet, waiting to see what Ilya was going to say about it. 

Ilya hunched down in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him under the table, staring at the lake with a narrow-eyed gaze as he shook his head. “It is bullshit, actually. Should not have won MVP.” 

“What?” Shane laughed, genuinely startled. Of all the things he had expected Ilya to say, that has not even crossed his mind.  

“No,” Ilya insisted, frowning at Shane over his shoulder. “Cup should not matter. Your stats were better. Can’t give him credit for the Cup when his numbers were so bad.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, lifting his hand up, still laughing. “His numbers were not so bad. He was really good during the playoffs!” 

“During the playoffs!” Ilya shot back, lifting his hand up back at Shane. “Regular season was shit. You were better. Conn Smythe, fine. Hart, no.” 

The blunt way Ilya said this made Shane feel warm all over, and he tried to bite down on his grin, making some effort to hide how happy he suddenly was. 

“It doesn’t really bother me,” he said, shaking his head. It wasn’t a lie, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “He does a lot for his team. And he just did a lot for the sport, too.” 

He looked over at Ilya, to see how he would take this acknowledgement of the so-far unspoken part. But Ilya made a noise in his throat, waving his hand at Shane. 

“Award is Most Valuable Player, not Most Valuable Queer.” 

Shane laughed loudly at that, enough that Ilya broke a little, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought against his own smile. 

Biting down on his laughter, Shane raised his eyebrows at Ilya, letting his voice become a little sly. “Wait, so are you saying that… for you… I wouldn’t win Most Valuable Queer?” 

Ilya turned his head sharply to look at him, sniffing the way he always did when Shane made a good joke that caught him off guard. 

“I think the Awards Committee needs convincing.” He crossed one ankle over the other, raising his eyebrows. Shane saw the open challenge in it. 

He chewed on his lip, though he didn’t think it did anything to hide how giddy he was feeling. “Okay. I’ll tell the Awards Committee exactly what I think about their reasoning later.” 

Ilya smirked, shifting lower in his seat. He tilted his head up at the sky, then looked back down at the lake. 

“I want to go swimming,” he announced. 

Shane was still staring at him, because it was impossible to look away. “Okay. We should wait until it’s been 30 minutes since we ate, though.” 

“Oh my God,” Ilya groaned, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. “You are so boring.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry I don’t want you to die,” Shane retorted, ducking when Ilya threw a napkin at him. “Hey, you can’t throw stuff at me, I’m in the running for MVQ.” 

“MVB, maybe,” Ilya smirked again, picking up Shane’s own napkin to throw at him. 

Shane lifted a hand in time to stop it from hitting him, batting it back down to the table. “What’s B?” 

“Bottom, Shane.” 

Ilya was way too pleased with himself for the joke, and Shane was a little mad that it made him laugh, too. He launched himself out of his chair, clambering onto Ilya’s, fighting against the hands that came up to immediately push him out. 

“Hey! You said you did not want me to die!” 

“It’s different if I get to kill you myself.” But Shane stopped after a minute, bringing his hands up, instead, to rest on either side of Ilya’s face. 

He smiled, enjoying the feeling of the afternoon sunshine on his back, and leaned down to kiss him. 

☀️

Chapter End Notes

See you in the lake! 🌅

Chapter 18: you can't help but become the sun

Chapter Summary

The cottage, about 30 minutes after the end of the last chapter.

Chapter Notes

I don’t think Shane knows what periwinkle blue is but it is very important to me that you all know that the shorts are that color.

Ilya stood above him, dripping wet, his hands on his hips. The late afternoon sun was still high enough to bounce off the droplets of water sprinkled across his bare chest and in his hair, which was already springing back up into curls even a few minutes out of the water. His periwinkle blue swim shorts were shorter, and tighter, than any men’s swim trunks Shane had ever seen before—than any swimsuit had any business being. 

And Shane just knew that some fucking designer had put him in them knowing that they would make him look like a fucking Greek god.

He didn’t know what was more distracting: the golden expanse of Ilya’s thighs and long legs, or the beautiful torso stretching up beyond them, or the tight shorts around his perfect ass, the prominent bulge in the front. 

It was actually kind of a miracle that Shane was still keeping himself upright, floating in the cold water of the lake behind the cottage. 

They’d jumped in together—more than half an hour after their late lunch, a little delayed by some activity in the shared chair—but Ilya had hauled himself back up onto the dock after not very long. He’d been standing up there for a few minutes, assessing the view around them. 

Shane hadn’t asked what he was looking for. There was a good chance, actually, that he wasn’t even looking at anything. He may have just been displaying. Shane was too busy looking, himself, to interrogate it. 

“Do you have neighbors around here?” Ilya squinted across the lake, sweeping his eyes from one side to the other. 

“No, it’s private,” Shane said, stretching out to float on his back, moving away to give himself a little more distance from Ilya. 

He gestured out, to the trees surrounding the lake, and broadly to the opposite side of the water. “That’s why I bought the land. It’s more than just the lot here, it’s most of the surrounding areas. There’s another lot on the other side of the lake, but no one’s bought it.” 

“So no one can see?” Ilya asked, hands still on his hips as he turned to examine the shoreline of the lake to his left. 

“No.” Shane had actually considered buying the lot across the lake, too, but it seemed excessive, especially without plans to build anything on it. But part of the joy of being here was  knowing that no one could look, no matter what he—

Ilya moved his hands down below his waist, stripping the shorts entirely off his body. Shane barely had time to react to the sudden vision of hot naked man in front of him before Ilya was jumping back into the water, close enough to thoroughly splash Shane. 

Shane sputtered as he came up for air, having briefly gone fully under water from both the force of the jump and the shock of it. He pushed his hair back, wiping the water off his face. Ilya was already bobbing next to him, and Shane didn’t even need to see his face to know what was coming next. 

“No,” he insisted. 

It didn’t take much convincing, though. Ilya was grinning a like a fucking loon while Shane kept his balance with a hand on his shoulder, using the other hand to awkwardly shed his own shorts. He tossed them up onto the dock to join the light blue ones. 

They floated for a while. It took Shane a few minutes to get comfortable, even though he had just assured Ilya about how private the lake was. Once he did, though, he closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his bare skin much more than he would ever admit. 

Ilya’s hand bumped against his a few times, until Shane felt his fingers stretch out, grasping Shane’s, pulling him over. He lowered his legs back into the water, allowing himself to be led. 

They kissed, naked, as they floated together. 

When Shane finally opened his eyes, Ilya was smiling at him from only inches away. He lifted one hand, running his wet fingers over Shane’s face, his cheeks, right over his freckles. 

“You are stunning.” 

Shane let out a breath of a laugh, feeling his heart jolt at the words—and from the proximity, and the look in Ilya’s eyes. 

“Stunning?” He repeated, a little dumbly. He felt tongue-tied, but he was smiling. Of course he was smiling. 

“Yes, am I using that word right?” Ilya kept up the light motion, letting his thumb drag under Shane’s eye, over the bridge of his nose. 

He swallowed slowly, struggling to maintain the eye contact, but wanting very much to keep it. “Depends on how you’re trying to use it.” 

“Looking at you makes me feel…” Ilya tilted his head to the side, like he was considering how to finish the sentence. But Shane saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth and knew what he was going to say. “...like I have a concussion.” 

Shane laughed again, reaching out to grip Ilya’s waist, bringing himself closer. Their legs bumped against each other lightly as they both kicked under the surface. “Fuck you. I knew you knew what that word meant.” 

He was still looking at Ilya, now from a few centimeters closer. He studied the familiar angles of his face: the slopes of his cheekbones and jaw, the small bump on his nose, which Shane knew had been broken once, back when he was a teenager, the wet hair plastered to his forehead, the perfect curves of his top and bottom lips, the sharp, perceptive glint in his eyes. 

“You’re stunning,” Shane said. “Obviously.” 

This objective statement of fact made Ilya smile much more widely than it should have, frankly. 

“You think so?” He asked. Shane was dumbfounded by the bashfulness that he seemed to hear in his voice. 

“Ilya,” he spoke slowly, forehead wrinkling as he frowned at him. “You’re a model. You are literally professionally handsome.” 

But Ilya was still grinning like it was somehow the first time he had heard this in his life. Given that he’d been in two cities, on an airplane, and had crossed an international border since waking up, Shane was pretty sure it wasn’t even the first time he had heard it today. 

Sensing Shane’s thought process, maybe, Ilya held him at the waist, drawing him closer, their legs bumping together under the water again. “It is different, coming from you.” 

Shane still thought he looked a little too self-satisfied about it. He met his eyes again for a moment, then leaned in to cut the last bit of distance between their faces. Kissing Ilya Rozanov was always going to be the best way to get him to stop looking smug. 

☀️

They were back on the dock hours later, and they were clothed again, at least on the bottom half. Shane had gone up to the house long enough to get them each a pair of dry shorts and a towel, and to leave both swimsuits drying on a rack on the deck. 

They’d settled next to each other at the end of the dock, sitting side-by-side with the towels draped over their shoulders. Their legs dangled down towards the water as they watched the sun drift down across the distant side of the lake. 

They needed a shower and they’d both be hungry again, at some point. And soon, once the sun had dipped a little lower, it would be too cold to sit out here like this, still damp and half naked. 

But he didn’t want to leave right now. He was enjoying it too much, the quiet peace of the still lake, the orange glow cutting through the trees and reflecting off the surface of the water. The feeling of Ilya’s warm, solid arm, resting against his. 

It felt like a moment he would think back on, years from now, and no matter how long it had been he would be able to remember the exact shape and sound of it, the way it had felt to exist within it. He wanted the moment to last for as long as he could possibly have it. 

He broke the silence himself, after some time. 

“I told my parents.” 

He felt, more than saw, Ilya’s head slowly turn towards him. When Shane glanced back, there was a question in Ilya’s eyes, though Shane could tell he already understood what they were discussing. 

“About me,” Shane clarified, in response to the silent question. 

He decided to leave out, at least for now, the part where he had mentioned Ilya’s cottage trip in vague terms, and the promise he’d extracted from his parents to give him space for two weeks. They’d had a really good day together so far, but it still felt too soon to declare that things had been entirely fixed. 

Ilya pulled one of his legs up, placing his foot on the dock and bending his knee, resting his arm on top of it. He leaned his weight on his other hand, palm flat on the wooden surface underneath. He nodded after a moment. “I’m glad you did.” 

Shane exhaled, turning to stare out at the lake again. His eyes caught on a gentle ripple from a fish, or something else just below the surface. 

“I know you didn’t understand why I didn’t tell them before,” he said, still facing the water. “I didn’t know how to explain it.” 

He wasn’t even really sure he knew now, but—well, he had said this much. And sure enough, when he turned his head from the lake again, Ilya was watching him, expectantly. 

The whole point of this trip to the cottage had been to figure things out, which meant honesty and straightforwardness of a kind that Shane had not been able to find within himself before. 

He took a deep breath, and tried. 

“It’s not…” He started, then stopped again. It took another moment to find the words. “It wasn’t just being gay. It was… you. It was this whole thing.” 

“Me?” Ilya looked genuinely startled by this, lifting a hand to touch his fingers to his bare chest. “What do I have to do with anything?” 

“I am just…” he continued, shaking his head. “I’m just a man to them. Not someone they know. Not, you know, a hockey player, anything like that.” 

Shane chewed on his lip. He watched Ilya turn to look out at the lake, brow furrowed, clearly trying to work through what Shane had just told him. 

He thought—or, well, he knew—that it was time to finally come clean about this, to try and explain it to Ilya. Shane still didn’t think he had the right words—he wasn’t even sure he knew the words that could capture the feelings that he had for Ilya. But he knew he had feelings, and he had tried to move around them, or ignore them, or push through them for long enough. It had only ever backfired. 

He stayed quiet for a little longer, working hard to try and put it together: the best way he could describe the emotions of what he wanted to say. 

When he finally spoke, he kept his head tilted down towards the water. He thought it might be easier not to look at Ilya while he said it. 

“You have been the most important person in my life for like, seven years. I don’t even know who I would be if I had never met you, or if we hadn’t become close like we did. The only reason I love New York is because you made me love being there. You made it feel like the place I always want to be. Which makes sense, because you make everything better.” 

He paused, trying to stay focused on the words, and not on Ilya, even though he could feel him staring at the side of his face. “That’s just so… big. I didn’t know how to tell them about me without telling them about that, because it’s always been wrapped up together. At least for me, it always has been.” 

“And I’ve been so afraid that you didn’t think about it like that. And I was scared that if you found out about it, or if I said something to you, you’d—” He didn’t think it was worth getting into the scenarios, all borne from fear, that he’d created for himself. He didn’t think they were true anymore. “I thought I’d lose you because of it. And I can’t lose you, Ilya.” 

He didn’t say it, because he didn’t think he had to—that the last few months, in the absence of him, with the thought that he actually had lost him, had been enough to make him certain that he couldn’t go through it again. “I need you in my life.” 

There was more to say, Shane thought—so many more feelings to describe, if he could find the words. But getting through this much had been hard enough. 

So he looked up, finally. 

Ilya was watching him, his eyes alight under the orange and pink glow of the sunset, the purples and blues just starting to filter into the sky. 

“You don’t think you are the same for me?” 

Shane’s chest felt like it had tightened, contracting in slowly around his heart, which suddenly felt much bigger. But he kept his voice steady—it was easy to get lost in the emotion of hearing something like this, without actually using any words to carry the conversation forward. 

“I didn’t know that.” 

He pushed forward before Ilya could resist the statement, before they had to revisit some of the topics that had hurt so much in April. “I don’t mean that I didn’t think it was… possible. And I’m not talking about sex with other people. I just mean… everything else.” 

Shane looked back out at the water, frowning slightly, struggling to articulate what he meant. “You just have so… much in your life.” 

He shifted on the dock, bringing his own leg up from the water and bending his knee so that he was mirroring Ilya’s pose. He rested his arm on top of it, leaning his head against his hand as he tried to sort through the words and feelings. 

“You just created this whole life for yourself. A career, everything. It took a lot to do something like that. And you go all of these places, you have so many friends. Things just seem like they come more easily to you than they do for me.” 

He couldn’t say it all out loud, but Shane knew that he could not have been more different from that. He had been on the same path that had been prescribed to him since he was barely a teenager. It had been his dream, yes. And it had taken work, definitely yes. But it had been a structured path nonetheless. And structure came easily to Shane. He had never strayed far from it, the way that Ilya had to. Shane’s closest friends were hockey players. His free time was spent fulfilling his commitments to the companies paying for his name and face. When he wasn’t doing that, he was thinking about hockey. 

It wasn’t simply that he had never ventured outside of his comfort zone. Every single thing in Shane’s life had always stayed safe and structured—everything except for Ilya. And that had made a profound impression on the shape of Shane’s life. But what did Shane have to offer him in return? 

Ilya had been examining him, Shane could feel it. He also knew that everything he had just said—and everything that he had left unspoken—was probably evident on his face, and that Ilya, the smartest and most discerning person he had ever met, had probably picked up on all of it. 

Inhaling slowly, Ilya shifted his body. His leg bumped gently against Shane’s as he moved, slowly, so that he was facing towards him entirely instead of in the direction of the lake. He moved his hand away from his knee, resting it on the dock as he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Shane’s. 

Shane’s heart rate was going up—but it didn’t feel like a kiss was coming. It felt like Ilya was bringing himself closer so that he would be listened to. Shane had never listened to anything, or focused on anything, more closely than this. 

“Then let me say it clearly,” Ilya said, keeping his eyes on Shane’s. “You are everything to me.” 

Shane couldn’t say anything. It felt like a physical reaction, a genuine paralysis. He felt like he was frozen, or maybe it was just that he wanted to be—stuck in this moment, in this memory, for possibly the rest of his life. 

But Ilya wasn’t finished yet. Shane watched his throat move as he swallowed slowly, his shoulders rising as he inhaled. He looked out at the water. 

“Sometimes I have thought how strange and lucky it was I met you. I have wondered what it would have been like, if I never had.” 

“There have been many times when I’ve been very angry. And very lonely.” He turned back to look at him then, and Shane felt something in his chest when he realized that Ilya’s eyes were wet. “Sometimes it has felt like you are the only person who can see me.” 

“I have probably been dismissive about other people, because, I think, nothing we have ever done—sex, but also everything else, I think—has ever felt anything like that for me, before. Like we are the only two people alive. Maybe I should have told you that, but.” Ilya’s shoulder raised in a shrug. Shane shook his head in response, because he understood him, this time. He could have never said that out loud, because he never would have assumed that it would be the same for Ilya. 

“I feel that way, too,” he murmured. 

Ilya hummed at that. He leaned back slightly, lifting his chin to the sunset as he regarded Shane. “You are… difficult. And funny, and talented, and weird. And I have always wanted to pick you apart and know everything about you. And every time I have been able to, I always want to keep going, to keep finding more, because everything I see in you is like...”

He trailed off in a small exhalation, lifting his hand to gesture in the air to show that he didn’t have the word.  

Shane’s eyes were swimming, too. He swallowed slowly, harshly, glad that the liquid was only heavy in his eyes, and that nothing had happened, yet, that would constitute crying. He wanted to keep listening to this as closely as he could. 

“It has been seven years, and still, it is always the same. I think about you at night, I think about you in the day, in the morning, wherever I am, no matter what I am doing. I am thinking of Shane Hollander and wanting him, more.” He shook his head slightly, and Shane watched the light catch on his face with the movement. “You are everything to me.” 

He shifted his weight to lean fully on one arm, bringing himself closer to Shane again. He raised his hand, lightly brushing the backs of his fingers along Shane’s face, over his cheeks, down his jaw. 

Shane tilted his head to the side, leaning into the contact. His breath was unsteady from the wave of emotion he was feeling from everything Ilya had said, which was so much more than he had ever expected him to. It was all he could do to keep himself together, and it all threatened to spill over from the gentle touch. 

“Do you know how many times I have almost told you that I love you?” Ilya asked softly. 

Shane’s heart was pounding, now, and he bit down on his bottom lip, drawing it between his teeth. Ilya moved his hand, gently smoothing his thumb over Shane’s mouth. He stopped chewing his lip. 

After a moment, Shane answered. “Probably not as many times as I wished that you would.” 

They stared at each other in the last rays of the sunset, the significance of the implication settling over them. It was an obvious one, by now; built up through everything they had said today, through every piece of themselves that they had carefully traded back and forth to each other over the years that had come before. 

But Shane didn’t want to leave anything implied. 

“I love you.” 

Ilya moved his hand so that it was gently cradling the side of his face. There were still tears in his eyes—but that was okay. Shane could feel some in his, too. 

“I love you, too.” 

Shane moved this time, to bring himself closer, so that they were pressed together at more places than just Ilya’s hand on his face and at their shins. Ilya opened his arms, bringing them around him, folding the two of them together. He lifted his chin, lightly kissing the side of Shane’s head, bringing his hand up to brush away the moisture at the corners of his eyes. Shane rested against him. 

They stayed there together, like that, watching the stars come out. 

🌙

Later, in the dark, Ilya stayed true to his word from the afternoon. They were taking their time together. 

They lay on their sides, facing each other, legs intertwined with their bare skin pressed together at as many places as possible. Ilya’s hands were on his face, Shane’s holding tight against his back, while they kissed. 

He had left the shades up, the windows exposed. With the lights off, the light of the moon filtered in, through the trees, brighter from the reflection coming off the water. 

Ilya’s kisses felt different now. Not because of some intangible quality, simply because something new had passed between them—they felt actually different, hungrier, more frantic, like he was letting out a new part of himself. If that was the case, Shane would open his arms as wide as he could to receive him. 

They shifted together on the bed, Ilya rolling on top of him, Shane twisting from his side and onto his back. He gasped quietly into Ilya’s mouth at the twinge of discomfort that the motion brought with it, even though his ribs had almost entirely healed. It didn’t escape Ilya’s notice, though. 

He pulled away abruptly, glaring down at Shane in the dim light. “Oh, your fucking ribs? Yeah. I fucking knew it.” 

Ilya moved off him, bringing more space between their bodies again. He slid his hands down from Shane’s face, gently holding him at his sides, instead. 

Using this gentle grip, he coaxed Shane to move in the direction that he led, bringing him down so that he was flat on the bed. 

“Lie back, sweetheart.” 

Shane swallowed slowly, letting out a short breath in an attempt to work against the fluttering feeling he suddenly felt in his stomach at the unexpected nickname. His eyes were adjusted to the dark in the room enough to see Ilya’s face as he gazed down at him, moving himself so that he was laying just to the side of Shane’s torso—his good side. Shane reached up to hold him behind his head, bringing Ilya down again. 

Ilya obliged, kissing him, moving his lips across Shane’s face, jaw, and neck. His hands were moving, too, and yes, Shane was hard, but the palms skimming across his body felt like caresses, gentle brushes against his skin as Ilya pressed against him. 

He was saying something, Shane realized. Murmuring something quietly against his ear, in Russian—the same thing, it sounded like, a few times. Shane slid his hand around from the back of Ilya’s head to the side of his face, gently turning it so that Shane could look directly at him. 

“Will you tell me what you said?” He asked quietly. 

Ilya inhaled sharply, frowning slightly down at Shane. He looked exposed, a little nervous at the question. Because, of course, Shane had never asked for a translation—except for once, years ago, for a word that should have been obvious to him. But because Shane so rarely asked, it was clearly difficult for Ilya to avoid telling him. 

So he smiled, looking slightly abashed from his position, still leaning down over Shane. He touched his cheek, gently, the same way he had been doing all night—all day, since the lake. “I said, ‘I love you. So beautiful.’”  

Shane breathed out slowly and nodded. He wanted to take it in, to remember the sound of it. He wanted to be able to say it back. 

For now, though, he brought Ilya to him again, kissing him, hoping that the words would be understood in it even without any language at all. 

After some time had passed, but before they had fully started to shift into something more purposeful than this gentle kissing and caressing, Shane pulled back again. His hand was on Ilya’s face now, holding him carefully. 

He had been thinking about something Ilya had said earlier. He thought he knew what Ilya had meant, the reason he had said it in the first place, but he wanted to know, for certain. And Shane was sure—this time, at least—that he wouldn’t be misunderstood if he asked about it now. 

“You said, earlier,” he paused. But Ilya nodded, showing that he was listening, waiting for him to find the words. “You said that it had been awhile for you—since you…” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, leaning down again to resume his methodical path of kisses across Shane’s collar and chest. His hand moved down between Shane’s legs, as he added, “Months.” 

Shane was about to say that it was the same for him—of course it was the same for him—until the last few words came out of Ilya, mumbled into Shane’s neck. 

“Not since Wimbledon.” 

It took a moment for that to sink in, because Shane was thinking about tennis and London and the heat and the shower—but then, suddenly, it sank in. 

“Wait.” Shane immediately sat up. 

Ilya managed to rear back just in time to avoid their skulls crashing together. He blinked at Shane, who was suddenly the one looking down at him. His hand was still on Shane’s dick, but he quickly moved it away. 

Shane rested his hand on the mattress, leaning his weight on it as he squinted down at Ilya’s messy hair and confused expression, trying to process the fact that it had been a full year since he had slept with anyone besides Shane. 

“So you’re saying,” he said slowly. “That my dick ruined you for other people?” 

Ilya groaned loudly, the sound cutting through the silent, peaceful air of the large bedroom. He threw himself backwards onto the bed, his arms dropping out to each side. 

“Oh my God, Hollander.” 

He rolled back towards Shane almost immediately, though, pulling him down—gently, it had to be said—so that he was on his back again. Ilya climbed on top, lifting himself so that his knees were straddling each side of Shane’s torso. He promptly shuffled forward, still on his knees, towards Shane’s face.  

“I am going to shut you up now. With my dick.” 

“Wow, really romantic, Rozanov.” Shane reached up, grabbing Ilya’s hips to stop his forward motion. It took a lot of self-control not to look at what was right in front of him, but he resisted, tilting his head back to grin up at Ilya’s face instead. 

“It is romantic. Nothing you love more than my dick in your mouth,” Ilya insisted. 

“There’s one thing I love more,” Shane assured him, still holding his hips, his fingertips resting on the top of Ilya’s ass. He didn’t think he had to say it, but he did anyway. “You.” 

“Mm.” Ilya squinted down at him. After a moment, he pulled himself out of Shane’s grasp, gently dropping so that he was resting on his forearm just to the side of his body again. He reached up, holding Shane’s chin between his thumb and his index finger. 

“Shane, I have tried to say this.” Ilya’s voice was sincere now, so Shane knew he was hearing the real answer. “I want only you. Has been that way for a long time.” 

And of course, Shane wished he had known that. Or he wished he had understood that better, a little sooner. He wouldn’t have let the jealousy take over as much as it sometimes had. He would have done a better job at showing Ilya that he wanted him just as much, too. He would have done so many things differently over this past year, if he had understood even a fraction of what he had learned today. 

But it was silly to focus on any of that now, today, when they had finally, fucking finally, figured their shit out. Together. 

So Shane just smiled, leaning his face into the grip of Ilya’s hand. “Same, obviously.” 

Ilya nodded, using his thumb and forefinger to pull him closer, lightly kissing his lips. But before Shane could deepen it again, he felt Ilya go still against him. 

Frowning just slightly, he backed away, squinting at Shane in the dark. “Ah, when was the last time you…?” 

Shane rolled his eyes, tugging him back insistently. 

“Way before Wimbledon,” he mumbled into his mouth. And for once, he didn’t give a shit about the disparity. 

Instead, he settled back on the bed, moving his legs apart and using his grip on Ilya to try and bring him on top of him again. When Ilya obliged, Shane raised his leg, wrapping it around his hips, trying to make his point as clear as possible. 

“Will you fuck me now?” After a moment, because he knew Ilya always liked it, he added, “Please?” 

Ilya answered in Russian, but Shane was pretty sure he understood. 

“I love you, too,” he replied. 

☀️

What came next? There was more for them to figure out. Shane knew it—he’d been thinking about it before this trip had even started. 

It wasn’t just about spending time together. They were good at spending time together without talking about the things still hanging over them—two snowstorms, four years apart, had shown him that. 

But then, it was so fucking good to actually spend the time together. 

They spent a long, lazy morning in bed. Shane had actually never stayed in bed so long— except maybe one time when he’d had the flu—but it was hard to pull himself away, with Ilya whispering to him quietly under the covers. Shane pushed his face into a pillow to stifle his groans, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on the side of his body facing the windows. 

Then, a late breakfast. They split the work in half, Ilya making eggs, Shane smoothies. Ilya drank his without complaint, though did grace Shane with a small gag when putting the empty glass back on the table. They discussed the possibility of pancakes (protein pancakes, Shane insisted) tomorrow, which seemed like a good compromise to both of their tastes. 

He gave Ilya a real tour after that. He’d done a short one, yesterday, but both of them had been distracted by the imperative to reconnect after the time spent apart. So today, he took his time showing Ilya the downstairs rooms and the gym. The indoor practice rink was next, and then the boathouse, where Shane kept his kayaks. Ilya had immediately questioned why he didn’t have any Jet Skis, and Shane had to bite down on an automatic comeback—Jet Skis actually sounded pretty fun. 

Ilya did, in fact, make fun of the well, but Shane thought the joke was on him. He was going to be drinking excellent water throughout the entire trip. 

They swam again during the hottest part of the day. This time, Shane managed to convince him to keep his swimsuit on, if just to forestall the possibility of any sunburn. 

“So,” Ilya said, bobbing in the water. 

Shane had seated himself on a large rock to dry off for a bit, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his wet skin as he leaned back. He squinted over at Ilya, a few feet away, waiting for him to continue. 

“They know that I am here.” 

“Yeah,” Shane replied. He had just told Ilya about the full conversation with his parents, and the promise they’d made to stay away from the cottage for the two weeks of Ilya’s visit. 

He hadn’t wanted to mention it before, because there had still been at least a possibility that it wouldn’t work out, and that Ilya wouldn’t want to stay for two weeks. But Shane figured that with the words they’d exchanged the day before, they had probably repaired most of the damage from the spring. The multiple rounds of sex probably hadn’t hurt, either. 

Ilya seemed unsettled by Shane’s answer, though. He looked around the lake, craning his neck to look into the trees behind where Shane was sitting on the rock. 

“Why are you looking around like that?” Shane frowned, weirded out enough by Ilya’s expression that he had to turn and look over his shoulder. “For them? They’re not going to come over.” 

“What made you tell them that I was here? Instead of something else?” Ilya asked, still floating a few feet away from him. 

Shane opted not to answer the question directly. He was curious about what exactly Ilya would have done differently; he’d thought out multiple possibilities, and nothing else had really seemed like a very good idea. “Like what?”  

“Um…” Clearly Ilya hadn’t had anything particular in mind, either. He shook his head after a moment. 

“I thought about saying that I was at a silent retreat,” Shane said, stretching his legs out on the rock in front of him. 

This elicited the reaction that Shane thought it would. Ilya barked out a startled laugh. “Oh my God, that is bad, even for you!” 

“Okay, so that’s why I didn’t tell them that!” Shane watched as Ilya turned around to look back towards the house, and then the other way, at the trees closest to the shore of the lake. “Oh, my God, Ilya, fucking stop, they’re not like, hiding in the bushes.” 

“You don’t know that,” Ilya turned back to him with raised eyebrows. “I have seen how much you talk to your parents, they are obsessed with you. Could be anywhere, with little spy glasses.” 

Shane groaned, pulling himself up from the rock and launching himself back into the water, considering the possibility of drowning this man that he had just professed his love to. 

🌙

They took a long shower after getting out of the water, ahead of a late lunch. And then, inexplicably, an early dinner. 

Shane had wanted to build a fire after it got dark, spurred on by a lingering feeling of cold that he’d had since the long time they’d spent in the lake, and now, with the breeze that had started just after the sun went down. But it began to rain soon after, so they’d abandoned the plan until tomorrow. 

They had ended up on the couch together—like usual, backs against opposite ends, legs stretched out towards the middle. The same positions in a new place, listening to the sound of the rain drumming against the roof and windows of the house. 

Shane pressed his feet, covered by white socks, against Ilya’s bare ones. Ilya smiled from across the sofa, slouched down on a cushion in an old Ottawa Centaurs sweatshirt he had found buried in the back of Shane’s closet. He had seemed incredibly tickled by its existence in the wardrobe of the captain of the New York Admirals, even when Shane told him he’d had it since high school. 

He was thinking about the same thing that had been coming into his mind on and off, all throughout the day—all day yesterday, too. The last missing piece that he had thought they might need, the one he was most nervous about; the one he never would have even considered if anything so far had gone even slightly differently. 

Shane remembered the first time he had really felt like an adult: the night that he’d left Ilya’s apartment after visiting for the first time. He’d been sore, exhilarated, and in a little bit of emotional turmoil. He remembered thinking, back then, that being an adult meant speaking around the difficult things—getting used to the ambiguities in life and learning to let go, instead of seeking clarity on uncertainties. 

He had grown up so much since then. Now he understood that being an adult was pushing for clarity, speaking through the difficulties, going on through the discomfort to find common ground with, and for, each other. 

It was fucking hard as shit, and he was still really bad at it. But he was going to get better. 

“I don’t want to just play boyfriends in a snowstorm.” 

Ilya lifted his head quickly, a grimace immediately stretching across his face. He stared at Shane like he found this physically painful to hear. 

“I shouldn’t have said that.” The regret was clear in Ilya’s voice, and he pushed his feet insistently against Shane’s. “Those were the two best weekends I have ever had.” 

“I know. Me too. That’s why you were right.” Shane pulled his legs back, watching Ilya’s eyes worriedly track the motion. 

But instead of moving farther away, he turned his body so that he was facing forward on the couch. He pulled himself towards the middle cushion, closer to Ilya. 

Ilya’s frown shifted, becoming less concerned and more curious. He pushed himself up from the pillow he was leaning on, twisting to match Shane’s position, sitting next to him. There was about a foot of distance left between them. 

Shane reached across the empty space to take Ilya’s hand, bringing it to rest in his own lap. He looked down at his long fingers, marveling that they had once regularly held a hockey stick, before Shane had ever actually met him—before Shane had first brushed against these fingers in a gym in Los Angeles. 

Ilya squeezed him lightly, flexing his hand to allow Shane to intertwine their fingers. Shane held him carefully, squeezing back once, before he looked up again. 

“What if you moved in with me?” 

Ilya, who had also been looking down at their joined hands, snapped his head up so quickly that Shane was a little surprised his neck didn’t crack. 

The wide-eyed look of surprise on his face sent a quick flash of doubt through Shane, but he reminded himself not to let it swallow him whole. He had thought about this for weeks—longer, actually, if he was honest. Definitely since the first time he had set eyes on the plans for the new apartment. It had just been an idle thought then, almost a hope, mostly a fantasy, certainly not any kind of plan. But this was the first time Ilya was hearing about it, which meant Shane had to be ready to give him time and space to process. 

Shane was still going to lay out all of his reasoning first, though. Just so he had all of the information before he decided either way. 

“I want us to be together, for real. I want us to have real time together. All the time, whenever we want it. I don’t want us to only see each other when we happen to be in town or when the timing works out. I don’t want to always plan where we meet up, just some runs together or a bar for a few hours, going home to separate apartments every night. I don’t want… near misses, anymore.” 

Once he started talking, it was like he couldn’t stop. 

“I want you to be there when I’m home from road trips. I want to be there with you when you’re not traveling, I want to know when your plane is going to land. I want to see you in the summer. Here, at the cottage, or in Europe, wherever you want to go.” 

Ilya was watching him with clear blue eyes, flicking over Shane’s face as he listened. The sound of the water gently pattering down above them filled the silence. 

Shane inhaled slowly, then let the air out through his nose. He kept his eyes on Ilya. 

“Zero blocks.” 

Ilya’s mouth twisted. His expression was soft, and fond, and clearly overwhelmed. There was a light sheen in his eyes that Shane could see from even here, because as he was discovering, Ilya was actually really fucking sappy.

But he was already nodding. 

“Okay. Zero blocks.” 

They both let that settle into the air between them, staring at each other. Ilya moved first, pulling his hand out of Shane’s grasp. He crossed the gap between them, covering Shane, bringing his legs to either side so that he could settle in his lap. Shane wrapped his arms around him, tilting his head back enough so that he could keep looking at his face. Ilya was already reaching up, holding Shane close as he leaned down to kiss him. 

They had kissed thousands of times by now. It still felt like there was something new in this one. Maybe it was a demarcation line: past, and future. 

“I would really like to make a home with you, Shane,” Ilya whispered. He had barely pulled back to speak, and Shane felt the words even more than he heard them. 

Shane tightened his grip, squeezing him around his torso, bringing him close. He pushed his face into Ilya’s chest, breathing him in even through the familiar soft material of his own sweatshirt. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he mumbled, the words lost in the fabric. Ilya heard them, or felt them, anyway. 

Shane felt it, too, when Ilya said it back with his mouth pressed against Shane’s head, in Russian. Shane was already learning the sound of the words. 

🌙

Shane kept the lamp on after he had finished undressing. He wanted to see everything tonight—and from the look on Ilya’s face from where he sat on the side of the bed, Shane thought he might have been thinking the same thing. 

He joined Ilya on the bed, bringing his body over him to mimic, in reverse, the position they had been in on the couch earlier in the night. Shane kept one foot on the ground, bringing the other knee up, resting it on the mattress to the outside of Ilya’s thigh. He settled on top of him, groaning at the feeling of pressing against Ilya’s bare skin, at the first jolt of friction when their erections rubbed against each other. 

Seeking more of the feeling, he straddled Ilya’s hips more fully, winding his arms around his shoulders as he brought himself closer. Ilya’s arms slipped around his waist, hands pressing gently against his back. The close proximity meant that they only needed to turn their heads slightly for their mouths to meet. Shane breathed him in as he kissed him, the familiar combination of sweat and shampoo. Ilya felt strong and solid underneath him. 

Ilya slid one hand down, gripping Shane’s ass solidly, using the new hold to shift him closer still. Overwhelmed by the friction, Shane shuddered against him at all the places they were touching—mouths, chests, hips, everything between. Ilya kept his other hand settled at the small of Shane’s back, fingers spread wide on his skin. 

The kiss was slow, deep, adoring. And yet, it didn’t feel very different from many of the kisses that they had shared before. They were fucking idiots, Shane realized, and had been for all of the many years in which they had kissed like this. How could he have ever kissed Ilya like this before, been kissed by Ilya like this before, and ever thought that it was anything less than a life-altering kind of love?

Ilya was firmly massaging his ass. Shane inhaled when he felt his fingers slip inwards, gently spreading him apart. Pulling slightly away from Shane, Ilya kissed him more lightly, watching his face as he moved his fingers lower. He rubbed the pads of his fingertips against Shane’s hole, circling lightly around the rim. Shane groaned at the feeling—he was still tender from last night, and again this morning. But he wanted him now, anyway. 

Ilya kept caressing him. He leaned in, slipping his tongue into Shane’s mouth again, coaxing him into relaxing against him. It felt vulnerable in this position, exposed, maybe too intense; but Shane felt himself getting lulled into it anyway, from the dueling sensations at the front and back of his body. 

Eventually, Ilya pulled himself away to gaze up at Shane. He pushed his hips against him slightly, one hand still around Shane’s back in a solid grip, two fingers from the other still gently circling over his sensitive hole. 

“On your stomach, okay?” Ilya murmured. 

Shane nodded, though he was reluctant to pull himself out of Ilya’s tight hold and the feeling of his fingers. But he did it anyway, sliding onto the bed. He stretched himself out in the center, laying on his stomach. He pulled a pillow over, folding his arms underneath and pressing his face into it for a moment to try and get ahold of himself, to pull himself back to Earth after the slow and intense stimulation. 

Ilya followed him, pressing both palms into the bed on either side of Shane. He leaned down, touching his lips to the back of his neck, holding there for a moment as Shane shivered from the contact. He kissed the same place a few more times, then moved down to his shoulders, peppering kisses across his skin in a pattern that only Ilya knew—but Shane guessed might correlate to the freckles on his back. 

After enough of this, Ilya paused to reach into the bedside drawer. Shane heard the bottle open as he lay on the bed, level with Shane’s shoulders. He brought his fingers back to where they were, resuming his methodical motions. Shane inhaled, pressing his face into the pillow, as Ilya slowly opened him up. He gently kissed Shane’s shoulder blade, and his arm, whispering quietly into the room every so often. 

“Are you feeling good?” 

Shane nodded into the pillow. Ilya was moving his fingers inside him with agonizing slowness, using more lube than he usually did, treating him so carefully. Shane was overwhelmed by the idea of it almost as much as the physical sensation. 

The only sounds in the room aside from Ilya’s intermittent questions, or quiet instructions, were Shane’s panting breaths and every so often a moan, and the sound of rain coming down—harder now—against the windows of the cottage. 

But a louder sound came out of Shane as Ilya pushed his fingers in deeper, dragging backwards until he found the spot that made his back go rigid. Ilya kept his hand exactly where it was, pressing his fingers down, stroking lightly as Shane trembled. 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane gasped, gripping his pillow as he burrowed his face in it. 

He pulled one knee up on the bed, sliding it along the mattress towards his hip, inadvertently spreading himself wider. Ilya took full advantage, flexing his fingers to gently stretch him, before rubbing them downwards again. 

Shane groaned again, instinctively lifting his hips; he couldn’t decide whether to push into or away from the contact. It felt like his skin was vibrating, like there were waves flowing over him, and through him, like he was already teetering right on the edge. 

“How do you always know exactly where?” His voice came out shaky and warbled, and didn’t even sound like his own. 

He heard a quiet laugh, then felt a gentle bite, followed by a gentler kiss, just below his armpit. 

“I pay attention to you,” Ilya said softly. His loving tone was somewhat offset by the third finger he added, drawing a stuttered sound from Shane. 

It wasn’t long before it felt like it was almost too much to take. He was ready, or ready enough, and his hips were hunching against the sheets in a steady rhythm, anything he could do to get a little bit of friction on himself. He needed Ilya inside of him—more than just his long, beautiful fingers. 

“Ilya.” He was muffled by the pillow, still pushing his hot, red face against it. “Please fuck me.” 

“I need you,” he added, when Ilya didn’t move right away. “I need you inside me, like, right fucking now.” 

Those were always the magic words to finally sway Ilya into action. He did it slowly, though, kissing Shane’s shoulders as he removed his hand, trailing his lips up his spine, towards his neck. Shane shivered at the feeling of the cross around Ilya’s neck lightly trailing over his back, a few inches below Ilya’s mouth. 

He felt Ilya settle over him, forearms braced on either side. 

“Wait,” he said, as he felt him starting to bear down behind him. 

Ilya stopped, moving aside enough to watch him, waiting. Shane turned, too, onto his side so that he could look at him. 

“I want it like we were before.” Shane nodded up towards the headboard. 

It took Ilya a moment to understand, but he did. He turned away, shifting up so that he was sitting at the top of the bed, fully on it instead of to the side like he had started. He rested back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Shane. 

He was stroking himself, too, because of course the long preparation had left him hard and ready for what was next. Shane struggled not to just stare at him, forcing himself to quickly nod. 

Taking a deep breath, Shane rolled towards him. He moved up the bed so that he was straddling him again, hips shifted even closer this time. Ilya’s hands came to his sides, settling between his waist and hips as he helped Shane position himself. 

It was actually much closer than they had been before, and Shane had to bite down hard on his bottom lip at the feeling of his sensitive cock brushing against Ilya’s skin, pulling himself back slightly so that he didn’t lose it right away. 

“Are you sure you are ready, if we are like this?” Ilya asked, one hand moving up from his hip to rub his back. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Shane knew what it felt like to be with Ilya. He knew exactly what it felt like when he stretched him open with the first push, and he knew what it was like when he was all the way in deep. Right now, he didn’t think it was possible to want anything more than he wanted this: to feel both of those sensations now, from right here, where he could look at Ilya and hold him and kiss him as much as he wanted. 

But Ilya wasn’t convinced, or Ilya was being careful with him, maybe. He moved his hand down over Shane’s hip, his fingers slipping inside him again. Shane groaned at the intensity of it—two at once, right away, at this angle. His head dropped down to rest against Ilya’s while he tried to get used to it, letting it wash over him. He stayed there, groaning quietly into Ilya’s ear, letting him continue stretching him open until he was certain that it was enough. 

He didn’t bother saying it; he simply pushed Ilya’s hand away as he raised his head. He brought his arms up, too, balancing one hand on the headboard and reaching back with the other to grip Ilya, holding him steady as he shifted himself into position. 

He groaned loudly at the first press inside, but Ilya was even louder—a startled, half-breathless sound as he dug his fingers into Shane’s hip. 

“Oh fuck, Shane,” Ilya practically panted the words, his eyes tightly shut. Shane realized the difference immediately. 

They’d talked about it in the morning—trying sex without a condom—but it hadn’t happened then. They had agreed it would be fine, though, with their inadvertent monogamy and relevant negative tests at their most recent physicals. They had agreed that they really wanted to try it, actually. 

The fact of it was different, though. Shane wasn’t sure if it was the physical feeling that was as overwhelming for him, or if it was the mental part of it—the idea that he was currently feeling Ilya inside of him with nothing between them for the first time. 

Whether physical or mental, Ilya was clearly feeling it, too. He groaned again, knocking his head back against the headboard as Shane continued working his hips, lowering himself down. His legs felt the exertion through the slow motion, which continued until Shane knew that he had taken nearly all of him inside—because he knew exactly what it felt like, even when it was as intense as this was right now. 

Ilya was breathing harder than Shane, eyes closed, a small crease in his forehead. He was clutching Shane like he was scared one of them might fall apart if his hold was any looser. 

Shane stayed where he was, getting himself used to the almost excruciating feeling of being stretched like this, waiting until Ilya’s eyes opened again. He smiled a little at the sight of him—for once, Ilya looked more fucked out than Shane. 

“Okay?” he asked, using the hand not gripping the headboard to reach up and gently brush away some of Ilya’s sweaty curls. 

Ilya nodded, looking a little grumpy, Shane thought, at being the one who had been asked the question first. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fucking great.” Shane was immensely gratified by the tremor of sound that came out of Ilya when he started lifting himself. 

But he’d been too cocky about it, it turned out. At this angle, from this close to Ilya, it was way more intense than he had expected. He was able to move himself up and down at first, but then the motion had slid into something more of a slow grind—the best that he could do as he fought to keep himself under any semblance of control. And Ilya was far, far gone. 

“Oh God, the way you feel,” he huffed as he cradled Shane, opening his legs wider to move deeper into the sensation. “I have never felt anything like this, fuck, Shane.” 

The deeper drive into him made Shane practically whimper as he leaned his head in, resting his cheek against Ilya’s. He clung to the headboard behind Ilya, the other braced around his shoulders, using both to steady himself and try to propel any kind of motion at all. 

Ilya’s arms were wrapped around him, holding Shane tightly as he groaned words into his sweaty hairline. Shane couldn’t tell if they were in Russian, or in English, or if they were even real words at all. 

Ilya seemed to be getting too worked up to handle the dragging, irregular grinds that were the best Shane could do right now. Breathing deeply, he moved his hands to clutch Shane’s ass, thrusting his hips up. 

“Holy—” The force of it drew a strangled noise out of Shane that cut off whatever might have followed. He braced himself against the headboard with two hands as Ilya did it again, both of them groaning loudly as they finally found the right rhythm. 

But eventually Ilya was winding his arm around Shane’s back again, grasping him tightly to hold him still. He nuzzled Shane’s jaw, his hot breath coming out against his neck in short gasps. 

“Sweetheart, please, I need to fuck you properly,” he murmured. 

Shane nodded, dazed. He wasn’t sure what “properly” meant, but he agreed that it wasn’t going to come from this. He twisted his head around, finding Ilya’s lips and pressing his tongue against them to open his mouth. He took the opportunity to kiss him now, in case he wasn’t going to be in a position to in a few moments. 

He pulled his face away slowly, gratified by the way Ilya watched him with half-lidded eyes. When he slid back, he gasped at the sudden difference, Ilya no longer filling him. Ilya groaned at the loss of Shane, maybe, still holding him very loosely around the waist. 

He let Ilya roll him onto his back, spreading his knees to make room. Ilya settled between them, leaning in to kiss him—a book end to their transition between positions, maybe. 

This one was familiar, though. Ilya waited only long enough to add another drizzle of lube before he pushed into him again. 

The new angle was intense in a different way. Shane could feel all of Ilya, not just inside him but around him—boxing him in from above, forearms braced on either side of him, his gold chain swaying slightly with the cross pressed down between their chests, the quiet groans and whispers in his ear, I have never felt anything like this, Shane, nothing ever.

Ilya took up a steady pace immediately, driving his hips forward, thrusting forcefully into him. And it was immensely more satisfying than Shane’s slow, halting grind. Shane rolled his pelvis up towards him, using his grip around Ilya’s strong torso to find the angle he needed. Ilya helped him with a steadying hand on his thigh, lifting it up higher. 

Shane cried out when he found it, because of course he fucking found it. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut, digging his hips back into the pillow underneath him, trying not to let himself vibrate out of his skin. 

“Look at you,” Ilya whispered from just above him. “You have gone somewhere else, I think.” 

Shane could only manage a strangled noise in response, feeling Ilya press in and down, closer on top of him. 

“Will you come back?” He murmured. “Come back, my Shane.” 

And Shane opened his eyes, knowing that Ilya’s would be right above him. He was right. 

He stared up at him, fighting the urge to close his eyes again and give into the undertow of pleasure and stimulation. He kept one hand on Ilya’s back, the other falling down to grasp at the mattress. 

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice thick. 

Ilya let out a long, slow exhale. He reached for Shane’s hand, first the one on the mattress, then the other. He leaned his weight forward as he brought both of their hands, now intertwined, above Shane’s head. 

He squeezed Shane’s hands as they fucked. The motion brought him even closer into Shane, pushing deeper, their chests pressed together. Ilya leaned his head against Shane’s, trembling again. 

“I am here, too,” he said back, his accent thicker than Shane had heard it in years. 

Shane nodded, barely able to move his head. But Ilya squeezed his hands again, reassuring him, speaking to him silently as he thrust his hips again. So Shane let himself give in, closing his eyes as he got lost in the feeling of it, of Ilya everywhere around him. 

He had thought once that sex with Ilya was like this because of Ilya—his looks, his experience, his skill, whatever. But he knew without a doubt now that it was them. The right combination, the code unlocked. Like Ilya had said on the dock, like they were the only two people alive. If Shane had gone anywhere else, even for just a second, it was to a place that they had created together, and Ilya would be there with him. 

He hadn’t even touched himself. But he didn’t need to—the friction of Ilya’s torso, keeping his dick pressed down between them, the feeling of Ilya driving into him at just the right angle, the steady way they had been moving in sync with each other this whole time: it had been building quickly all together, and now it was more than enough. 

“Ilya,” Shane thought he said when he came, squeezing his hands tightly and groaning into the centimeter of space between them. His sticky, wet release spread between them, making Ilya moan when he felt it. He pushed his head in against Shane’s, and Shane turned his head to kiss him, smothering the rest of the sound. 

But he pulled away after a moment, and Shane bit down on his lip as he tried to ride through the roiling swoop of oversensitivity, with Ilya suddenly feeling even bigger and thicker inside of him. Ilya leaned his weight into their hands, using the leverage to lift himself. He snapped his hips forward faster, still squeezing Shane’s hands as he fucked him. 

Keeping his eyes open, Shane watched Ilya’s sweaty, red face staring down at him. His lips were parted and he was looking at Shane like he really did think he was going to go somewhere else, like he might disappear. 

Shane had already told him that he was here. So he mumbled the next best alternative. “I love you.” 

Ilya pushed him against him only twice more, dropping himself down to press his open mouth against Shane’s cheek, groaning into his skin. He was still tightly grasping Shane’s hands.

Shane’s mouth fell open when he realized that he could feel it. This time it wasn’t just mental—he could really feel Ilya spilling inside of him, deep and hot, twitching forward in small movements. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. But the thought was there with him too, the internal part of it, the other internal part of it—just the idea that Ilya was inside of him, Ilya was coming inside of him. He was overwhelmed by it. 

His hands slackened as he dropped his head back into the pillow, enjoying the solid weight of Ilya on top of him, starting to soften everywhere. 

Ilya kept his mouth pressed against Shane’s cheek as he tried to catch his breath and slowly let go of Shane’s hands. Shane let them rest on the mattress, arms still stretched out above him. 

Ilya eventually brought one of his own hands to Shane’s hair, lightly carding his fingers through the sweaty strands, softly petting him. He moves his lips over a few centimeters, lightly brushing against Shane’s ear, then the skin just below it, where he had left a hickey just the day before. 

“I love you,” Ilya murmured into his ear, as they took a moment to collect themselves. 

But before Shane knew it, Ilya was pulling away, out of him. Shane grunted in surprise at the sudden sensation of it—the slow, steady trickle. 

Ilya’s mind was clearly on the same thing. He shifted backwards, making enough room between them to bend one of Shane’s legs, gently bringing it up to his hip and twisting the lower half of Shane’s body to the side as he stared down at him. 

Shane felt shockingly open and exposed in the position that Ilya had contorted him into. But he knew exactly what Ilya was looking at, and could actually feel it trickling down towards his inner thigh in this position. 

He let him look, taking in the expression on Ilya’s face from this vantage point below. He wasn’t entirely sure how to read it. 

“Messy,” Shane said, after a long moment. 

Ilya’s eyes flicked up, meeting his. “It is the hottest thing I have ever seen.” 

Shane breathed slowly. He let him look, then, for as long as he wanted to. 

But eventually Ilya released Shane’s leg, bringing it back down onto the bed and carefully spreading it wider to make room for himself atop Shane. He lowered himself, holding his weight on his forearms. Shane stretched his legs out beneath him, ignoring the new, wet feeling spreading lower and lower now. 

Ilya kissed him gently, lovingly. His hands were in Shane’s hair again, brushing the damp strands away from his forehead, massaging the sides of his scalp as he brought his lips back to Shane’s, again and again.  

It was tender, and perfect. All Shane wanted was more nights like this, for the rest of this trip, and then in New York, for as long as Ilya would have him. Forever, maybe, if they both wanted. 

It was too much to think about. Which was good, because all Shane could actually think about was how they were both covered in his come, and that there was even more of Ilya’s literally coming out of him at this exact moment in time. 

Ilya rubbed his nose against Shane’s, kissing just underneath his left eye. “Shower, and then change the sheets.” 

“I love you so much,” Shane sighed out in relief. 

☀️

Shane was surprised that Ilya had actually asked to see the indoor practice rink. It was true that Ilya had always let Shane talk about hockey as much as he wanted, and he’d always willingly given Shane his opinions about it, even when he hadn’t been asked. But he’d never actually expressed any interest in playing, or even in being on the ice—or the plastic “ice” in Shane’s rink, as it were. 

But of course, when Ilya asked, Shane had obliged. Because of course, Shane was curious about how he’d react—he had always been curious about this, Ilya and hockey. 

He showed him the small building next to the main cottage, the large synthetic rink in the middle, set up with shooting and passing targets. He hadn’t been sure if it was just supposed to be a tour, so he paused for a moment before he grabbed a stick and held it out to Ilya in question. When Ilya took it without hesitation, Shane grabbed one for himself. 

Now they were standing on the synthetic ice in sneakers, a pile of pucks set up between them, a respectable distance away from the net. Shane was trying not to freak out about it, at how much he had dreamed about this moment for, like, years. 

“So, you do… forehand, then switch to backhand… fake the shot, and then… forehand?” He asked, turning his stick to make the motions as he described them. 

“Yes,” Ilya sounded patient. “And make it a wrist shot at the end for force.” 

Shane tried it again, this time ending with the flick of an imaginary wrist shot. 

“And you call it the Rozanov.” 

There must have been some skepticism, or at least a hint of mischief in Shane’s voice that Ilya picked up on. He lifted his head, scowling at him from across the fake ice. 

“Yes, because it’s my fucking move!” 

Shane rolled his eyes, but looked back at the puck, and then up at the net. He tried it again, without the force of a real shot, just to get the motions right. He watched the puck sail forward, then immediately pulled down another from the pile with his stick blade. He tried again, faster this time, with a shot at the end. It was actually pretty fun. 

“Okay, but now you have to do it while you are skating,” Ilya notified him, watching each puck travel from Shane’s stick towards the net.  

“I know how to shoot a puck while I’m skating, Ilya,” Shane said dryly. He passed the puck over to Ilya this time, instead of shooting it forward. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya responded, catching it easily. He hesitated for a second before shooting the puck at the net. It was off target, but only barely. It had also been a surprisingly hard shot, Shane noticed, intrigued. “I watched your series against Boston. Not sure that is true.” 

There was no penalty box at Shane’s practice rink, nor any refs, so he could definitely get away with jabbing his stick as high up as he could into Ilya’s perfect face, if he wanted to. But he didn’t. 

He just rolled his eyes, pulling down another puck and passing it to Ilya, who passed it back this time. 

“So does that mean you’re going to skate with me for real?” Shane asked. 

Ilya furrowed his brow, accepting the puck when Shane sent it his way, and then immediately passing it back again. “Ah, it has been almost a decade. Not sure I am interested in embarrassing myself.” 

“You don’t get embarrassed,” Shane told him matter-of-factly. And Ilya had no choice but to shrug in response, because it was true. 

It was something Shane had noticed a long time ago. At first, he’d found it confusing—maybe had actually been kind of embarrassed, on Ilya’s behalf—but over time, it was hard not to get jealous about it, this ease with which Ilya approached the world. But maybe it was something to emulate, to just get a little better at brushing off the shit that didn’t matter. 

“Has it really been a decade?” Shane asked, still passing the puck back and forth with him, a little faster now. 

Ilya finally cut the rhythm and took the shot, making a small sound of satisfaction when it went in this time. Shane had done the same thing, lifting his hand to his mouth to stifle the noise. 

“No, not really,” Ilya said, keeping his eyes on the net. “I go skating with my niece in Moscow. Well—I did.” 

A pinched look came onto his face at that. It was the first hint of any unease that Shane had seen there since Ilya had arrived at the cottage, and he fucking hated it. And he was fucking pissed that he couldn’t do something about this, this deep and intractable issue in Ilya’s life that had never seen any improvement in all of the years that he had known him. 

“Let’s go skating when we get back,” Shane said firmly. 

He couldn’t help Ilya see his niece. It couldn't make up for Russia. It couldn’t make up for Ilya’s break with his family, whether it had been by his choice or out of his hands. But it was something small that Shane could do, just to show him that he had someone who cared for him and was going to keep looking out for him. 

And Ilya seemed to understand all of the things that were tucked in with the statement, judging from his small smile as he nudged another puck towards his body. “Going to be months before the ice at Rockefeller Center is up.” 

“Yeah, I know. I meant at an actual rink,” Shane replied, watching Ilya set himself up for another shot. 

This one made it in, too, and Ilya was smiling wider. “You’re going to take me to your rink, Hollander?” 

“That’s the plan.” Shane took the next puck. He maneuvered his stick back and forth through the steps of the so-called Rozanov, from the forehand to the fake backhand shot, and to the final shot from his forehand. He had a hang of the motions by now. 

“Is this so I will fuck you at center ice?” 

“Oh my God,” Shane abandoned the puck, glaring at Ilya, who looked delighted by his reaction. “That was a stress dream. I should have never fucking told you about that!” 

“How hard were you when you woke up?” Ilya grinned. “Did not seem like you were very stressed when you told me.” 

Shane threw his stick down. Ilya seemed to have been anticipating this, though, as he did the same and immediately turned to run down the plastic rink. Shane chased him, irritated at how fucking fast Ilya was, even though he was the professional athlete. 

It was going to be a lot more fun to do on skates, though. 

🌙

They finally made a fire that night. The air was cool, but the sky was clear and the stars were out. Ilya, the city boy, couldn’t stop tilting his head back to look at them, the smattering of pinprick lights stretched out above the expanse of the dark lake. Shane had focused on getting the fire properly set up and lit. 

They were settled together now. Ilya was still in the Ottawa sweatshirt that he had apparently laid claim to, sitting straight with his feet planted on the ground. He had insisted that Shane stretch out on the long bench, resting so that his head was on Ilya’s thigh. 

“My ribs are fine,” he insisted, because they were, but he laid down anyway. He did, admittedly, enjoy having a blanket draped over him and the feeling of Ilya’s hands resting lightly on him while the fire warmed his face. 

Each time he turned over his shoulder to check on Ilya, he was looking up at the sky. It reminded Shane of what he had said, months ago now—before everything had catastrophically fallen apart—when Ilya had returned from his father’s funeral. The words that had prompted Shane’s invitation to the cottage, as delayed as he had been: I am so tired of people looking at me. 

There were only Shane’s eyes, now, and Ilya didn’t seem to mind those. And aside from the two of them, there was nothing but air, water, trees, and the fire in front of them. And probably some loons, though he hadn’t heard any tonight. 

Shane wished that he had given this to him so much sooner. But if Ilya was, indeed, feeling a little bit of peace from the weight of so much scrutiny, so many eyes upon him, Shane was glad that he had it now. 

He rested his head down again, watching the fire. 

Some time passed before Ilya spoke, his hand curled lightly on Shane’s chest. 

“I have been going to see a therapist.” 

“You have?” Shane was surprised, both by the sudden sound of Ilya’s voice, and also the words themselves. He turned again, blinking up at him. 

He wasn’t surprised, exactly—well, maybe a little, since they hadn’t actually broached this subject since Shane had tentatively raised it, in vague terms, back in December, after Ilya had told him about his mother and that he sometimes thought he felt the way that she did before she died. Judging from Ilya’s reaction to Shane’s hesitant suggestion, he’d assumed the advice wouldn’t be taken. 

Surprise or not, though, he was glad to hear it. He shifted on top of Ilya’s leg, rolling onto his back so that he could look at him clearly. 

“Yes. Only twice. But I will again.” Ilya looked slightly uncomfortable, especially under the direct attention, but he smiled anyway. 

“Has it been…” Shane didn’t know the right question to ask. He thought about it for a moment, resting his hand lightly on top of Ilya’s, still on his chest. “Do you like him or her?” 

Ilya tilted his head, not quite nodding. The glow of the fire caught on a few glinting strands of his hair, the ones that had already lightened from their time in the sun. They looked golden. Shane watched them for a few moments, then dragged his eyes back to Ilya’s face. 

“She is Russian. It’s nice to speak the language with her.” He shrugged, lifting the hand not on Shane’s chest to his head, gently massaging him. “Will not let me bullshit her.” 

Shane smiled, momentarily taken in by the soothing touch on his scalp, even as he kept watching Ilya. After a moment, he asked, “It’s not Svetlana, right?” 

His chest felt warm at the sight of Ilya’s face relaxing into a smile, at the sound of his soft laugh. “Definitely not.” 

Shane fell silent again, his fingers moving lightly over the back of Ilya’s hand. Ilya seemed to be enjoying the contact, from the gentle way he curled his own fingers back and forth over Shane’s chest in response. 

Finally, Shane asked, “Do you think it’s been helping?” 

Ilya inhaled slowly, his thumb circling lightly along the edge of Shane’s scalp. He looked deep in thought. 

“I hope that it will. I think that it will.” When he turned his head down again, Shane reached up, pushing the hair out of Ilya’s face. 

“Thank you for telling me to go,” Ilya said quietly. 

Shane just nodded. He wanted to say thank you, too, to Ilya—to tell him, thank you for taking care of my best friend. 

He left the words unsaid this time. He squeezed Ilya’s hand again, bringing it up to his lips to gently kiss his knuckles, and watched Ilya tilt his head back up to look at the stars. 

🌙

It was a new marker in time for them: a third night spent together in the same bed. And there were still more of them left, on this trip, and after that. 

They were pressed together closely, Ilya’s bare chest against Shane’s back, arms wrapped tightly around him, nose just under his ear. Shane rested his weight back against him, one hand clasped over Ilya’s wrist, gently running his thumb over his skin. 

It was a familiar pose, but one that came with its own set of memories. The first time they’d had sex, when Ilya slipped behind him and put his arms around Shane, holding him there until his heart rate had decreased and he’d been able to bring his usually overcrowded, anxious mind back into some semblance of consciousness. The first time Ilya had ever slept over in the same bed, the night of the first snowstorm, his chin pressed into the crook of Shane’s neck like he was making sure they both knew it belonged there. One time, in London, the reverse; Shane’s chest to Ilya’s back, kissing his forehead lightly, making sure that he was properly recovering from the intense sensation he had experienced. 

They had spent so much time building this thing together. Shane had always been too scared to stand back and really look at the shape of it. Now that he could, it was so obvious. 

Do you know how many times I have almost told you that I love you? Ilya had asked. Probably not as many times as I wished that you would, Shane had replied. 

“Why didn’t you say it before?” Shane mumbled into the dark, quiet room. “You had to know that I loved you.” 

“Love you,” he corrected himself, because he wanted it to be heard in the present tense, the way that it was felt. 

Ilya was quiet for a long time. Shane could tell he was still awake, from the way he was breathing, his fingers gently stroking Shane’s chest. When he finally spoke, he kept his face where it was, sending the words out as small vibrations into Shane’s hairline. It gave him goosebumps. 

“I didn’t want to assume, and be wrong.” 

Tempting fate, Shane thought. It had always gotten him, too. The way he couldn’t think too clearly about something before it happened—being selected first overall, Rookie of the Year, his first MVP award because he worried that looking at it too closely, too directly, might mean risking the disappointment of losing it. Even in the instances where it was the most logical outcome, he still didn’t let himself think about something too clearly, in case he accidentally wished it away. Of course. 

“And,” Ilya continued, pausing to gently kiss Shane’s neck. When Shane shivered, Ilya tightened his hold around him. “Even if you might have, I did not think you actually wanted to.” 

It took Shane a moment to understand what this meant. When he did, he was with a wave of regret at the time he had spent letting his anxieties stand as a barrier between them—and at how much he wished Ilya had just told him. Maybe it was unfair to consider it, but it felt like it would have changed something if Ilya had said it, if he’d had any real idea about the depth—the existence—of Ilya’s feelings for him. But had he ever made room for Ilya to say it?

He swallowed slowly, trying to push past the discomfort working its way into his chest again.

“I guess I had to figure out some stuff for myself,” he said quietly. 

Ilya kissed his neck again, gently rubbing his nose against the edge of Shane’s ear. The gentle motion helped, and Shane closed his eyes, leaning into it. 

“Maybe I could have helped you,” Ilya answered, just as quiet. 

“You did,” Shane answered immediately, opening his eyes again. He turned his head slightly—not enough to move out of the tight grip Ilya held him in, but because he was suddenly compelled to speak as directly to him as he could from within it. 

“You did,” he repeated. “You introduced me to Svetlana. You hung out with me in real places. You helped me be outside with… just, all of it. More than I would have on my own.” 

Because he saw it clearly now: the way Ilya had gently, incrementally, nudged him towards all of this, waiting for him to be ready even when it was hard for Ilya to be patient. And yeah, maybe sometimes it had backfired because Shane wasn’t ready to go along with it. And there were times that he wished Ilya had been more direct, especially with his words. But all of it: the meals together, all of the runs, meeting Ilya’s closest friend in the entire world, the Admirals games, going to a major event together, even the fucking club—it had all been in service of allowing Shane to see what life would look like together. It made him see what life did look like together. 

“You helped me a lot.” Shane said again, now that he saw it. 

Ilya had tilted his head up so that he could meet Shane’s eyes. He was smiling. 

“And fucked you in every way possible.” 

“Yeah, that too.” Shane rolled his eyes, resting his head down on the pillow again. 

“You are welcome,” Ilya said, generously.  

They were still wrapped in the same position some time later. The room had been silent for a long time, but a thought had suddenly made itself clear and loud inside of Shane’s brain. 

“Ilya,” he slurred, his voice heavy with sleep. 

“Mmm?” The noise came out as a tired rumble against him. 

“When we were on the roof. In the snow. In December.” Shane paused there, clearing his throat lightly, trying to get his voice to its normal timbre. “When you said I was your best friend. Why didn’t you say you loved me then?” 

He’d been thinking about it while he drifted towards sleep: the strands of this memory working its way into his tired, happy mind. But then he had realized it, because he remembered this moment well. 

At the time, it had barely even been a spark of a thought. But he still remembered the instant it had flashed into his head as he watched Ilya under the light on the roof, with New York City as his backdrop. He had wondered if Ilya might say exactly that.  

Ilya awakened at the question. He pulled back from Shane enough so that his mouth was no longer pressed directly into his skin, his voice groggy and confused. “I was trying to express how important you are in my life. And I was making love to you, like, an hour later.” 

“Okay, so,” Shane insisted, suddenly a little affronted at the idea that somehow the love should have just been implied, turning around as Ilya twisted away from him. Thanks to the clear night and the bright moonlight, he could see his indignant frown even in the dark room. “Wouldn’t that have been a good time to tell me that you love me? I mean, it would have been pretty fucking romantic.” 

“And,” he added. “Might have saved us some bullshit, you know.” 

“Oh my God, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, rolling onto his back and grabbing an extra pillow to smother his face with. A moment later, he pulled it off, moving back again to try and press it over Shane’s face, instead. Shane pushed him away, trying to fight him off. 

“I don’t think I’m wrong about this one, Rozanov!” 

☀️

“So, you are moving in August?” Ilya took the jars of tomato sauce out of the bag, followed by the spaghetti and a block of parmesan cheese. 

They technically still had plenty of food to eat from what he had stocked up ahead of time, but Shane had inexplicably found himself really wanting chicken parmesan. Ilya had immediately suggested they go to get the ingredients, so they’d taken their first journey away from the cottage. Shane had spent all twenty minutes inside the store praying that they didn’t run into his parents—and thankfully, they had not. 

Shane had never actually made chicken parmesan before. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten it—his dad had made it more when he was younger, often after a big game. He hadn’t made it in a long time, though, at least not for Shane. 

He wondered if there was some kind of association coming into play here—if it was a meal that he suddenly craved because it reminded him of a time when he had felt comfortable and happy. If that was the case, he really didn’t mind the idea of having it tonight. 

Still, he was skeptical about their ability to actually make it, despite the relatively fool-proof instructions they’d found online and the video on YouTube that Ilya had watched in the car on the way back from the store. They’d picked up a couple of frozen pizzas just in case everything went wrong. 

“Yeah,” Shane answered absently, frowning down at the recipe on his phone as Ilya continued taking the ingredients out of the bags and lining them up on the counter. “Uh…” 

It took a moment for him to fully shift his attention back to the question that Ilya had actually asked. “Yeah, August. Moving into the new place towards the end of the month. And then I’m hoping to sell the old one sometime in the fall, but I’ll have some flexibility, depending on what the market looks like, and everything.” 

Shane braced himself for a crack about the market or Mr. Real Estate, or something similar. 

“Okay. So when do you want me to come?” 

Shane’s head lifted. He found that Ilya was looking at him shyly from the other side of the kitchen island. Shane smiled, pleased by both the question and the invitation for planning logistics. 

“Well,” he said slowly, pulling over a bulb of garlic and double-checking the recipe to confirm the number of cloves they would need to peel. “Whenever you think you want to. It doesn’t have to be right away, if you have too much going on in the fall. But… if you wanted, you could always move your stuff in when I do, so we know where everything is going to go and all.” 

He felt slightly shy, himself, at having said this, and quickly glanced up to see how Ilya had taken it. Ilya had removed two bunches of kale from the grocery bags and was turning to put them in the refrigerator for Shane’s smoothies, but he looked pleased. 

When he noticed Shane looking, he shrugged. “I could come end of the month, too. I don’t have a lot of things, could pack them easily.” 

“Don’t have a lot of things? You have so many clothes,” Shane blurted out before he could help it. 

Ilya immediately made a face at him. “Okay, so I will pack the fucking clothes. What is the big deal, your new apartment doesn’t have closets?” 

“Our new apartment has a ton of closets,” Shane corrected him. He refrained from making what seemed like an obvious but distasteful joke that he had bought the place specifically because of its closet space, after making sure that all of them had room for him inside. “You will have all the space that you need for your clothes.” 

“Good, because who knows what else you would have done with them.” Ilya sniffed, returning his attention to the ingredients in front of them. He lifted the jar of sauce again, examining the label with narrowed eyes. 

“Do you think you will want to stay in New York after your contract is up?” He asked distantly. 

Shane raised his eyebrows. They hadn’t talked about this before, or anything like it. They had never really talked about the future at all, until yesterday, and definitely not a future that was so far off. 

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he said honestly. “Probably, yeah. But I guess there are a lot of factors.” 

Not just the hockey, he was realizing. There were the intangible parts of it: how much he loved his team, his strong relationship with Coach Murdock, his genuine respect for the organization. There was New York itself, which had inexplicably burrowed under his skin over the past seven years, coaxing him in until he had felt like it was part of him. 

And there was Ilya, though he didn’t dare say it out loud—not right now, even though they had just been discussing plans for their apartment. Surely moving in together was an act significant enough to consider him as part of the future, right? 

Shane was working on it, but just this one time, he didn’t want to tempt fate. 

Ilya rummaged in the cabinet for a pot large enough to cook the spaghetti. “When is your contract finished?” 

“Not until 2021,” Shane replied cautiously. “So, you know. Not an immediate question.” 

“And you might not want to stay in New York?” 

“I mean, I could. I’m just saying, I don’t have to.” Suddenly it kind of felt like they weren’t just talking about Shane’s contract. It felt like they were looking at the thing head-on, and talking about a different kind of future altogether. Ilya glanced up at him, intrigued, and Shane got the sense that he was aware of it, too. 

“Where would you go?” Ilya placed the empty pot on the unlit burner simply to put it down. He turned, placing his hands on the countertop, watching Shane from the other side of the kitchen island. 

“Maybe… LA.” Shane had very little interest in the West Coast, generally, but the team was decent. They’d beat them for the Cup in 2014, after all. And Ilya spent so much time in Los Angeles. 

“I don’t want to live in LA,” Ilya answered immediately, and Shane tried to tamp down the small thrill that shot through him at Ilya saying this, even idly. Any kind of reference to a shared future, even as a kind of joke, was something new for them. 

“Toronto’s a good city.” Shane tried again. It was a big city, with a lot of film and media opportunities, even if it wasn’t New York or LA. Ilya still seemed to go there occasionally, at least. And it was in Canada, which was good for him, but could have been complicated for Ilya with his passport situation; unless he got U.S. citizenship before then, at least. Or, well, there were other citizenship routes… 

Ilya cut him off before Shane could let this thought process go on for too long. “Absolutely not, that team is fucking vile.” 

Shane laughed at Ilya’s grimace, but a little ruefully, because he was right. He had complained about games there plenty of times over the years, and it would be insane to walk into the kind of locker room and organization that let that kind of behavior go unchecked. 

Ilya picked his hands up from the countertop, moving back towards the food as he mused, “You’d look good in Boston colors.” 

Shane scoffed, following his lead and picking his phone up again to find the recipe. He squinted down at it, bringing the phone up closer to his face to figure out the order of operations for breading the chicken. “They couldn’t afford me and Hunter.” 

“Yes, and you would be mad to be second line.” Ilya tilted his head back and forth, openly baiting Shane with his smirk. 

And he didn’t know why he always fell for it. “You think they’d make me second line instead of Hunter?” 

“He just won MVP, Shane!” Ilya answered innocently, shrugging one shoulder up towards his ear, clearly enormously pleased with himself for this little punchline. 

Before Shane could react to that, Ilya abruptly left the kitchen. Shane looked after him in confusion, still frowning at the so-called joke about Boston and Hunter. 

But Ilya returned after just a moment, hopping down the steps from the bedroom. He was carrying Shane’s glasses in one hand. 

He raised his eyebrows when he saw Shane notice, stopping in front of him. Ilya carefully unfolded the wire frames, and slipped them onto Shane’s face.

He was beaming, clearly proud of himself. And even though Shane rolled his eyes, he could actually read the recipe now. He was suddenly a little overwhelmed at it, the feeling of being understood, and anticipated. 

“Um,” he said, trying to pull his attention back to the instructions. “Okay. So, it says we have to pound the meat first. Do you know how—hey, stop laughing, I’m being serious!” 

Ilya was openly cackling, moving around the kitchen island again to find the chicken and take his place at their work station. He fixed an expression onto his face that Shane assumed was meant to mimic a good student. 

“Sorry, sorry. Please, Shane. Tell me all about how to pound your meat.”

🌙

They were laying together in bed, stretched out, full and sated from the generous portions of chicken, cheese, and pasta. It hadn’t been as good as his dad’s, but Shane thought they’d done a decent job. And cooking together hadn’t been terrible, once Ilya had agreed to keep the music at an acceptable volume and Shane had let Ilya add more seasonings to the jarred tomato sauce. 

It had been a strange, domestic thing to do together—a super-charged version of the meals they had shared over the years, takeout Chinese or tacos, the assortment of foods they’d cobbled together during Ilya’s last long stay at his apartment during the snowstorm, the times they had simply opened the fridge and taken things out at random, back in the early days when they were hooking up. Was this what life would be like now, together? Picking out recipes, going to the grocery store for ingredients, spending hours cooking long and laborious meals? 

Probably not, Shane thought realistically. He had a strict nutrition plan in the season, and a private chef who came by every week to cook meals to stock in his fridge. He had a regular grocery delivery, and a housekeeper who took care of putting it away, most of the time. And he had the sense that Ilya’s eating habits were sporadic and kind of awful during the times when he was traveling or working a lot. They definitely wouldn’t have much time to cook in November, or December, or all throughout the spring. 

But maybe on some weekends, they could. Or when there was a stretch of off days. And definitely in the off-season. 

Because it had been a fun thing to do together. They had argued, or bantered or whatever, but there was a weirdly familiar rhythm to it, too. Ilya had been methodical with the sauce, and had let Shane handle the chicken so that it was done exactly to his liking, intervening only when asked because both of Shane’s hands were dirty. 

There was a comfort with each other—and an understanding of the motions of each other’s bodies, and their thought processes, and instincts—that had built up over the years. It had happened gradually, mostly without Shane even noticing it. But it had been there for a long time, Shane thought, and it came out in so many different ways. Sex, obviously. But also an anticipation of each other’s needs, a sense of what the other might be wanting but not ready to say out loud. It felt like the last missing piece of everything had slid into place a few days ago. He’d been waiting for it for a long time, even without realizing that it had existed.  

If he was honest with himself, which he was really trying to do these days, Shane had never really expected he would have that kind of thing with another person. It had never been easy for him to connect with people—the few close relationships he had in his life, from any stage of life, was proof enough of that. And his past relationships (if he’d ever really had any, aside from the one in high school) hadn’t been anything close to this. He’d never even really pictured being in the position to have this kind of thing with anyone. 

Except Ilya. And even then, he hadn’t realized that it could be like this. He didn’t understand what could develop, even during the whole time it was developing. 

In a lot of ways, Shane had stayed the nervous nineteen-year-old in a hotel gym, practically paralyzed with the intensity of his attraction to the guy sitting on the floor across from him. And Ilya had stayed, for a very long time, as that gorgeous, inscrutable man, his face looking back at Shane from billboards in Las Vegas, out from designer storefronts, or on the side of a building in SoHo. Unattainable. 

“You are thinking loudly,” Ilya said, tilting his head to the side so that it bumped against Shane’s. 

He had migrated his head over so that they were sharing a pillow. Shane was starting to notice that he did that a lot. It allowed Ilya to spread out diagonally so that his body was stretched across nearly all of the bed, while Shane lay straight up and down on one side of it. He couldn’t decide if he found it annoying or not. 

Shane knocked his head back against Ilya’s thick skull. “Thinking normal volume.” 

“Okay,” Ilya agreed, but with disdain, which meant he didn’t actually agree at all. “What are you thinking about at a normal volume?” 

“I was thinking about the gym.” Shane smiled to himself. He remembered talking about it before, years ago—wrapped up in bed pretty similarly to this, actually. And Ilya had said that he liked Shane’s freckles.

“The gym?” Ilya clearly had no idea what he was talking about. Shane felt him tilt his head towards him, clearly trying to make eye contact. 

“Yeah. On the night of the draft.” Shane turned his head, but it was hard to look directly at each other from the angle of their heads, with how close they were to each other. 

But out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Ilya blink in surprise. He shifted away, off Shane’s pillow and onto his own, so that he could see him. 

“Again?” Ilya asked, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “How many times will we talk about this, do you think?” 

He didn’t sound annoyed, though—only fond. He reached over to grab Shane’s hand, kissing the back of his knuckles. “I already told you. You were looking at my dick. So I could tell you were gay.” 

“No.” Shane laughed, though, even as he shook his head. 

He had moved on from this concern that had consumed him when he was younger: what Ilya had seen in him, exactly, that had made him think that he would be open to the possibility of getting their hands and mouths all over each other’s bodies. After all of these years, and perhaps a better understanding of himself, Shane was willing to believe that Ilya could just tell—because it had probably been written all over him. 

“No,” he repeated. “I was thinking about something else. What made you choose me?” 

Because that was a different question, and still one that he didn’t necessarily understand. He knew what Ilya’s explanation had been, years ago, about Shane’s freckles and the completely normal shorts he had worn to the gym. 

The implication of Shane’s real question was baked into the way that he had asked it. Shane had been a scared and inexperienced boy, too awkward to hold a real conversation or even really make eye contact. Ilya had always been something special, an entity. Shane had been the one trapped in his gravitational pull. 

But Ilya was looking at him from the other pillow like he was stupid. 

“Shane,” he said slowly. “I was drooling over you because I walked into the gym, saw Shane Hollander, number one NHL draft pick, and then realized that he was the hottest person I had ever seen.” 

“No, but you—” Shane reflexively resisted this premise, that it all came down to how he looked, until the rest of Ilya’s words—and the way that he had phrased them—sank in. “Wait. Did you know who I was??” 

Ilya sat up to lean forward on his forearm, staring at Shane incredulously. His eyes were wider than Shane had ever seen them. 

“How have you not known that since I told you I played hockey?? Of course I fucking knew!” He dropped back onto the pillow again, holding his hands out in the air in front of him. Shane looked on, completely dumbfounded. “I thought you figured it out years ago. I was so embarrassed! I thought that was why you keep bringing this up!” 

Shane didn’t even know what to say. He remembered wondering, during their first conversation, if Ilya knew something about hockey, just from the way he looked, the way he talked. But once they had actually started speaking, Shane had taken his denial at face value. 

He had never actually considered this idea before: that Ilya had known who Shane was before he had asked him—in those maddening, circular ways—what he was doing in LA, what number he had been selected in the draft, what team he would be going to, all leading up to getting his phone number and suggesting that they hang out in New York. Now that he looked back on it (and maybe with the benefit of seven years of studying Ilya Rozanov), it was so fucking obvious. Ilya had been hitting on him so hard it might as well have been with a hammer. 

“Is ultimate fan boy behavior,” Ilya continued, still using his hands to gesture for emphasis. “I see one chance, I take it.” 

“Really,” he said, his voice now shifting into a contemplative, coy tone. He dropped his hands down onto his abdomen, and turned to shoot a quick smirk at Shane. “All of the internet should be asking me for lessons. How to Pull Shane Hollander.” 

Shane was still trying to recover from this frankly astounding new piece of information. He rolled over so that he was turned towards Ilya, staring at the side of his face, his messy hair and the little hint of sunburn that he had gotten from too much time in and around the lake. 

“Then I should give them tips, too,” he said, injecting a little bit of a challenge into his voice. Because Ilya was pretty fucking hot, and famous, too. “How to Pull Ilya Rozanov.” 

Ilya rolled towards him, already scoffing as he shook his head. “Shane, my love, you pulled nothing. That is my point. You could not pull me, I was already all over you.” 

“You mean you were coming all over me.” 

“Shane!” Ilya let out a scandalized gasp. 

But he laughed loudly at the joke, so delightedly, that even Shane had to grin with pride at the response. He let Ilya roll him onto his back, playfully pinning his arms down, even as Shane brought his legs up to try and fight him off. 

Like always, the wrestling was just a pretense. They were kissing again within seconds. And then Shane turned it into something else, just so he could prove that he had, in fact, pulled Ilya Rozanov. 

☀️

On the eighth day of the visit, Shane realized that it was already more than halfway over. 

He felt inexplicably sad about it, which was an irrational thought—they still had almost a full week left together here. And more importantly, there was so much more time after that. 

But this had been the beginning of everything—or maybe the end, actually; the end of everything that had come before. There was something special about that. He would miss these moments, when they were gone. 

They went for a long hike, starting early so that they missed the worst of the afternoon sun, and came back exhausted. They’d taken a long nap after a long shower, and then had eaten a long, late lunch. 

Now they were stretched out on the grass on the curve of the hill in the yard. Shane was sitting up on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him. Ilya was laying more than sitting, leaning back on one elbow, resting against Shane. 

Usually Shane would hate to just be laying here, with the scratchy feeling of the grass through his clothes, the dampness of the soft earth under his legs and palms. But they’d been messing around in the yard, first wrestling, and then just rolling around and kissing, and had settled here. 

He had considered suggesting that they sit in the Adirondack chairs only a few feet away on the deck. But it was nice here, with the sun setting and Ilya’s head pressed into his arm. He didn’t want to move. 

They were looking at the view down below them, the same one they had been taking in for over a week. Shane didn’t think he would ever get sick of it, especially now that he was sharing it. 

The light was orange, pink, and purple, cut only by the view of the big tree halfway down the yard towards the lake. The surface of the water gently rippled with the breeze in the air. It felt like it might rain later, or maybe not.  

He was looking at the dock, at the spot where they had sat together more than a week ago, during a sunset that had felt just like this one, and Ilya had said that he loved him. 

“This would be a good place to get married.” 

Shane thought he might have stopped breathing. He had certainly gone entirely still, which Ilya must have felt with his cheek still resting against the skin of Shane’s arm, just below his t-shirt sleeve. 

Ilya sat up enough to balance his weight on his hands, bringing himself level with Shane. 

“Could have chairs set up over there,” he continued, gesturing with one hand across the grass. “Ceremony at end of dock. Svetlana could walk down there…” 

“Svetlana?” Shane cut in, turning his head sharply to look at him. He thought he might fucking murder him, actually, if he had just made Shane’s chest feel like there was something wild and alive inside of it, only as part of an elaborate joke about citizenship. “Who is she marrying in this scenario?”  

Ilya smiled at him, the kind of smile that made clear that he was fucking with Shane, and they both knew it. 

He shifted over, nudging Shane off his hands and down onto his back, flat on the grass. Shane was reluctant to feel the grass on his neck and through the back of his shirt, but went willingly enough anyway. He relaxed more, too, when Ilya rolled over to lay half on top of him, the rest of his body pressed against Shane’s side. 

“Us.” Ilya reached up, gently cupping his face. 

“Yeah,” Shane answered, wrinkling his nose even against this gentle grip. “I spent way too many years thinking you were in love with her, it’s still too soon to do a throuple joke.” 

“No, I mean, she would be a good officiant, don’t you think? Could do the ceremony in both Russian and English.” Ilya leaned down, kissing him gently on his nose, his lips. 

Shane still couldn’t tell if he was being serious. His tone was playful and light, but the words themselves, combined with the tenderness of his motions, these soft kisses, were making Shane feel undone. 

“Does this mean I should be looking out for a proposal?” He forced his voice to shape the question into a joke, but his heart was fucking racing. 

“Give it time, Hollander,” Ilya said, still kissing his face gently. “This is all very new.” 

“No it’s not, you fucking liar.” But Shane’s voice was soft, too. He reached up to hold him at the back of his head and around his shoulders, bringing him closer. 

“Always the sweetest talk from you,” Ilya mumbled, shifting so that he was fully atop Shane, chests and stomachs pressed together. He had Shane’s face in both hands now, kissing him properly. Shane curled his fingers in Ilya’s hair, gently cupping the back of his head. 

After a long moment of this, Ilya murmured against his lips. “But I could kiss you forever, I think.”