Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant, POV Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Professional Yearner Shane Hollander, Jackie Pike is a Good Bro, and also very tired bless her, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander PR Guy, Swimmer Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Bewitches Ilya Rozanov in Every Universe, This is NOT AI, Fuck AI fuck it to death etc I feel like the typos and weirdness make it clear but we don't AI in this house, warning for cuteness, Get loved Rozanov, BE CARED FOR, Emotional Numbskullery, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, BAMF Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-14 Completed: 2026-06-26 Words: 76,725 Chapters: 12/12

Untouchable Face

Summary

Shane was twelve when hockey scouts started showing up to his games. He was barely fifteen when a check went horribly wrong, fucked his knee to hell and gave him a grade III concussion. During rehab he found swimming, and he was seventeen when he went to the Olympics as a relay-only swimmer who only swam the prelims.

He’s 24 and working for his mom’s sports PR company when he meets Ilya Fucking Rozanov.

May contain: Shane Hollander navigating what it means to be mostly normal when your whole childhood was about preparing you for greatness. Shane Hollander attempting to flirt. Possibly less than 100% accurate descriptions of what a sports PR agent does.

Notes

Update! This fic now contains embroidery art in every chapter by BritBrit99! and art in Chapters 1 and 9 by Aaliyah Sparrow because I am the luckiest possum in the compost pile.

Let's see. I said six chapters. It might be longer. Thank you in advance for mocking me about my inability to guess chapters.

Title is based off of the 1996 Ani DiFranco song “Untouchable Face” from the album “Dilate” because I have been laughing on and off for several weeks about the idea of writing a Heated Rivalry fic named after that song and also because ahhhhhh it’s so Shane. (Shameless from the album is also Shane)

This fic is set in an alternate universe in which Instagram as well as sponsored content on instagram in 2015 works a lot like it does in 2026, because I forgot that instagram didn’t have Stories in 2015 till I’d already written about Ilya having things in his Instagram stories and then I realized sponsored content wasn’t really exactly how I’d written it then either and also because I had the flu and I’m only one little pigeon, coughing and coughing while pecking across their keyboard. I’m soory (aka sorry with a Canadian accent) (I'm not Canadian).

I would like to thank the flu, for giving me several days off work so I could write the first few chapters. Also thanks to Booksandabeer for beta and to J and Dharmashark for not kicking me out of cottage. Thanks for pasta. Thanks to TenMileStilts for beta. Thanks to folks in the Heated Rivalry channel in the bookbinding server for sharing information on hockey, autism and Canada. And on making books and fonts, that too. What a helpful fucking group of people.

Everyone reading this: thank you for metaphorically touching your socked feet to mine as we lean on opposite ends of the couch.
I think this is mostly just cute, but if I forgot to tag anything I should have or there are glaring errors or offensive things, please let me know; I know what it’s like to have my day ruined by something unexpected in a fic.

Anyone reading this who is mad that it's not the Stucky fic I'm currently also working on, "I need you to know that I did really try. I tried really hard, but, um... I just can't help it. And I'm sorry."

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Helloooo WARNING: There is a picture of a person in a swimsuit in this chapter so if you are reading this fic on a projector screen at work then everyone who can also see the giant projector screen you read ao3 fics on will know you are looking at a picture of a person in a swimsuit and not an excel spreadsheet or whatever you were supposed to be looking at.

Shane was twelve when hockey scouts started showing up to his games. He was barely fifteen when a check went horribly wrong, fucked his knee to hell and gave him a grade III concussion. During rehab he found swimming, and he was seventeen when he went to the Olympics as a relay-only swimmer who only swam the prelims. He was a senior in college when he went to the Olympics again, also as a relay-only swimmer, also useless after the prelims.

He was a good Olympian because of his particular ability to lock in and focus at a moment’s notice. He was often awkward and hesitant in life, but never in sports, never when it was time to perform. He was a bad Olympian because he was less fucking fast than the rest of the team.

Which was fine. It’s unreasonable to be mad that you’re slightly less than a world-class athlete. He was lucky to be there, to support his country, and even more lucky to catch the eye of a handsome Welsh high jumper named Matt. For a few heady days, Shane had thought he was in love for the first time; they were working their way through more than their share of the allotment of 10,000 condoms provided to the London Olympic Village, and he was starting to mentally strategize how to manage a long-distance relationship between Cardiff and Quebec.

Eventually Shane and High Jumper Matt stopped fucking long enough to have a few conversations, and Shane realized that maybe he was just in love the idea of a partner that knew what to do with a prostate. He’d had to break things off with the handsome high jumper twice: the first time, apparently, he had been too gentle about it, and Matt hadn’t actually realized that Shane was ending their Olympic village romance. The second time he dumped Matt the high jumper was one of the more awkward moments in his entire life, but, ultimately, effective.

After sixteen days, Shane packed up and headed home from his second and final Olympics with no medals, but with a lot more knowledge about what he liked in bed, a vague fear of how irrational he could get when sex-drunk, the courage to come out to his mom, and a lot of complicated feelings about his relationship to his body and sports and destiny.

The flight back from London had been full of some kind of grief about greatness that might have happened but never happened, mixed with embarrassment at how fucking arrogant he was to be sad about it. It’s not like he was guaranteed to have had some awesome career in hockey if his knee hadn’t gotten busted, if that concussion hadn’t been so bad. It had been a gift for him to get a second chance with swimming, that his body had been able to translate his childhood of training on ice into skills in the water. It would have been incredibly selfish to want more than what he had gotten.

It was just weird because he had shelves of awards from a decade of playing competitive hockey, and he had shelves of awards from his years of swimming, and on the one hand, they were proof he existed and tried his best, and on the other hand, the idea of looking at them made him want to throw up.

But those thoughts were okay in the clouds. There was something about long plane rides that made him feel almost close enough to touch those wistful dreams.

He landed back home in Ottawa knowing that he was better at swimming than 99% of Canadians, and also, that that was not good enough to make a career of it. Which was always the most likely outcome.

For the rest of that summer, he digs into his internship at the sports PR firm his mom is building. He happens to answer the phone when the wife of hockey player Hayden Pike calls. Jackie, she has a name, politely informs Shane that they are about to buy a lot of baby products. She wants to know if Hayden is a good enough hockey player to get some of them for free, or maybe even get paid to promote them? Is there a way to do sponsored content without putting pictures of their forthcoming twins on the internet? She is very firm about not exploiting her kids, but, she informs Shane with a warm laugh, she has no qualms about exploiting her husband.

He likes her a lot.

He is twenty-two when he graduates from McGill with a degree in sports marketing, a new best friend who is married to a professional hockey player, an extensive knowledge of high-end baby products, and, more importantly, which high-end baby companies want to pay a young, beautiful WAG named Jackie Pike to promote them on social media. He also has a growing roster of the Montreal Metros on Hollander PR’s client list, less through any particular skill of his own, and more because Jackie likes Shane.

There are bigger, more powerful PR firms out there than his mom’s, obviously, but the thing is, not all sports players are at the top. The second-tier players can get lost at the big firms. A smaller setup like what they have at Hollander PR means the players caught in the middle can still get personalized, aggressive management.

Per his mom’s spiel, anyway. Shane tries not to have feelings about his mom’s passion for working with players who gave everything to their sport and still weren’t quite the best. It was an opening in the market.

His mom hires him on as her third full-time employee, which makes him feel a little pathetic, but he likes his mom, and he likes the work. He figures some people think he’s a nepo hire, which he is, but at the same time, his mom holds him to a high standard, if only in the way that she pays closer attention to him than anyone else.

“Your secret weapon,” his mom says thoughtfully on the night she hired him, with a glass of wine in one hand and a forgotten forkful of his dad’s pasta suspended in front of her, “is that you’re sincere. There’s too many fast talkers in this industry. People want someone they can trust. You're good at strategy, and you’ve been a top-tier athlete, both those things will make people take you seriously, and that’s important. But you’re also nice, and that’s a unique combination. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that you’re gay, it makes the WAGs more relaxed around you. And probably the players, since you’re so handsome, and they spend so much time on the road.”

“Mom, first, stop talking about me like I am not right next to you, and second, only you think I'm handsome,” Shane says with an eyeroll. “No professional hockey player is worried about the PR guy running off with his wife.”

“I'm just enumerating the ways that me hiring you has nothing to do with the fact that you're my son. Any agency would kill to have you on their team.”

“Hopefully not actually kill, though,” Shane's dad weighs in thoughtfully, only the lightest hint of sarcasm breaking through. “Who are they killing in this scenario? Me? You? Not Shane, that would seem to defeat the purpose.”

“Ask Mom, she's the one actually willing to commit murder to gain a new client,” Shane says.

“If you're good enough, you don't need to play dirty to win,” Yuna says. It's something she's said to him hundreds of times. “And of course you’re handsome.”

“Statistically speaking, with a mother as beautiful as your mother, it was inevitable that you come out above average in the looks department,” David adds helpfully.

Yuna smiles fondly at David, and then fixes Shane with a sterner look. “I’m not trying to talk about you like you’re not here. I’m trying to say that anyone can be an asshole, Shane, not as many people can pull off genuine. Don’t let people make you think that taking things seriously makes you bad at your job. It makes you better.”

“Smart too, your mother,” David says. “You’re also smart. You got that from her.”

“You think I got anything good from you, Dad?” Shane makes himself grin through the hot sparks of tears that he feels at the corners of his eyes.

“Hopefully my excellent taste in life partners.”

Yuna smiles and lays her hand on David’s arm, easy and fond and perfect.

It feels Shane with a happy kind of warmth, and then a little sadness. But it’s fine. Tons of people are single, tons of people never make a life match like his parents, and most of them are perfectly happy about it, probably. Shane has had his flings, but most of them have felt more like maintenance than love. It’s not like he doesn’t have a good life. He doesn’t need a romance to be happy.

It’s unreasonable, even kind of creepy, really, to think that his love life should play out exactly like his parents’.

…

He still gets up at 5 am every morning to swim. He has to stay strong to protect the compromised soft tissue in his knees and hips. As long as he keeps to his daily swimming and yoga regimen and avoids any activity that requires quick pivots or sudden impact, he rarely has days where his knee flares up bad enough that he needs to take pain medicine.

One could argue that he doesn’t have to get up at 5 am to benefit from swimming, but he lives next door to a 24-hour gym with a pool, so there’s no particular reason not to. He likes the quiet slice through the water this early; he likes imagining that he’s pulling his whole day behind him, down the lanes of the pool, that all of the potential chaos streamlines in his wake till it's like a long ribbon, cool and clean, more refined with each lap.

It’s soothing.

…

For a long time he was afraid to watch hockey, even clips on his phone, because he doesn’t want to ever feel like he did right after his injury again. And also, he was busy with swimming and school. But it was getting increasingly hard to avoid with his career, and actually, it’s fine. Last year was the first year he was brave enough to attend a game in person, and that was also fine.

He can find a fresh love of the game as a spectator. It's good to come back into the rink with such a wholesome motivation: support his best friends. Get quality time with Jackie; cheer on Hayden.

And it's good for his job, his mom would remind him, which requires maintaining proximity to the sports world so he can best support his clients. He needs to establish connections to his clients so they recommend him to other professional players.

Which is why, when Jackie texted him that her parents were in town to watch the twins and Arthur, he agreed to be, in her words, her platonic date.

…

“Shane! Can I get you a drink?” someone’s girlfriend asks him about a second after he finds Jackie’s group. Shane digs deep for a name but comes up blank. He's pretty sure it’s the Metro’s new left winger’s partner, but he hasn’t gotten through memorizing this year’s roster yet.

And not to be a dick about it, but a fourth liner who gets traded every year isn't likely to become a client of his firm; they don't yet have the staff to bother to manage someone with that low level of potential.

It occurs to him that the girlfriend has learned his name and is being nice so he might change his mind on that. She's welcome to send him a proposal, of course. He'll give his honest feedback whether or not she buys him a drink.

“No, thank you. I have an early morning,” he says politely, and takes his seat by Jackie.

Jackie grabs his arm and links it through hers, squeezing in for warmth as well as to have something discreet to clutch whenever Hayden is in a tight spot on the ice.

He leans his shoulder fondly into hers as she teases, “You know you don’t actually have to have an early morning if you don’t want to? Like, there aren’t going to be any children climbing on your head and asking you to play trains with them at 5 am. So you could just lay there. In a bed. Alone. With your eyes closed. While not holding a baby.”

“The great thing about being single is I can play trains whenever I want, Jackie,” Shane explains. “In fact, I brought some trains with me to the game. You pretend to be Thomas and I’ll pretend to be Per—”

Jackie silences him with a hand over his mouth. “It’s not funny. I hate Thomas the Train so much right now. Don’t even joke about it.”

“It won't happen again,” Shane says solemnly.

“For at least ten minutes,” Jackie says, and nudges him with her elbow. “Stop teasing me and focus on warmups. Hot guys are stretching.”

Shane nods and sits up extra-straight like an obedient child. “I'm so focused.” He spends a minute watching the random constellation of players warming up on the ice, but the meaningless formations they make get him thinking of other things. “I’m actually interested to see the dynamics on Boston's roster this season. I’ve seen them play on TV, but never in person. Do they seem really Russian this year to you?”

“I mean, their lead center is Russian, and there's a couple Russian guys on the team, but there's a lot of teams with as many Russian players throughout the league,” Jackie answers slowly, looking mildly confused.

Shane laughs. “No, like classic old-school Russian strategy—all about puck possession, short passes. The new rookie on the left wing and their defense layout, the way they're coordinating the line this season, it feels very 1980s Red Army.”

“Oh, God,” Jackie groans. “I didn't realize there was going to be a hockey test. Look, we're still in the cute boys stretching phase, I use this time to code-switch into hockey-land after spending all day in baby-land.”

“Sorry. We can talk about babies. Or sit quietly and watch the groin stretches and think about the importance of adductor flexibility.”

“Shane. That's not what anyone else is thinking about when they watch groin stretches,” Jackie sighs. “I didn't put together that the Boston strategy is some kind of old-school Russian thing, because I am a normal person who has not spent time studying 1980s hockey, but I did notice they pass too much. Whenever a team comes out with some kind of gimmick, Hayden always says that dump and chase is low-risk. And he's right. Why try and get fancy with a strategy that's just going to leave you more vulnerable to turnovers?”

“That's because Montreal doesn't have the depth to pull it off,” Shane frowns.

Jackie gasps in mock shock. “Don't tell me you're implying that Boston has more depth than our boys.”

“Boston is the only team with a player like Rozanov,” Shane shrugs.

Jackie makes a sour face. “Don't say the R-word. We hate him, remember? Maybe the Jumbotron will fall on his head.”

A few of the WAGs nearby laugh. Shane wrinkles his nose a little at the realization that they're listening in on his and Jackie's conversation.

The woman who might be the new left winger's girlfriend leans closer and asks him, “How do you know so much about hockey? I thought Tanner said you were an Olympic swimmer?”

There are a lot of ways to answer that question, but the most common one, the one he's in the mood for tonight, is a cheerful, well-practiced, “I'm Canadian.”

Shane doesn’t like to lie, but that is not a lie.

“Maple syrup, Tim Hortons, extensive knowledge of hockey throughout history, it's all right there on the birth certificate, Ashleigh,” Jackie affirms.

Ashleigh laughs. Jackie squeezes his hand. Shane tries to commit Tanner, new left winger; partner, Ashleigh to memory.

Someone points out that if the Jumbotron fell, it would likely take out way more players than just Rozanov. Shane feels some tension ease. He didn't want to be the one pedantic enough to point out that the main screen is at least 12 meters wide and if it fell it would cause massive damage to more than just Rozanov.

Jackie did not mean it literally, so accuracy wasn't important.

But it's nice to have the correct fact said aloud.

Jackie laughs and says, “But it would take something the size of the Jumbotron to make a dent in Rozanov’s massive, inflated ego,” and gets more laughs from the women around them.

Shane would like to tell Jackie that Jumbotron is a brand name, and it is not the company that made the scoreboard, so it's inaccurate to call the scoreboard a Jumbotron at all. But that's not polite.

It only takes a breath and that thought eases up.

Someone asks Jackie how the twins are adjusting to baby Arthur, which is old news, Arthur is four months old. Though, Shane supposes, one is always adjusting, really. Jackie launches into a story about Ruby's recent discovery of parkour videos on YouTube and also, how to tell if a two-year-old’s nose is actually broken or just badly bruised and swollen.

It's funny, but Shane had gotten the series of texts of photos of Ruby’s nose pre- and post-parkour live as it was all happening.

He relaxes and watches the groin stretches. He almost doesn’t want to, but his old therapist would probably say it was good for him to think about his body and what he’s feeling right now. He is pretty sure he is being honest with himself when he decides he is really, truly glad that he's not out on the ice now. Yeah, he was famous for being able to tune out everything and lock into his play, but at what cost? He would have had to cut off parts of himself to be able to keep that up.

He was mad at hockey for taking so much away from him when he was a teenager, but he was mad at just about everything back then. As he watches the fireworks and cheers along with the packed house as the Metros skate onto the ice at the top of the game, warmth blossoms in his chest, and something like peace. Hockey has brought him new good things.

…

Shane feels triumphant in how right he was about Boston deploying a Russian-style defense. Hayden and Jackie are correct that the structured passing is vulnerable to turnovers, but whenever it looks like Montreal is going to regain puck possession there's another little pass, and another, and another. Montreal is always a step behind the puck; they’re targeting the wrong players. Shane can see it: maybe it’s the angle he has from the audience, but it’s so clear to him how the Boston players are planning this, he doesn’t understand how the Metros haven’t figured it out.

It's painful to watch, but it's also beautiful. It speaks to a great synergy on the ice. Shane can feel the play unfurling perfectly before it happens: Hayden reaches to snatch the puck from Boston’s rookie, and the rookie shoots it to Rozanov, who makes a perfect snipe straight to the back of the net.

Shane jumps in excitement to see the choreography play out so elegantly before remembering that he's supposed to be pissed about Boston scoring.

It's easy to mask the excitement for frustration, and he puts in an effort to boo and hiss as is his duty, but he's already leaning forward to see what Rozanov does next.

….

He's so intrigued he forgets he wasn't going to drink. Someone’s girlfriend shows up with a tray loaded with cups of hot chocolate and offers one to Shane with a smile. Shane takes one, and when Jackie offers to spike the drink with something from a flask, he lets her.

He has one more spiked hot chocolate; Rozanov scores a goal after a beautiful deke around JJ. Shane sees the flash of white teeth as Rozanov laughs and mockingly salutes JJ for falling for his trick move. It’s incredibly charming.

“What a fucking dick!” Jackie shouts.

Okay, maybe it was also kind of dickish. But, Shane thinks, and he’s analyzing with the strategy his mom has taught him about marketing, Rozanov had used the perfect balance of cocky and boyish. If JJ had started a fight after that chirpy little salute, JJ would have looked like the bad guy.

Shane is getting warmer, probably from the booze and warm drinks, so he slips off his coat.

It’s probably also the booze that’s making it hard to focus on anyone but player 81. Rozanov is so fast, and he's so accurate. It's so much more impressive live and up close; there's a vitality to his play, to how he reads his team, that just doesn't come through on a screen.

Shane keeps swiping a hand across his cheekbones because his face feels way too warm. He's sure he's blushing. Jackie seems too focused on the game to notice.

…

The game is a loss for Montreal, and the mood around Shane is sour, so he feels bad about how pleasing it is to watch Rozanov do a victory lap, to have a moment to enjoy the elegant lines he cuts into the ice, the controlled power. The nice thing about being at the game in person is he can look at whatever he wants. The cameras never zoom in on a player's edges like you might want, or the easy graceful angle of Rozanov’s shoulders when he makes a flash decision to assist on a goal when he could have taken it for himself and gotten a hat trick. Sometimes the most exciting things a player can do are the things they opt not to do, which maybe doesn’t make for good television, but doesn’t mean it’s not fascinating as fuck to watch and think about.

Jackie is frustrated, and Hayden is going to be forever getting out of the locker room, so Shane offers to grab a beer with Jackie at the bar where Hayden will meet them later. He'd rather go home, but Jackie doesn't want to waste a night where her parents are in town to babysit, and she’s had enough to drink that Shane will feel better if he keeps her company till Hayden and some of the other players turn up.

Jackie goes on a slightly slurred tirade about how horrible Rozanov is, and Shane is listening avidly, trying to piece together the scraps of actual information threaded through her sarcasm and disdain. He can't believe how little attention he paid to the hockey star until tonight.

“His house is horrible, they did a show on it, and it's so tacky. And empty. Like he lives in a, like,” Jackie waves a hand, “a hotel decorated by a Euro-trash teenager.”

“He literally was a European teenager up until a few years ago,” Shane points out.

“Oh, fuck off. You know what I mean. And he shows up in a different sexy-model-influencer’s Insta story every other night.”

“Sounds like sex-shaming, Jacks,” Shane says, mainly to annoy Jackie. He keeps his lips tight so he doesn’t break into a smile.

“I would never, Shane Hollanderrr,” Jackie drawls out his name and slaps him lightly on the arm. “Just because I like monogamy doesn’t mean sexy models shouldn’t be fucking like fucking rabbits, every day. Absolutely every day! But that’s not what I was trying to say.” She pauses and collects herself. “My point is, when does Rozanov sleep? How does he find the time to fuck the sexy models?”

“How do you know when Rozanov shows up in a random person's stories? Do you have a tracker?”

“Ew!” Jackie slaps him on the arm again, and Shane can’t keep the smile from spreading now. He is always impressed with Jackie as a person, but his favorite Jackie is when she’s both drunk and extremely righteous about her opinions. “How dare you! The algorithm, Shane, and the gossip. Osmosis. Come on. There's not that many players and there’s only one fucking Rozanov.”

“Thank god for that,” Drapeau's girlfriend Marie cuts in. “Last thing we need is two fuckers who play like that on the ice.”

“Exactly!” Jackie says, too loud.

Marie adds, “Everyone knows Rozanov's got a puck bunny in every city. Whether they want to know or not.”

“Is he, like, a creep about it?” Shane asks. He feels deeply unsettled by the idea that someone who skates so beautifully would treat women poorly.

“Definitely a creep,” Ashleigh says, and Shane doesn’t know when all these other people started listening to him and Jackie. “I mean, I haven’t actually met him.”

“Well,” Jackie considers, and he sees her eyes are glazing over a little. Shane subtly moves away her cocktail and places a glass of water next to her hand. “Okay. Look. I can't think of any drama from his puck bunny parade and I am pretty sure I would remember if I had heard stories.”

“For the record, I hate him,” Marie says. “But I do not think he is one of those grabby guys the WAGs have to warn you about.”

Jackie licks her lips and considers. “No, I’ve never heard him mentioned in any of the group texts about that.”

“That's a thing?” Shane says, horrified. The women around him all laugh.

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Jackie messily pats his cheek. “I am sorry to be the one to break the news, but sometimes men can be real dicks.”

“Obviously, but the women have like, an information network about it?”

Jackie hmms. “Not exactly, but it’s not not true. It's weird you never hear anything bad about Rozanov.” Jackie trails off. She seems to have lost her train of thought.

“You should drink some water,” Shane encourages her, then says, “So as far as you know, Rozanov is not an evil dick.”

“Not an evil dick with women.” Jackie frowns, and then leans back and taps a nearby woman on the elbow, “Ingrid, your guy played with Rozanov, yeah? How much does he suck as a person?”

Ingrid laughs. “Roz? He’s a bastard on the ice, but he sent flowers to the service when Crosby had to miss a game for his grandma’s funeral, so I have to like him. And it wasn’t just his agent, because he wrote the note by hand.”

“I didn't know he could write,” grouses Ashleigh.

“Anyone who can play at his level is intelligent,” Shane frowns. He has no doubt that the man can write not only in two languages, but in two languages that have entirely different alphabets.

“Shane, stop being reasonable! We hate him, remember?” Jackie lists a few other things to hate about Rozanov: “He called Hayden a pigeon and keeps cooing at him, he has a million stupid sports cars, and his sponsorships suck.”

“Sponsorships?” Shane says, sitting up straight with interest. “How so?”

“He does maybe one spon con post a year and it's just him, like standing in the middle of a hotel room, holding a burger and looking annoyed.”

“I thought it was cute!” Ingrid chimes in.

Shane's fingers itch to pull out his phone and search for evidence of whatever they are talking about, but he doesn't like to use his phone in social situations.

He doesn't get a chance to ask more, because a group of players roll in, Hayden among them.

Shane smiles and handshakes and half-hugs his greetings. He has another beer, and then he somehow gets talked into taking shots, which is fun for a minute, and Hayden can't stop laughing about how wasted Shane is, but in this nice, warm way that makes Shane wonder how he survived before he had a friend who could laugh at him like that. Like Hayden is so genuinely delighted that Shane is Shane Hollander.

Hayden had a hard game, but he's happy now, with an arm around Jackie and bragging about how smart his twin girls are, asking Shane to ask his mom about something to do with the bushes in his yard, because they need some kind of fertilizer and apparently Yuna told him what to buy, but he forgot the brand she recommended.

He pulls out his phone to make a reminder about the fertilizer thing, and suddenly the floor gets really wavy under his feet. He looks at his hand and his phone and then the floor for a minute, trying to figure out what caused the room to destabilize, but then he realizes it was probably the alcohol.

“I should go home,” Shane says to Hayden, but Hayden doesn't respond, because he and Jackie are kissing passionately against the bar next to him, which is not surprising.

He squints at them for a minute while he tests one foot and then the other. He flexes his leg muscles. He is pretty sure he can walk without jarring his knee, but he'll need to focus.

He texts the Pikes that he's leaving, because he doesn't want to interrupt but he knows they'll worry at some point and he'll get a couple dozen texts before they remember that they have the ability to track his location and can see for themselves that he's at home safe.

He piles into a ride share with someone going the same direction as him. He feels floaty and happy, leaning against the window and letting Montreal blur past him. He spills out of the car and oozes his way up to his apartment.

He flops into his bed, and the ceiling moves a little more than normal, but when it’s all steady, he pulls up his phone and searches for “Ilya Rozanov instagram.”

For professional reasons.

…

He wakes up with his alarm at 5 am and remembers why he doesn't usually drink. He pushes through the queasy waves to drink two glasses of water and resets his alarm for 7 am.

The second time he opens his eyes, he decides he is strong enough to move his body through the routine of brushing teeth, gym bag, elevator, outside, inside, locker room, swim cap, goggles, and finally sliding into the water.

The water holds him, and his limbs know what to do. He swims through the feeling like he's gonna throw up until he doesn't feel it anymore.

…

He is too tired to look at his phone till he's back in his apartment with coffee in one hand and a smoothie in the other. Not for the first time, he wishes there was a tolerable way to combine the two. It would be so much more efficient.

He swipes his phone open because Jackie has texted a rainbow of hearts to the thread they share with Hayden; her version of confirming they also made it home safe. There's also a somewhat shocking fifteen Instagram notifications, which probably means Jackie has sent him a bunch of reels.

He's in the mood to watch uplifting animal videos, so he opens Instagram to see what she’s sent.

The messages are not from Jackie. They are from Ilya Rozanov’s officially verified account.

And that makes no sense. But.

What if it does make sense?

Shane feels a wave of vertigo and a flash memory of scrolling through Rozanov's social media accounts and typing up some notes that were just going to be for himself.

Oh damn everything.

He scrolls up through a wall of messages from Rozanov to get to the blue boxes on the right that means he sent them.

@ShaneHollanderSwims: your conversion rates must be terrible

the product fit isn't good who is leading your sponcon what

Why are half your videos so warm and handsome then you are like an angry block fo wood on the other half of you hate the product tont do a video

Someone needs to think about perspective when framing these shots. your hands are huge which is an asset but those burgers look tiny and pathetic when you hold them. Yes you look hot but The product looks like shit. why is no one taking this into consideration.

Your leaving so much money on the table this is causing me pain no one who can play hockey like that with hands like that and looks like micahanfelos David should be in that crappy burger sponcon

i this is such a waste

Whoever the fuck is running your PR owes uou millions of dollars

–

@Rozanov81: why is a drunken swimmer yelling at me at 1 am

You are from Montreal. You are mad that I destroy Metros? Is very sad, yes, that you do not have Boston as your team.

But why are you trying to make me money?

I do not track what my conversion rates are, but thank you for your concern.

Ahh you work for PR firm.

Your boss maybe would not approve of your recruitment strategy.

You tell me my ads are bad, so I feel that I can offer you feedback in return.

1. Telling me I am handsome is nice

2. Telling me I am hot is maybe sexual harassment

3. Offering me millions of dollars is good strategy

4. Insulting my conversion rates is not kind. My feelings are dust, shattered.

Congratulations on graduating college and Olympics.

Are you still swimming? Why do swim pictures end?

I have suspicion that your Speedo ads have very good conversion rates

I need to see picture of you holding burger we see who does it better

Well. Fuck.

Clearly he looked through Shane's Instagram profile, which is. Not at all what was supposed to happen. Shane clicks over to his Instagram to see what Rozanov would have seen, not that he doesn't know. He doesn’t update much, so you only have to scroll through maybe a dozen pictures of random charity events his mom’s firm helped with to get to the many, many photos of his competitive swimming years. Those are a lot of pictures of him in the pool, mostly taken by professional photographers, mostly at meets. A couple of him graduating from college; shots from the Olympics opening ceremony.

Art of Shane's Instagram Feed by Aaliyah Sparrow (find on Tumblr)  (Or on Twitter)

Lots of pictures of him in Speedo brand gear, because they had been his main sponsor. On the one hand, a Speedo brand tech suit is a very reasonable thing for a swimmer to swim in, and on the other. Well. That's a lot of wet Shane Hollander on display.

Shane is used to people seeing his body. That's just being a swimmer. If you can't get over the fact that your body has skin and people are going to see it, you're not going to get far in competitive swimming.

But something about Rozanov having looked at dozens of pictures of him at the peak of his athletic accomplishments and nearly nude has him biting his lip and shading his eyes like it's all too bright to think about.

Shane: I'm so sorry to bother you. Please ignore all that. Sorry again.

So, that's the end of it. Hopefully. Shane feels a wave of clenching, stomach-churning nausea that his text won't be the end of it and his drunken rudeness will somehow get out and reflect poorly on his mom and her company.

Rozanov will most likely delete his messages and never talk to him again. The idea of that gives him a dry, sad headache. Or maybe that's the hangover.

His phone makes a soothing chime, which stresses him out so much he wants to throw it across the room.

Rozanov81: I did not ignore all that. I responded. I would never let slight to my conversion rates go unchecked. I have reputation.

Shane takes a long deep breath. And then another deep breath. None of them are enough. Did he forget how to breathe? Another message comes in.

Rozanov81: You are correct I hated the burger ad. It was boring one off. I do not care about burger pictures.

Shane manages to get enough air in to hold for seven seconds and blow out for eight. He can fix this.

Shane: Of course not. It was a silly thing for me to mention, and everyone involved did fine work. Again, I'm so sorry to bother you.

Rozanov81: No, Shane Hollander Swims. that is not what you think. You do not think it is silly to bother people about bad burger ads. This is your life calling. Your passion

Shane: The fit was just off. It happens between the best of collaborations. It's not a negative reflection on either party.

Rozanov81: fit like clothes?

Shane: No, sorry. Fit like a good match. Shared values, tone, utility. To get a match with the sponsor, the influencer, and the audience is complicated. Lots of dynamics at play.

Rozanov81: many words to say you hate burger photos

Rozanov81: 😢 I thought swimmers were nice

Shane: well I played hockey as a kid

Rozanov81: so you blame hockey for your cruelty to me.

Shane: You said above that you also hated the burger ad.

Rozanov81: cyber bullying. I have read about this. You blame me, the victim of attacks on my life's greatest work. Michelangelo has beautiful, handsome David statue, and I have burger photos.

Shane fact-checks his response on Wikipedia, just in case he has Michaelangelo confused with some other ancient guy, and presses send.

Shane: Michaelangelo was also persecuted and misunderstood in his time. Many great artists are.

Rozanov81: Yes true. micahanfelo and I are same. Thank you for noticing

Shane barks a laugh at Rozanov’s reusing Shane's drunken typo, shakes his head and replies back with a grin he's glad no one can see.

Shane: Don't you have better things to do?

Rozanov81: I am at your city's boring airport and my flight is delayed. Probably to punish Boston for winning last night

Shane: Yeah, that's on me. I pulled some strings. but not because of the hockey game

Rozanov81: no? Because of my burger masterpiece?

Shane: Fine. I admit it. I hated that burger ad so much I shut down an international airport.

Rozanov81: the pretty swimmer is harsh but fair

Shane gasps, and something in his gut twists with interest.

Plenty of hockey players called him pretty when he was a kid to mock him, to emasculate him, either because he's half-Asian or because they didn't like that he was quiet or some other reason.

But that isn't what this feels like.

It does feel like the conversation is winding down. Shane needs to make a polite comment that will help close off the interaction.

Art by Britbrit99

Shane: Sorry again for bothering you. You’re an awesome player to watch. Good luck.

Rozanov81: what did you like

Shane: The defense felt very 80s Russian. That was fun and nostalgic to watch.

Rozanov81: you liked watching Montreal always one step behind?

Shane: That was painful. At some point teams are going to adapt and they'll be able to predict your play better and you’ll have to shift your play

Rozanov81: some point was not last night

Shane: People are so used to dump and chase they don't see it. All those passes make you so vulnerable to turnovers. Most teams couldn't get away with it. So it makes sense their instincts aren't pulling the pattern together into the strategy that it is, because it's so counterintuitive to how they would approach the problem.

Rozanov81: The pretty swimmer likes hockey

Shane: I like a lot of things

Shane’s eyes widen at Rozanov calling him pretty a second time.

It occurs to him that most of the recent charity photos in his Instagram grid are promoting programs to encourage diversity in sports, including queer players, and at least one of them was for a Pride month event. He doesn't mention he's gay in his bio or anything, because he doesn't think it's all that interesting, but he doesn't hide it. There is a Speedo ad for Pride month his mom was so excited about right after he first came out. He mostly did that to support her, but it was fun meeting the other queer swimmers they pulled together for it. He also liked the rainbow-lensed goggles they gave him. They fit well and look cool.

It's older, but it's the most recent ad on his feed, so if Rozanov was poking around in there, if he got far enough back to see the Olympics pictures, then he probably knows Shane is some kind of queer.

And he's called Shane pretty. Twice now.

Which possibly means…

Shane opens his text thread with Jackie and Hayden.

Shane: is Ilya Rozanov queer?

Hayden: queer as in unusual?

Shane: queer as in hits on men and/or has sex with men

Hayden: what the fuck Shane

Hayden: I mean he hasn't tried to sleep with me.

Shane: but like are there rumors

Hayden: and again I ask: what the fuck Shane

Shane: just wondering

Hayden: if there are rumors, no one is telling me any of the rumors. If he is they probably keep that quiet on the Boston team, that would be huge fucking news.

Hayden: do you have a crush on Ilya Rozanov? Don't. There are so many hot players that play for Montreal. Hey JJs physical therapist is gay. He was offering to set you two up

Shane: each of you knows one gay guy so obviously they should get married.

Hayden: I just woke up. What the fuck man

Shane: sorry we can talk later.

Hayden: can't wait for Jackie to wake up and see this. She's going to yell at you and then put out a billboard to find you nice Montreal boys to date

Shane wants to type, “I don't have a crush on Rozanov,” but he also doesn't want to lie.

He swipes back to the thread with Ilya, who has responded.

Rozanov81: what do you like?

Shane feels his cheeks heat up. What has he gotten himself into?

Shane: I like swimming

Rozanov81: oh really?

Shane wipes his hand over his face. He is not capable of flirting with Ilya fucking Rozanov right now. Or, realistically, ever.

Shane: I don't usually get drunk and yell at people about their conversion rates.

Rozanov81: so I am special?

Shane: sure. the most special

Rozanov81: your powers over the Montreal airport have erased. My plane boards

Shane: maybe I was feeling benevolent. Maybe I decided to let you go

Rozanov81: send me email package about your advice. How you will make me millions. I give you agent's email, she will forward

Shane: you don't have to do that

Rozanov81: I know this. Goodbye Shane Hollander Swims. I fly to Columbus. You can watch my game tomorrow night. I will score one goal for you.

Shane: who will the other two be for?

Rozanov81: 😘

Shane stares at his phone in awe.

Is he being catfished? Who can he ask? No one. Ever. He'd be outing Ilya Rozanov. Right? Probably? Nothing is irrefutable there, of course. But it's flirty. Maybe that’s how Rozanov talks to everyone.

His phone pings and he sees Rozanov has sent him an email address.

Shane realizes he is focused on the wrong fucking thing. Who fucking cares if some guy was flirting with him—he just got a chance to pitch the biggest name in hockey on behalf of his mom's PR firm.

Okay, he still cares about whether a phenomenonally hot and charismatic man who clearly has a clever, sexy sense of humor was hitting on him.

A person can care about two things at once.

He pulls up his mom's contact and swipes. She answers on the second ring.

“How was the game last night?”

“Good. Hayden needs the name of the fertilizer you recommended for his bushes? Or something?”

“Espoma soil acidifier for his hydrangea. I'll text him a link. Did you see JJ after the game? He did a good job not rising to Rozanov’s chirps. I was on the edge of my seat for a minute, it would not have been good timing for our negotiations with Clarion, that Haitian rum company. They want him for a Christmastime, family-togetherness thing focusing on eggnog and Crémas.”

Shane can not talk about the aesthetics of eggnog right now. “Look, Mom, speaking of Rozanov, I have a weird thing. It might not be a thing, but just in case it is, I think we should take it seriously.”

“Okay?”

He has no idea where to start in explaining to his mother that he got trashed and yelled at Rozanov on Instagram and somehow Shane now has permission to email the man's agent, possibly mainly because he likes how Shane looks in a Speedo.

Fuck, that's fucked up.

He should have waited. Made a plan. It all sounds so fake, and also, gives his mother information about him he doesn't really want her to have. No way forward but through.

He takes a deep breath.

“Shane?”

“Have you ever seen his social media ads?”

“Oh God. What an embarrassment. He did a burger ad recently that actually hurt my eyes to look at.”

“The one in the hotel room?” Shane prods.

“Yes,” the disgust is clear in her voice. “The burger looked so tiny in his trash-can-lid hands. Whoever didn't catch that should lose their job.”

“Okay, so if you had an opportunity to send a proposal to Rozanov's team offering our services, would you?”

“Shane. Are you serious?”

“It might be nothing, but I have his agent's email address and I think they are open to a proposal. Probably a long shot, but in case it's not, I thought we could pull something together outlining the approach we’d take, brands we think we could get him, how we could lean into his natural interests a bit more. Even if we don't get a response, it's good legwork for attracting another player of his caliber.”

Please don't ask questions about how I got his agent’s email, please don't ask questions about how I got his agent’s email, he chants to himself.

“Shane. I already have a document started, I'm emailing you the link so you can see what I'm sketching out. What do you think about Rolex? I have a contact there and I have been waiting for the right player to pitch to them so they take us seriously.”

“Great. That's great.” He can hear her fingers tapping across the keyboard and sighs with relief. He's so glad his mom isn't asking any more questions.

“Wait, how did you get an in with Ilya Rozanov’s agent?”

Shane closes his eyes. There’s no universe in which she doesn’t ask that question, is there. “I don't know if it's an in, exactly, but, uh, I was drinking after the game and complaining about how bad his sponsorships are, and someone affiliated with his team heard and asked me if I could do better.”

“We definitely fucking can.”

Chapter End Notes

Hi! Do I sound totally calm? just assume I am TOTALLY CALM. I am not totally calm though, because Aaliyah Sparrow made me that art of Shane Hollander in his 2012 Olympics swimsuit and now I am actually a ghost of my former self. Find it on Tumblr or on Twitter
and yell at her about how brilliant she is. Also, there is more of her sexy art (of Ilya) in chapter nine!!! (I am not totally calm about this)

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Ilya scores two goals and wins his game in Columbus the next night.

Ilya's comment about scoring one for Shane was a random throwaway that does not need a response. Shane knows this. Shane repeats this to himself. Shane considers tattooing this onto his arm so he can read it repeatedly until it sinks in.

Shane sends a response.

Shane: Thanks for scoring a goal for me in Columbus. If I get to choose which is mine, I'll take the backhand you got in while you were short-handed and not the softie on the five-hole in the 3rd.

He doesn’t get a reply. Most likely because Ilya is a professional hockey player who just played a professional hockey game, he’s probably talking to the media and drinking champagne, etc.

In contrast to Shane, who is alone, pacing his apartment on a Monday evening, and staring at his phone in alarm because his hands disobeyed his brain and sent an Instagram message he explicitly and repeatedly told his hands they were not allowed to send.

Maybe Ilya doesn’t respond because Shane’s note was too sarcastic. Or maybe it was too needy. He isn't sure if you can be both distant and trying too hard, but if anyone could fuck up that bad, it would be him.

A few hours later, Ilya posts a photo to Instagram. It’s a selfie of himself and Marleau, a fellow Boston player, surrounded by beautiful women at a club.

Which is a fine and appropriate thing for a professional hockey player to do.

Shane brushes his teeth. He flips through a few books. Maybe he should join a book club? If he was in a book club, he probably would not have sent that stupid text to Ilya. He searches “how do you join a book club Montreal” but the answers are all useless. He'll ask Jackie.

He realizes he’s been calling Rozanov “Ilya” in his head and wonders if that is overstepping or inappropriate.

He doesn’t know how to know that.

He checks his Instagram again. Ilya hasn't posted any new stories in the half hour since his last one.

…

Shane wakes up. He checks his Instagram. He swims, and on each return lap he can feel himself getting closer to his phone, calling to his soul like a siren from where it sits in the locker room. He can picture it: a compact black rectangle, innocent, harmless, on top of his neatly folded clothes. He should have brought his phone to the edge of the pool so he could check it between laps.

No, he thinks in a panic, he should not have brought his phone to the pool. He blows out a breath so hard he has to interrupt his stroke, and then lower his feet to stand for a minute and reset. He has enough discipline to swim for an hour without checking his phone!

He used to, anyway.

He shakes his head, like the Rozanov thoughts might fling off with the water droplets that cling to his goggles and swim cap.

Fuck.

He dives forward and starts swimming again.

He finishes his laps. He showers, dries his hair, gets fully dressed, and leaves the locker room before checking Instagram again.

Ilya has posted a fan clip of himself, shirtless, winking to the camera.

Shane watches it loop through a couple dozen times before his stomach growls.

Right. Breakfast.

Halfway through his breakfast smoothie and cup of coffee (still not combined for maximum efficiency) he feels a cold icy dread at the thought that Ilya could somehow see how many times Shane has checked their little conversation thread for a response, or to re-read Ilya's initial flurry of texts, or, god forbid, how many times he has now watched the shirtless wink video.

He looks it up, and it doesn't seem like it is possible to know how many times a person has viewed your Instagram content; only whether it's been viewed. And of course, why would Ilya bother?

What the actual fuck is happening in his brain?

…

On Tuesday, Shane realizes he has checked Instagram more times in the last 48 hours than he has in the years since he was forced to download the app and create an account.

He has also spent a lot of time obsessing over his own account, to better analyze what Ilya might have seen there. Should he post something new? If he did, Ilya might see it. Which is insane. That is an insane thing. And weird. It's really weird. What on earth would he post anyway? A picture of his breakfast smoothie?

Shane knows he's being weird. The thing about how weird he’s always been is that it's not like he doesn't know he's weird. It's incredibly annoying to know your brain is misbehaving and still be unable to do anything about it.

He does have a job that he is contractually obligated to do, so he gathers up the willpower that got him through the darkest days of knee rehab and forces himself to read some fucking emails.

He circles back on a bunch of projects that are in that nudge-along phase. Reads through a bunch of proposals. Researches innovations in swim cap technology to fact check a dubious-sounding claim. He sums up his opinion, which is that there is no fucking way that swim cap reduces front drag by 14%, but also anyone dumb enough to think it does is only going to be out $25 so what the fuck ever. He passes the memo, swear words omitted, on to a swimmer client to let them make the call if they want to endorse the product or not.

His mom finally sends the updated proposal for Ilya Rozanov for him to approve, and his heart starts racing, which is incredibly fucking embarrassing, but at least he’s the only one that has to know about it.

The Rolex proposal is prominent, as well as a high-end Russian vodka. There's some research into audiences that are more receptive to Ilya as ambassador (his mother thinks Ilya has a higher potential to resonate with fashion/lifestyle consumers compared to most athletes) and some sketched-out ideas for types of products they might recommend, with an invitation to be in touch to tailor all of it to Ilya's own expertise and busy schedule.

It's condensed to two tidy pages and, per Shane's idea, translated into Russian for Ilya's convenience. Shane speaks French fluently, he's been reading the language since he was a kid, but he still prefers English for complex documents. He assumes Ilya might feel similarly.

Shane approves the English version, assumes their translation company has done a passable job on the Russian version, and his mom sends it all over to Ilya's agent.

He really, really wants to check Instagram again, but instead he opens up a chat thread with some Montreal-based swimmers. He forces himself to express interest in a trivia night that Alyssa, a fellow former swimmer from McGill, is recruiting people to go to. He is not at all interested in the trivia night, but it seems like the kind of healthy, well-balanced thing that normal, socially adept people in their mid-twenties do.

Maybe he'll meet a nice young man and they will have sex and then date and then fall in love and get married.

Shane wrinkles his nose. That sounds incredibly exhausting.

He's researching trivia nights and the common kinds of questions he might expect when his phone makes its soothing little chime. His resting heart rate skyrockets from its sedate 45 beats per minute to something that would make a cardiologist cover their face in horror.

Maybe there's medication for this?

He runs his hand over his chest and swipes into Instagram.

Rozanov81: my agent sends me email from Yuna Hollander.

Shane: Great. Let me know what you think. Or you can correspond through your agent, obviously.

Rozanov81: Is your wife?

Shane: what?

Rozanov81: question is clear. What do you not understand

Shane: Is your agent my wife?

Rozanov81: No. Who would think this? Yuna Hollander. who sends email. Is she your wife?

Shane: Oh God no. Yuna Hollander is my mom

Rozanov81: your mother sends your emails for you

Shane: My mother is the owner of the company I work for and the owner of my company is the one that sends emails to clients that are way above my fucking paygrade

Rozanov81: I am above your fucking paygrade?

Shane is not going to respond to that. But the answer is definitely yes.

Shane: I'm not married.

He wants to add, “and I don't marry women,” but that feels excessive. Why would he need to clarify that? Also the tense makes no sense, it makes it sound like he is marrying men on a regular basis. But saying, “I would never marry a woman,” sounds unnecessarily dismissive towards women. And he might marry a woman, actually, for example, for immigration purposes.

Anyway. Ilya doesn’t need to know any of that.

Rozanov81: This is good vodka

Rozaov81: that Mama Hollander recommends. In proposal.

Shane: The vodka was my idea, actually. We can reach out to any different brands you would like, but I chose that one because they have been doing some work to expand in France, and so it makes sense that we could get them to think about a North American market with you as a core, long-term brand ambassador.

Rozanov81: you come to club with me, get paid to drink good Russian vodka

Shane: no one is paying me to drink anything

Rozanov81: because you stopped swimming. Why

Shane: I still swim every day, but I was ready to retire from competition.

Rozanov81: boring answer

Rozanov81: but, happy ending. now you have more time to think about selling Russian vodka

Shane: As far as I can recall, this week was the first time I have ever thought about Russian vodka

Rozanov81: 😱

Rozanov81: 🤯

Rozanov81: 😵‍💫

Rozanov81: none of these faces are correct. I need more powerful faces. You must learn Russian so I can explain to you how terrible this is

Shane: that is as good a reason to learn a language as any I suppose. Ordering my Rosetta Stone CDs language course now. Record your rant. I will be able to understand it in 3-5 years and will get back to you at that time.

Rozanov81: Shane Hollander Swims is funny

Shane: I'm really not. Sorry if I am giving off that impression.

Rozanov81: only Canadian apologizes for this

Rozanov81: Does Mama Hollander really think Rolex pays me so much to wear boring watch

Shane: Please do not call her that in a professional context. But yes. You're a fantastic fit for the brand, and I think we can convince them of that. You’d need to travel for photoshoots and maybe even brand events. Rolex would be a higher commitment, but if it works out long term, more lucrative over time.

Rozanov81: i need convinced too maybe. come to Boston, we talk in person

“What the fuck,” Shane says out loud.

It has never, ever occurred to Shane that he would be in a situation where he would consider violating workplace ethics due to sexual temptation. There just aren't that many out gay men with sports sponsorships, and Shane is pretty disciplined about who he gets involved with.

Then again, he's not sure there are workplace ethics in this scenario. Plenty of athletes have their spouse or family member as part of their team.

Maybe Ilya is doing the violation? Ilya has more power in this scenario, in that Shane's little Canadian company has never scored a client as big as Rozanov, nor any US-based clients. They haven't even been trying to.

Then again, Ilya is probably closeted and flirting with a man. So that gives Shane a lot of power—not that he wants it. Nothing Ilya has put in writing is confirmation that he's whatever kind of queer; there's plausible deniability, especially given Ilya's personality.

But it sure seems like flirting.

…

Rozanov81: is joke. I read email. Talk to agent. Agent responds to Mama Hollander

Rozanov81: But if you are in Boston I get you free tickets to game. Or whatever city. Is easy for me.

Shane: Only if you promise to score a goal for me.

Rozanov81: an easy promise to keep

…

Shane smiles fondly at the flippant arrogance. The thing is, Ilya's right. Very few NHL players can claim that it’s easy to score, but Ilya is actually that good. He’s amazing.

Shane frowns. Ilya probably makes these kinds of comments to women and, possibly men, in every city.

He blows out a long breath and lays his head on his desk. He realizes with a wave of dread that this weird crush he has is incredibly embarrassing.

Maybe that’s good, though. It is good. It makes it uncomplicated. There doesn’t have to be a power dynamic or anything for Shane to puzzle out, because the throughline here is that Ilya could fucking care less about any of this.

The answer to the riddle is that Shane, once again, made up a riddle to confuse himself with while everyone else was just trying to have a good time.

Shane lets that be the last message in their thread. It's a nice note to wrap up the conversation on. It’s pleasant.

He'll wait to see if Ilya's agent gets back to his mom, and not bother Ilya on his Instagram anymore. He is going to be totally neutral and professional in his thoughts about Ilya Rozanov from now on.

…

Twenty minutes later, he remembers about a conference in Manhattan that his mom had suggested he go to. Several times, in fact, because he is young and has a lot to learn and it’s a good opportunity. There is a track on representing Summer Olympians in particular that would be great networking for him, as a former Summer Olympian.

When his mom had suggested it, she had said, “It will be fun! You love Manhattan!”

He doesn't have any particular feelings about Manhattan. Okay, well, he loves Central Park, who doesn't. The museums are crowded, but excellent, and the architecture is a fucking smorgasbord.

The swim competitions he's been to in the area often say they are in New York City, but then they are actually in New Jersey or wherever, so he's been to “New York City” way more than he's been to Manhattan.

Without his permission, his fingers find the Boston Raiders schedule. His stomach does an unpleasant thing when he sees that the Raiders are playing the New York Admirals during the PR Week Sports conference.

What are the fucking odds?

Actually probably pretty high, he reasons. Of course they would time a sports-themed conference around whatever major league sport was in season. He checks, and, indeed, the game is one of the recommended side activities you can sign up for as an add-on package; or you can add a Nets game in Brooklyn if you prefer basketball. They will have a bus to shuttle attendees to the games and they’ll seat you with people from the conference for the networking opportunity.

He reminds himself he could fucking care less about Ilya Rozanov.

…

He searches, “What hotel do visiting hockey teams typically stay at when playing the New York Admirals at Madison Square Garden.”

There's not a definitive answer, but all the sites mention a handful of hotels that are all between Times Square and Central park in Midtown. Nowhere near where the PR Week Sports conference is, in the Financial District. But the prices are similar at both locations, and his mom knows he loves Central Park. So if he gets a hotel in Midtown, then that will make sense to her. Not that she would even double-check his accommodations. Literally no one cares what hotel he stays at.

But he does like Central Park, that’s an objective fact.

He finds the email from his mom about the conference and replies with confirmation that he'll attend.

His mom replies, “Great!”

Shari the office coordinator replies that she is there to help with any travel or reimbursement logistics.

He books a room at the hotel that someone on Reddit says the Raiders stayed at the last time they played the Admirals. It makes sense, because the hotel has an indoor pool, and he’ll want to be able to swim laps in the mornings.

There really aren’t that many hotels in downtown Manhattan that have pools.

…

He goes to trivia night with the swimmers. There's a section on 1990s and early aughts hockey trivia and he does so well it's kind of embarrassing. By the end, his team is chanting his name every time a hockey question comes up. They end up winning—this week’s prize is a round of drinks and tickets for pretty terrible seats at the next Metros home game, which is against Buffalo, so, whatever.

Alyssa, the woman who organizes the former swimmers trivia team, cheerfully demands he commit to attending the session the next week.

“I really only know hockey like that,” he explains. “I was kind of obsessed as a kid.”

“They have a hockey section almost every week! You are my secret to world domination!”

“I have a long gap where I was too busy swimming to follow hockey as closely,” he adds. He doesn't want to over-hype his skills and then let his team down when he can’t deliver.

“Shane, it's fucking trivia night! I don't actually have a plan for world domination,” Alyssa laughs. “Just fucking come and hang out, it’s fine.”

Another woman from their team moves in close to him and asks where he's headed after this, her hand gentle on his forearm, her face tilted up towards his. She’s clearly angling for a hookup. She's fun, her name is KyungSun, she swam for UBC in Vancouver which is no fucking joke, and she knows a lot about music and so is also a high-value member of Alyssa’s trivia team.

He feels a brief wave of regret, because wouldn't it be nice if he could fall in love with a nice Canadian girl with Asian heritage who is athletic and also knowledgeable about both contemporary and classical music. Sorry, Mom. Which is a dumb thought. His mom married a white guy and named her only child Shane. His mom doesn't care, except in the way that she's definitely subtly notices when he mentions Asian friends.

“No,” he says apologetically, which is not an appropriate answer to her question about where he’s headed. “I mean, I'm headed home, because I have an early morning, but also, I'm gay,” and then, because what is wrong with him, he adds, “Sorry.”

“Oh!” KyungSun says, and then looks around eagerly, before leaning in, “Do you want me to introduce you to my friend Jeremy? He's around here somewhere.”

“Maybe next week?” Shane offers.

KyungSun beams, raises her hand for a fist bump and says, “Next week! World domination, bitches.”

Shane laughs. It's a real laugh.

…

Later that night, Shane’s laying in bed watching clips of Rozanov’s game against Tampa and feeling guilty, because if he’s going to be watching hockey, he should really be watching a Metros game, when his hands do the thing where they ignore logic again.

Shane: If the offer for a ticket still stands, I’ll be in NYC when you’re playing the Admirals in two weeks

Shane is prepared to never hear back. Best case scenario, really, is never hearing back. He’ll never hear back, he’ll feel completely neutral and professional about that, because he couldn’t give a fuck either way, is the thing.

Less than a minute later, there’s a chime. Shane sits up straight in bed and adjusts his glasses, fixes his hair, and then checks his phone.

Rozanov81: you need extra ticket? Visiting girlfriend?

It had been so easy to say it to KyungSun, just a few hours before, in a crowded bar where anyone could overhear. He had not cared at all.

Shane: Just me, work trip. And I’m gay. No girlfriend.

Shane: Or boyfriend

Well. Shane sure just said that.

Rozanov81: Any requests for goal?

Shane: Top shelf, short-side

Rozanov81: Backhand? Or no?

Shane: You decide. Bonus points for overtime.

Rozanov81: Only the best for Shane Hollander Swims

Jesus Christ.

…

The algorithm has cursed him, because all of a sudden, every time he opens Instagram he sees yet another gossip account reposting yet another image of Ilya looking casually stunning in yet another model’s Instagram story. Some of the dates are older, there’s some recycled content, but a few of the pictures are recent.

He doesn’t want to know this. He doesn’t. Ilya is a grown-ass man, a famous, wealthy, beautiful, single, grown-ass man. Shane has his own barriers around sex for his own reasons, but he doesn’t care about sex that other people are having. Or at least he hasn’t, historically.

This is such a bad idea.

Embroidery art by Britbrit99

…

Ilya’s agent replies to Shane’s mom with a couple of clarifying questions, boring stuff Shane only knows about because his mom is being polite and keeping him on the email thread. Standard process. But promising.

…

Shane receives a message from a random Boston Raiders email address that there will be two tickets waiting for him at Will Call.

…

Ilya does not reply on his and Shane’s DM thread again.

Shane doesn’t care about that either way, because he is a busy, useful person who is grounded and focused on the people in his real, actual life that matter. Completely neutral and professional.

…

He brings dinner over for Jackie while Hayden’s on the road, mainly to take a shift holding Arthur, who currently only sleeps while being held upright, because babies can get heartburn, apparently.

He doesn’t have to lie about how he is maybe trying to arrange factors in his life so that he could, hypothetically, hook up with Ilya Rozanov when he’s in Manhattan next week, because Jackie is too busy trying to stay awake through dinner to notice that he’s completely lost his mind.

After dinner, Jackie hands a wailing Arthur to Shane and heads upstairs to put the twins to bed. Shane arranges Arthur into the backwards backpack baby carrier thing that Shane had gotten them a sponsorship for. He paces along their deck making shushing noises till Arthur falls asleep.

He comes back in when he sees Jackie has come downstairs and melted onto the couch. She mentions some documentary she thinks he’d like. Shane hums his assent as he stands nearby, rising onto the balls of first one foot and then the other, like he’s on an invisible stairmaster, because rhythmic movement is soothing to babies. And Shane. Shane also finds rhythmic movement soothing, if he’s being perfectly honest.

The heavy weight of a sleeping baby against your chest is such a terrifying miracle, dense and hot and solid, but incredibly fragile, helpless. Sometimes they just stop breathing and die. It’s not common, but it happens; he read about it extensively when the Pikes’ twins were born. He doesn’t know if he could stand the enormity of being a parent. He can’t believe Jackie trusts him with these short bursts of responsibility.

Or maybe, he thinks, as she falls asleep with the remote pointed at the TV she’s forgotten to turn on, he can believe it.

…

“Hey, you’ll never guess what. Ilya Rozanov is going to be in New York the same days you are,” his mom says when he picks up the phone.

“No kidding,” he says, and his cheeks are flushing so hot right now. Jesus. He can’t lie for shit. “That is a real surprise.”

“I don’t want to put too much pressure on you, but how do you feel about meeting with him at the Rolex office? They can send a car, so you don’t have to take the subway up to Midtown. You won’t miss that much of the conference.”

“Did, um, Rozanov’s team suggest that?”

“No, I’m floating it by you and Rolex first, they haven’t confirmed anything, and in theory the ball is in Rozanov’s court, but I was thinking, why not just push ahead, be aggressive, show some initiative? The timing is so convenient. You and Ilya are about the same age, you know. I think he might feel more comfortable with you than all us old fogies, that could be the thing that locks this in.”

“You talked to Rolex about this?”

“Yes. They want to refresh the brand, bring in some zest, and appeal to a new generation. They want youth, and they want nightlife, and they want vitality. Timeless beauty, flawless design, and reliable performance. They want: Ilya Rozanov.”

“I’m not going to say that, Mom. Definitely not in front of Ilya Rozanov.”

“No, you don't have to. I already made the pitch to Rolex, and they agree with me. That's in the bag. You just need to make it fun for Rozanov.”

“I'm not fun.”

“You're a thousand times more fun than those assholes at Rolex.”

Shane laughs despite himself, and then sighs. “I don't know. I can try, I guess?”

…

The days tick by. Shane should really tell the Pikes he's going to a brand meeting with Ilya Rozanov. The problem is he can barely handle his own feelings about it. He can't add theirs to the mix.

…

Shane double-checks the hotel he's booked has a pool, and then calls to confirm the pool is actually open, and that he'll be able to access it as early as 4:30 am.

This is going to be fine.

…

Okay, it's going to be super weird if he's just at the fucking Rolex meeting when Rozanov shows up, actually, right? Like Ilya knows someone set up a meeting, but will he be expecting Shane’s mom? Will he think Shane is stalking him?

Jesus Christ.

Handling Jackie's breast pump brand contract wasn't nearly this awkward.

…

Shane puts a nonzero amount of thought into the least inconvenient time of day to send Ilya a note. He has a sense of the Metro's morning practice routine through the general osmosis of when he gets calls from players with questions about their sponsorships and invites from Hayden to meet him for lunch. Boston's schedule is probably similar.

Shane: I guess I’ll see you at the Rolex meeting next week. Are you excited about it?

Rozanov81: Shane Hollander Swims can I be honest with you

Rozanov81: I feel I can be honest with you. I think they are ugly. They don't track heartbeat, nothing useful. I need to know time, I check phone, yes?

Shane: Rolex watches have a fascinating history. The Rolex Submariner was the first watch to be waterproof down to 100 meters when it launched in 1953.

Rozanov81: when I am 100 meters under water in 1953 I will wish had this watch

Shane: counterpoint: you get the watch and you're prepared in case you are ever 100 meters under water in 1953. And you look like a badass in the meantime

Rozanov81: I don't need watch to look like a badass. All the other people selling these watches are golfers and Yacht drivers. is not the watch of a badass

Shane: The Black Gold Submariner watch is $48,600 retail. It matches the Raiders’ colors and your general aesthetic of gold (vs. silver). They might try to give you something lower tier, but I think we have a good argument that your busy active lifestyle means you need something with maximum durability and waterproof, etc. Rolex makes a few more expensive watches but this one is up there. You should ask for matching cufflinks.

Rozanov81: why the fuck do I want these old man cufflinks

Shane: For scuba diving! Fucking duh. Keep up! Are you seriously scuba diving without cufflinks?

Rozanov81: you know water is frozen for hockey? Yes?

Shane laughs. Ilya isn’t wrong about the watches. They are pretty boring and totally impractical. He wouldn’t trade his Garmin swim watch in for one.

Well, he would, and then he’d sell the Rolex and buy a newer Garmin swim watch and a fucking Land Rover.

He tries to think of a link between Ilya and the Rolex brand that feels natural. Something about Shane’s lame joke about wearing cufflinks scuba diving and Ilya wanting a watch that makes him look like a badass makes Shane think of the James Bond movies his dad would sometimes watch in hotel rooms when it was just him and Shane at an away game. Shane suspects he would find them pretty offensive as an adult, but as a child he was transfixed with watching the confident way James Bond moved. His body was just so interesting.

Fuck, he’s always been gay, huh.

Shane: Would you want to do the photoshoot on the beach? We can pitch them a vintage aesthetic to honor the history of the watch and you can do like an old fashioned James Bond?

Shane realizes what he's done and winces.

Shane: Wait sorry is that offensive?

Ilya: how

Shane: The villains in James Bond movies are often Russian. I haven’t seen one in years but I’m sure they are full of offensive stereotypes about Russian culture. I'm sorry. I should have thought about that before. I was just brainstorming and got ahead of myself.

Ilya: I don't care about that

Ilya: James Bond Rolex ad is not bad idea. One problem

Shane: ?

Ilya: Rozanov James Bond needs a pretty babe that looks sexy in swimsuit to stand near me. Where can I find one of these?

Shane: Rolex has access to a modeling agency, obviously. That's not an issue at all

There’s a long pause, Ilya doesn’t respond. Logical, because the pertinent parts of the conversation are over.

Chapter End Notes

Hello. Do you want a playlist? No? You hate playlists? Too bad! Have a playlist!

Did you want art? Yes you did? You love art? Did you want it to be embroidered quotes? You did? Yayyyyyyy! Because britbrit99 is making art!

Feel free to request quotes from the show or book for art purposes or the purposes of my easter egging them into this fic.

FYI I am going camping in the Everglades next week so if I stop updating I was eaten by a python! Have a great day!

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

The flight to Manhattan is fine, and early check-in to the hotel is fine, as he repeatedly tells people who politely ask, “How was your flight?” or “How’s your hotel?” as small talk at the conference, which is also fine. Slipping out of the conference during the lunch break is fine, and the car ride to the Rolex meeting on 5th Avenue is fine, and walking into the lobby is fine, and getting on the elevator is fine, and then the best way to describe things after the second he walks onto the elevator is buzzy.

Because Ilya Rozanov is on the elevator wearing a pair of black sunglasses and a black tank top with a black jacket tucked over one arm and tight jeans that show off his incredible thighs. The whole elevator is fucking mirrors so there are dozens of reflections of Ilya’s beautiful body parts all moving in sync around them and Jesus Christ his mouth is a million times prettier in person and Shane is suddenly hearing a loud buzzing noise in his ears.

Shane has earned a reputation with every coach he’s ever had for his ability to lock the fuck in when he needs to lock the fuck in. He sets his jaw. He can fucking do this.

He presses the button for their floor, smiles, and raises his hand in a half wave. “Hey, you must be Mr. Rozanov. I’m Shane. Shane Hollander. We spoke over Instagram.”

He wants to thunk his head against the mirrored surface of the elevator. Instead he sticks his hand out for a handshake.

“Ilya,” Ilya corrects, his voice deep and resonant. “Not mister.” His mouth makes a slow smile, lopsided and lazy. He reaches up and pulls off his dark sunglasses, tucks them into the collar of his tank top, and reaches to grasp Shane’s hand. “We finally meet, Shane Hollander Swims,” Ilya says. There is a thread of laughter in his tone, but there’s a sweetness to it, an invitation.

The handshake has drawn them closer, and part of Shane is distracted by how blue Ilya’s eyes are, but he keeps it compartmentalized. His job right now isn't to fall into the honeyed possibilities of a man like Ilya Rozanov, but to make Rolex see those possibilities as a way to make money.

His job is kind of terrible sometimes.

Most jobs are, he figures.

“You have a beach in particular you want to check out on Rolex’s dime?” Shane asks.

“Fiji,” Ilya answers, and the particular way his mouth shapes the word makes Shane want to look closer, but he just nods.

“Might be tight to try to fit a trip to Fiji in during the season. I mean, assuming you want to get off the plane while you're there,” Shane says.

Ilya lets out a burst of amused air. “Virgin Islands.”

“That we can probably work with.”

The elevator doors open, and Shane leads the way.

Rolex says they want to do the James Bond–inspired beach shoot on a soundstage in New Jersey, but Shane narrows his eyes in annoyance. “Why are you even doing this if it's just going to look cheap? You're sabotaging yourselves before you get started. You have the chance to do something incredibly iconic.”

Which is maybe too blunt, but also, accurate. Ilya is incredibly fucking beautiful: he deserves real sun on his skin and real scenery behind him. Anything less is a waste.

Rozanov is quiet and polite at the meeting, his smile charming, his posture perfect. Shane had worried a bit that his mom’s pitch of “nightlife/youth/vitality” was not enough degrees separate from “fuckboy manchild who flaunts hookups on Instagram.” All the more reason to play up the James Bond parallel, since 007 shares Ilya’s mystical ability to sprawl elegantly across gray areas, to come across as both sophisticated and dangerous, yet family-friendly, no matter how much destruction he leaves in his wake.

Shane is pretty sure he’s doing a good job advocating to Ilya’s benefit in the meeting, because he always does his best, but nothing he could say is as compelling as Ilya merely sitting in Rolex’s high-end leather office chair, in his simple black tank top and gold cross necklace, his hair a casual halo of curls. Up close, Ilya has this fluid strength to how he moves, to how he gestures when he speaks.

If Shane was a watchmaker, he’d burn down the world to see one of his watches on Ilya’s elegant wrist, to watch it catch the light as he lifts his hands in movements that are both generic and unmistakably Slavic. The folks at Rolex seem to agree, because halfway through the meeting, Ilya is presented with a Gold Submariner Rolex with black and red accents on the watchface that coordinate with the Raiders colors. He slides it on as they check it for fit, and then someone disappears with the watch to make an adjustment to the band.

Shane suggests matching custom cufflinks would be a great complement to the watch. Ilya cuts him a glance but nods politely. It’s only a few moments later that an assistant slides in with a tablet showing custom cufflink options for Ilya to choose between.

“These, I think,” Ilya gestures at an image on the tablet with an elegant fan of fingers, “but what does Mr. Hollander think?”

All the cufflinks look identically tacky to Shane.

“Excellent choice. You know, I think a set of cufflinks that iconic deserve to be seen on a suit of a matching caliber,” Shane says smoothly. Yes, he practiced that line, wrote it out in a small notebook on the plane ride here. “You should let us know if there are any apparel makers you might want to see Ilya pair with these cufflinks the next time he lifts the Player of the Year trophy at the NHL awards.”

Shane leaves the meeting with a contact for the director of the brand ambassador program at Tom Ford; Ilya leaves wearing a custom-fit Rolex.

There’s a round of handshakes and offers of lunch, but Ilya has to go prepare for his game this evening and Shane has a session on growing the market for professional women’s sports that he really wants to attend.

…

In the elevator, Shane’s trying not to bounce on the balls of his feet. If he was holding Arthur, he would have an excuse, but he’s not. He gives Ilya a grin that probably looks a little wild. “Was that okay?”

Ilya holds out his left arm in answer; the watch is heavy, gold, flashy, the movement reflects throughout the elevator. Fuck, it looks good on him. He leans against the mirrored wall and looks over at Shane. His face is no longer polite and quiet, his gaze flicks up the length of Shane’s body, and it’s all heavy, honeyed intent. “You tell me,” Ilya hums thoughtfully, tilting his chin just up. It’s a dare.

“I thought it was good,” Shane says. He sounds a little breathless.

“You have freckles,” Ilya says in response. He lifts his left hand, the one with the golden watch, and traces his fingers along his own cheekbone. “These do not show in your photos.”

“Yeah. Since I was a kid,” Shane answers. “I have even more in the summer.” He doesn’t have any lines prepared in his notebook about his freckles. He feels like he’s flying a partially constructed plane.

“And if you come to beach photoshoot with me? Would more freckles come out to play?”

“If I don’t wear sunscreen, yeah, probably,” Shane says, and then licks his lips, which Ilya’s gaze tracks. Shane feels his cheeks grow hot, and wonders if the blush makes his damn freckles show up more or less—he never thought to check.

The elevator dings, and Ilya straightens himself up from his languid pose against the elevator wall. “We share ride. Going same direction,” he says to Shane, and walks into the lobby. Shane follows.

…

The car ride is quiet. Shane keeps thinking of things to say, but they all seem incredibly boring. “How was your flight?” “You think Vaughn will play, or will they keep him out for that ankle for another night?” “Any favorite restaurants in New York City?”

Maybe the last one—then he could, possibly, turn that into an invitation to join him at the restaurant? But no, because they couldn’t go out to a restaurant publicly, that might be risky for Ilya. He had asked at check-in if the Raiders would be staying at the hotel, and the clerk had given him an excited smile and confirmed. So all he has to do is find a way to let Ilya know that they are staying at the same hotel tonight, which is probably something he can just text him later; that had been his plan, anyway. So that if Ilya was free to wander up to Shane’s room, he was free, and if he was busy, he was busy, and either way, it wasn’t a thing. Casual. Coincidental. Easy.

Ilya seems content, he’s tapping something into his phone. He turns it over, screen down, into his lap with a flick of his wrist and turns to Shane. “You stay at nice hotel? Good view of city?”

“Um, yeah. I’m at the Chatwal? In the Theater District? It has a pool, which is my main thing I look for in a hotel. If I don’t swim every day, my knee gets stiff, especially if I’m flying. Old injury,” Shane says.

Ilya glances down to Shane’s knees and back up again. “I know this pool. I am also staying there,” Ilya says.

Shane holds his face as tight and still as he can as he nods. “Oh. Cool.”

“Hmm, yes, yes. Cool,” Ilya says, his eyes flicking over Shane’s face. Shane is about to give up on this whole charade and explain to Ilya that he expressly chose that hotel in the hopes that he and Ilya could hook up, when Ilya says, “Old injury. You are not old.”

Shane flushes. “No. I mean. Well, it was almost ten years ago.” He shrugs. “Bad check.”

“Hockey injury?” Ilya asks.

Shane shrugs again, and then stares pointedly out the car window, at the people on vacation and the people on their lunch break, walking up the streets of Manhattan like it’s a regular day. He says what he almost never says when his injury comes up, which is information on how he got it. “Yeah, I was at the Junior World Cup, actually, but I was just a pipsqueak, barely fifteen. Should have held back another year, but hindsight's twenty-twenty and all that. Got my bell rung pretty good, fucked my knee up. Fine now, of course.”

“Is not fine, you just said.”

Shane cuts a glance at Ilya and shrugs again. “Fine enough.”

“What country?” Ilya asks. “What year?”

“The game was against Finland; 2006,” Shane answers. “Guy was fucking giant, full, huge fucking bright red beard at 20, probably born with the fucking thing.” Shane doesn’t remember him, actually, he doesn’t remember that game at all, which is typical of that level of concussion, but he looked up pictures of the guy after, checks in on him through a quick search every now and then. Markku Immonen, who now works at a bank in Jyväskylä, is a person who he has no memory of, and yet his ghost will creak in Shane’s knee every day for the rest of his life.

Ilya blows out a breath. “Finnish bastards.”

Shane laughs. “I don’t blame Finland or anything.”

“No. You are nice polite Canadian. You probably apologized,” Ilya smirks over at him, but there’s a carefulness in his tone. “Sent the whole team flowers.” He traces imaginary letters in the air in front of them, “‘Dear Finland, I am sorry you flattened me. Love, Shane Hollander Swims.’”

Shane laughs again. “I mean, obviously I sent flowers, I’m not a monster.”

The car slows and pulls over to the curb, and Shane sees they are at a service entrance for the stadium.

“Mr. Rozanov,” the driver says politely.

Ilya unbuckles, his watch flashing with the movement. He looks over at Shane, and his eyes are so blue, his face serious. “After game tonight, I buy you drink at hotel bar, you tell me more about your enemy, Finland.”

“I have nothing against Finland as a country!” Shane laughs; he can’t help it, it bubbles out of him.

“So you say, so you say.” Ilya winks, leans forwards and hands the driver a bill with a murmured thanks, and slides out of the car.

“Financial District?” the driver asks.

“Yep!” Shane says, a little too loud. He resists the urge to put both hands over his face.

He’s walking back into the conference when his phone chimes.

Rozanov81: Top shelf, short-side, backhand optional, yes?

Shane: Plus bonus points for overtime

Rozanov81: 😘

Jesus Christ.

He takes a lot of notes during the Promoting Women in Sports session, mostly because he’s not processing any of the words being said.

…

Before the game, during warm-ups, Shane can see Ilya scanning the crowd. Surely he’s not looking for Shane—but then again, this guy sent him the blowing a fucking kiss emoji earlier today, so probably he is looking for Shane.

Shane raises two fingers in a sheepish acknowledgement when Ilya’s eyes find him. Ilya gives him a smug look and skates off to say something to a coach.

He doesn’t give Shane any particular attention for the rest of the game, but he’s on fire as he plays, swiping the puck from Scott Hunter in the first faceoff and not relenting from there. Every time he gets near the goalie, Shane holds his breath, and twice Ilya ducks to the short-side of the goalie but the opportunity isn’t there. He’s not actually going to try that hard to fulfill Shane’s dare, is he?

He must give up on the idea, because he switches approaches on the goalie, handing a few easy passes to his wings. Which is the right call. It’s ridiculous to try and manipulate the game to score a specific type of goal.

In the third quarter, the Raiders are up by two, so unless the Admirals get a late-game miracle, there won’t be any overtime. In the last three minutes, Rozanov gets a breakaway. As he approaches the goalie, he dekes to his right and the goalie drops into RVH, and Shane’s beaming, he's breathless, because he knows what’s going to happen before it does: Rozanov moves left, and the goalie can't follow, because he's already down to the right. Rozanov makes a quick, tight pull on the backhand and shoots the puck neatly over the goalie’s shoulder into the net. Top shelf, short-side, backhand.

Time speeds back up, the play is over in a second, and Shane is on his feet and screaming with the crowd and holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

…

He takes the subway back to the hotel, because traffic is too snarled to make a car make sense. So he's jostled by people all around him, which he hates, for the record. He focuses on making a plan. He searches “best liquor store Manhattan for high-end vodka” and gets off a stop early.

He probably shouldn’t spend three hundred dollars on a bottle of vodka, especially not as a gift for a professional hockey player who is a multi-millionaire. He knows it’s foolish, but he lives pretty frugally otherwise, and the vodka is key to his plan. Also, it’s entirely possible he can write the vodka off as a business expense on his taxes.

Anyway, fuck the money. He’d pay ten times more if this works out.

He goes up to his room to shower off the subway. Washes. Carefully. The hotel has nice robes, so he slides one on. He looks at himself in the mirror and frowns.

It's his own reflection in the mirror, which is disappointing, but what he should have expected. After the meeting, which went so well, when Ilya was looking him over, he felt this simmering under his skin. Like every angle of his limbs was sculptural, purposeful motion, like he wasn't just Shane's body but something architectural, beautiful, sexy. Worthy.

The Shane in the steamed-up mirror on the fourteenth floor of a high-end hotel in downtown Manhattan, the Shane who just clinched a pretty major business deal, who just showered with decadent soaps and is now wearing a designer robe, still looks exactly like Shane Hollander: Ottawa-born nerd boy who gets overly obsessive when he has a special interest.

So he won't look in the mirror. The mirror doesn't matter.

He texts Ilya.

Shane: The bar's too crowded, but I have a bottle of vodka I want your opinion on. Room 1424

Rozanov81: I might stop by

Rozanov81: 9:30?

Shane: I believe I can clear my schedule at that time

It's 9. He slides into clothes that Jackie picked out for him for a date that he never went on. He looks as good as he's going to look. It doesn't matter what he looks like. It matters how he feels.

He sits on the bed, stands up, and sits again. He pulls the vodka out of the freezer and pours a centimeter of it into a glass. Takes a sip.

It's gross. It's not something he would normally drink, but that's good. He has no interest in being his normal self right now.

At 9:25, there's a knock on his hotel room door.

He smiles. Ilya is punctual, he thinks. It's a thought that feels good.

“Hey,” Shane says, pulling the door wide so Ilya can step in.

“Hey,” Ilya echoes, his accent elegant and deep around even that slip of a word. He slides the door shut behind himself. He's back in the tank top from earlier, the same tight jeans.

His light brown curls are still a little damp from the shower; the gold cross on his neck is matched by the heavy gold Rolex on his wrist. He looks exactly like he would if Shane was imagining him there.

But he’s real.

“You want to sit?” Shane asks. “Have a drink?”

“Not really,” Ilya answers, his tongue catching on the R, rolling it. He’s looking at Shane's mouth.

“Can I kiss you?” Shane asks, and Ilya looks at him with something like surprise, and then delight.

“Such a good polite Canadian boy,” he breathes as he moves closer. “But you didn’t say please.”

“Fuck you. It's basic consent, asshole,” Shane says, but he doesn't have any more patience, so he steps forward and presses his mouth to Ilya's.

Ilya opens his mouth to him immediately, and Shane feels Ilya's strong hands frame his face and he licks into his mouth and yes, this. It's perfect, so he runs his hands up Ilya's chest, and gets a soft moan from him when his thumb brushes his nipple. Shane makes a note of that for later.

For now he lets Ilya turn them, pressing Shane’s back into the wall with clever, hungry kisses, his hands make Shane feel delicious, edible.

He presses back, sliding his leg between Ilya’s, because he wants to feel him getting hard, he wants to make Ilya hard, he wants this powerful, beautiful man to want him back, to feel a fraction of the pull Shane feels right now.

Ilya licks into his mouth again, pulls off and then leans in for another kiss immediately, again, again, again, and Shane is feeling kind of weak and thank god for this wall, because holy shit, Ilya Rozanov can kiss.

He feels Ilya’s thumb against the line of his jaw, pressing, tilting, so Shane lets his head tilt how Ilya wants, and then there's lips and teeth and stubble sliding down Shane's neck, hunting for a reaction. Ilya smells incredible, a hint of cologne, of soap, a masculine human edge to it, because he's so real and his mouth is so wet. He finds the spot behind Shane's ear that makes his head drop back, makes him say, “Fuck, Ilya,” and press his dick into Ilya's through their jeans and then it's not enough to feel Ilya get hard through fabric, Shane needs to taste it.

He presses Ilya's shoulder and Ilya pulls back immediately, hums, “This okay?” His eyes flick over Shane's face, intense, searching.

Shane nods and pushes Ilya back another step so he has enough room to drop down to his knees, and then looks up again to check in, one eyebrow raised in question. Ilya nods, and Shane leans forward to to mouth along the fly of Ilya's jeans.

“Oh, wow,” he hears Ilya breathe. Shane can't get Ilya's belt open, probably because his mouth is in the way. Probably there is a better way to do this, but Shane doesn't give a fuck about that right now. He feels Ilya's big strong hands helping him, pulling open his belt, opening his jeans, and Shane licks along his hand, catches a finger in his mouth, cause yeah, Shane has a bit of an oral fixation, and none of his previous sexual encounters have given him any reason to try and keep that information to himself.

“Christ, your mouth,” Ilya says, his accent thick as honey on the words, and Shane feels a hot pride mix in with everything else. He tugs Ilya's jeans and underwear down, gets his hands on Ilya's ass, which, fucking, wow. Wow. Shane has his hands on the best ass in hockey and the smooth, firm length of an uncut cock teasing against his cheek. He glances up at Ilya, who is looking down at him, his curls lit gold by the hotel room lamps behind him. Shane opens his mouth, pauses, waits.

“You will kill me,” Ilya says softly. “You are beautiful, Shane Hollander Swims.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, and licks up the length of Ilya's dick before taking it into his mouth.

Ilya's hands are everywhere—Shane’s hair, his cheeks, his jaw, the back of his neck—which is fine with Shane, Shane loves it. The hands are bossy in a soft way, that makes it clear that Ilya wants Shane's mouth, that Shane is doing a good job. The hands and the soft sounds are good feedback, so Shane can let his brain shut the fuck up and trust his mouth, the dick in his mouth, to feel for the new rhythm that you have to find with every partner. Sometimes that's hard, sometimes it takes too much work and it's not worth the bother and Shane wishes he was somewhere else—that happens sometimes during sex. It happens that way often enough that he feels a hot gratitude that it's easy tonight, that he can feel that what Ilya's body is reaching for is what Shane wants to give.

He's starting to feel that good, drifty feeling build in him, he's starting to understand and anticipate Ilya's body and what it needs next, starting to relax his throat more, when Ilya pushes him back. Shane looks up, something close to upset.

It was perfect, he didn't want to stop, but Ilya is pulling him up, and his strong hands are good too, and Shane has to know, so he asks, “Was that okay?”

“Yes. Too much, too good,” Ilya says, and he's breathless and pulling at Shane's shirt. Right. Okay. So this is more than Shane sucking Ilya off. This is going to be a whole, fully naked hookup.

Fuck, yes. He gets with the program. When Ilya tries to throw his shirt, Shane grabs it from him and sets it on the table by the door. He doesn't need to fold it, but no need to make it chaos. He gets Ilya's tank top off and sets it on the table with his own.

Shoes are taken off, and Ilya shimmies out of his pants and underwear, and those go on the table too. Soon, Shane is kissing and walking a fully nude Ilya backwards towards his hotel room bed when Ilya says, “No fair. You still have pants.”

“Whoever said life was fair?” Shane asks, because he is pretty sure it will make Ilya laugh.

It makes Ilya grab Shane's pecs and press into his nipples and say, “Funny and pretty,” before kissing Shane so fiercely they take a step farther away from the bed.

Shane doesn't want to wear pants in bed, he hates stiff pants in bed, so he slides out of his pants while Ilya licks into his mouth with small sighs.

They tumble onto the bed. Shane's not sure who started the fall, but they land together in a tangle of endless smooth skin. Shane can't get enough of how Ilya kisses, confident and tender. He kisses like he loves kissing, like he wants to climb into Shane's mouth and fill all of the inside of him, and something about being so sure that his partner is having a good time makes Shane slip deeper and deeper into it. Tongue, lips, hands. The hard press of hips and shoulders, the again and again of building pressure together.

“I want to fuck you,” Ilya hums, “but we don't have to.”

“Such a nice polite Russian boy.” Shane smirks, and he's already reaching for the nightstand where he had placed a string of his favorite condoms and a container of the good lube with the pump handle.

Ilya is getting sloppier, more teeth, and his grip gets firmer: he's not holding back his strength. Because he knows Shane can take it, that he wants it. It's a thrill that he makes Shane his match.

Next is a dream of how you always want it to go: heat and wet and tongue followed by thick, artful fingers, followed by Ilya pressing into him, checking in, and then again, and each time Shane is more relaxed because he knows how to say no, how to shut things down, but the way Ilya keeps asking makes something in his chest open wider till Shane is spilled across the bed, till his tongue is only Ilya's name, till his grip is all desperate reaches for hips, for a pillow, and all he can hear is his own heartbeat, his own shouts, Ilya whispering in Russian.

Nothing good lasts forever, no matter how good it is, no matter how many twists the orgasm turns you through. It's not enough time and it’s also maybe as much as he can handle.

And now, he's sweaty and sticking to a very large professional hockey player who is sprawled lax across Shane like he's been shot in his perfect beautiful ass with a tranquilizer dart.

“You're heavy,” Shane grunts.

“You killed me,” Ilya grunts back. “I am dead.”

“Wow, so hot,” Shane says drily. “You're finally turning me on now. Tell me more about being trapped under your corpse.”

Shane winces, because that was a fucking weird thing to say, but Ilya barks out a laugh and pulls back to look at Shane's face. Their chests make a peeling sound as the sweat and come releases between them, and Shane winces again. Yuck. God. Sex is such a mixed bag.

Ilya is grinning down at him. He looks amused. He kisses Shane on his cheek, his jaw, behind his ear, his forehead. Shane's smiling by the end of the string of kisses. “I will shower now,” he announces.

Shane nods, charmed that Ilya also wants to be clean.

He assesses himself as Ilya showers. He feels good, loose, drifting. He doesn’t want this to be done. He knows he needs to keep his expectations down, though. That will be fine. He’s good at compartmentalizing.

After a moment of that, he hops up, adjusts the sheets and pillows, picks up his pants off the floor by the bed, and then folds Ilya’s clothes for him and sets them back on the table by the door.

When Ilya steps out, Shane says, “Just a second,” and slips into this shower himself, just a quick rinse. He doesn’t want Ilya to leave yet, so he works quickly.

When Shane's done, towel around his waist, Ilya's lying sprawled across Shane’s pillows. He’s wearing the fluffy robe and focused on his phone.

He looks up from the screen with a lazy smirk. “I should go soon.”

“Why?” Shane counters.

Ilya shifts, subtly. “I have curfew. Midnight on roadies.”

“You have a roommate?” Shane asks as he meets Ilya’s gaze, casual, direct. He settles down on the bed, his elbow bumping Ilya’s knee.

“Marly,” Ilya confirms. “Marleau. He snores.”

“Fuck that,” Shane says.

“I have earplugs,” Ilya says idly. “Also his socks smell terrible. He maybe should see doctor for it, they smell so terrible. Cannot be healthy.”

“Maybe an exorcist?” Shane suggests. Ilya laughs.

“Does Shane Hollander snore?” Ilya asks.

“Probably not. I mean, I'm usually asleep when I am sleeping,” Shane answers. “So I guess I don’t know for sure.”

“You definitely smell better than Marley,” Ilya says.

“Pretty low fucking bar,” Shane laughs. And then something clicks for him. “Wait, do you need me to sign something?”

Ilya looks over at him, confused. “You sign something? You want me to sign something for you? I don't have Sharpie.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I don't want your fucking autograph,” though part of him does, okay, if it was the right item. A puck from tonight's game, maybe. “No, I meant, do you need me to sign an NDA?”

Ilya’s eyes narrow a little, he looks like he's focusing hard. Maybe he doesn't know the term.

“Non-disclosure agreement. A legal agreement that says I won't go straight to the media about,” Shane gestures to the bed. He can't think of a word to describe it that doesn't sound crass.

“You would tell media we fucked?” Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, no. I'm not an asshole. Never. Fucking never. But you don't know that.”

Ilya shrugs, way too casual. “I have good instinct.”

“A signed legal document is more reliable than instinct,” Shane says, he's so surprised he forgets to regulate his tone and sounds way more aggressive than he intends.

“How are you expert in sex with famous sports stars? Is this your hobby?” Ilya says, and he has a sarcasm in his voice that feels more sharp than funny.

“No, of course not,” Shane says. “I just have common sense about the world.”

And also he researched it in advance of their hookup so he'd be familiar with the language so he would not have to spend too much time reading the NDA before he signed. He's fucked guys who play sports, of course, starting with Matt the Handsome High Jumper, but none that would qualify as famous. None that have literally millions and millions of dollars on the line.

“You think I don’t have sense about the world?” Ilya asks drily.

“I didn’t say that,” Shane says quickly.

Ilya makes a hand gesture that somehow clearly communicates both wry skepticism and complete disdain for Shane’s attempt to lie.

Shane wipes his hand over his face. He needs a minute to assess how this went sideways so fast. He walks back through the conversation, and maybe he could have been smoother, but he’s not wrong. It’s irresponsible for someone with Ilya’s standing to hook up with men or women without an NDA.

“It’s not my business what you do, obviously, but if you’re taking risks like this, that becomes a risk to my mom’s company, if we’re representing you,” he says.

“Oh, this is research? This is your job? You find out who likes boys? For your mother?”

“Fuck you, no,” Shane says hotly, and then, “Fuck, sorry. Fuck. Shit. Jesus. I would never. I’m not like that at all.”

“No, you are not, because you are nice guy. I know this, because I have good instinct. On ice, and,” Ilya makes another gesture to indicate in deciding which guys who dm me on instagram I want to meet up with at a hotel and fuck. At least, Shane is pretty sure that’s what that gesture means. “It is fine, Shane Hollander Swims. Anyway, my agent is Russian, they are not making this paperwork for me, that is not possible.”

“Your agent doesn’t know?” Shane gapes at him.

Ilya rolls his eyes and says something in Russian.

“I don’t know Russian,” Shane says, even as he realizes he wasn’t supposed to understand Ilya. He’s so used to people switching from English to French with the expectation that he’ll understand both.

“No shit,” Ilya answers. “This is boring. Not everyone shares your kink for paperwork.”

Shane sighs and says, “It’s not a kink. It’s just being sensible.”

“If it makes you feel sexy, you can make paperwork and sign it, this won’t bother me. I do not kink shame.”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane says, incredulous.

“Ahh, you have good instinct too. You know me already,” Ilya smirks.

Shane frowns. Thinking about it all.

“I won’t tell anyone, for the record. Are you,” Shane hesitates on the vocabulary, “are you out to anyone?”

Ilya looks at him, considering. “I like both. Some people know this. Not many. Not my team.”

Art by BritBrit99

Shane nods. “Okay. Okay. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I just, kind of, expected, I guess, that you would want some kind of formal commitment to discretion.”

“Because you fuck so many famous hockey players?” Ilya asks. Shane braves a look at his face. His gaze is so intense right now, Shane doesn’t know what he’s trying to read on Shane’s face, but Shane is pretty sure he’s not capable of hiding it.

“You’re the first,” Shane says. “I don’t, this isn’t. I mean. It’s not, really—”

“Okay,” Ilya interrupts him. “Okay. I am tired. I go to bed. Early morning.”

Shane doesn't want Ilya to go. Fuck, he made it so weird. If Ilya goes now, he'll leave thinking Shane is weird. Then again, Shane is weird. He's not sure why he thought he could hide it.

“Great. Good luck against Tampa tomorrow,” Shane says as Ilya gets up and starts pulling on his clothes.

Ilya huffs. “We don't need luck against Tampa.”

Shane nods. “Not really, no. I mean, maybe if half the Raiders come down with the flu or something, they would have a chance against you guys.”

Ilya flashes him a grin. He does a little shimmy to get his jeans over his thighs and ass, and Shane wishes he could take a picture, or a video, because it's so hot, and so human. He wants to remember that it happened. That he saw it.

Ilya finishes getting his things together in efficient silence, because it's not his first time hooking up with someone to blow off steam after a game. Probably not his first time this week. He probably has someone waiting for him in Tampa right now, pacing their hotel room, like Shane was yesterday.

Or not, because Ilya's Tampa hookup is probably cool. Chill. Normal. Maybe a beautiful model, someone with their own thing going on. For them, Ilya passing through their bed will just be a brief happy memory, something to half-remember next time Ilya wins the Stanley cup. Oh, hey, I think I recognize that guy! We had sex once! Good for him! And their friend might say, Oh, nice. Are the soft hands he displays on the ice an indicator of his hands’ skills in the bedroom? And the Tampa person will say yes, because holy shit. Yes. They are. No one could forget Ilya Rozanov’s hands, no matter how many people they've slept with.

“You okay?” Ilya asks.

Shane has no idea what his face is doing. Probably something embarrassing. “Yep! Go enjoy Marly’s snoring!”

Ilya laughs, turns towards the door, touches the handle, and then his body does a kind of shifting shrug, a fluid movement that is almost like some kind of hesitation, and he spins on his heel and saunters over to where Shane is leaning against the headboard of the hotel room bed where he just had the best sex of his life.

Ilya gives him a soft smile, tucks his finger gently under Shane’s chin, and kisses him, tenderly, so fucking softly that Shane gets butterflies and tingles all the way down to his fucking toes.

“Sleep well, Shane Hollander Swims,” Ilya hums, each word carefully sounded out like they are something precious, something important. He kisses him again, and Shane's eyelids flutter shut.

“You sleep well, too,” Shane says back; he barely recognizes his own voice.

Ilya hums thoughtfully, and then turns and leaves the hotel room for real.

“Holy shit,” Shane says, after the door clicks shut. He rests his hands over his face for a minute. He lowers his hands and stares at the closed door for a long time.

Chapter End Notes

Hello, I did not get eaten by a python while in the Everglades, but I did see a really cool cottonmouth snake that was at least 6 feet long. I have a video of it. I also saw SO MANY TURTLES. I've re-written this fic to be all about turtles. Just kidding. But. Turtles are really cool. I actually saw a lot of great animals in the Everglades, but no mammals (besides humans and maybe a dog and also dolphins) becaue the invasive pythons at 90% of the mammals in the Everglades INCLUDING DEER. Did you come here for facts about snakes? I assume you did. Why else would anyone be reading a gay hockey boys fic???

You know who would totally be down to talk about invasive pythons with me? Shane Hollander.

Anyway, more to the point, Shane did his best, and that was very good, as usual. Good job, Shane.

OH WAIT ONE MORE THING there is art coming from Aaliyah Sparrow WAIT more things. Tumblr link for this fic and the Playlist on Spotify

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Shane gets home from New York. He takes another shift holding Arthur so Jackie can get some sleep while Hayden’s on a roadie. He goes to trivia on Friday night. He goes to the farmers market on Saturday morning to buy local apples and fresh bread.

His mom comes to Montreal for the day. They have lunch and discuss the meeting with Rolex and next steps to secure the Rozanov account.

She has been talking with Ilya’s agent, who is increasingly friendly to the idea of Hollander PR becoming the firm that handles special brand relationships. Ilya has another group for the standard hockey gear, sports drink, and dumbass burger ads that he’s already been doing.

“Honestly, he’s outgrown his agent, especially with his cup win last year,” Yuna Hollander says over her salad with apples and walnuts and neatly sliced sections of chicken. “The more I look at it all, the more it pisses me off that the Raiders aren’t giving him more support in all this. He’s working his ass off to win them games, and on top of that, he’s navigating all this bureaucracy in his second language. His agent’s a dinosaur who should have had the humility to replace herself two years ago. The whole thing is a mess.”

She’s annoyed, but also excited. His mom would say she doesn’t like messes, but she does like challenges.

“It creates an opening for us, one I’m surprised no one’s moved into sooner.”

“If Ilya’s agent is too small for his career, aren’t we too?” Shane asks. “Maybe we’d be better off telling him to find someone bigger than us with more experience in the US market?”

His mom considers him. “Maybe. Maybe. But clearly Ilya doesn’t know what he’s worth. What if he goes with a big firm and gets eaten up in that bureaucracy? I wonder how many people he really has in his corner.” She takes a bite of salad and chews thoughtfully before speaking again. “The fact that he’s kept his agent this long means he appreciates stability and a personal touch. We can provide that personal touch, Shane.”

Shane holds his face still to hide his thoughts re: personal touches and Ilya Rozanov.

“We’ll get him Rolex, we’ll get him set up with other luxury brands. If he wants to move on from us after we create that foundation for him, that’s his right. There’s a way to play this so everyone ends up in a better place even if the relationship is short-term.”

“That makes sense, Mom. That’s a good goal,” Shane says, and then takes a giant bite of his own salad.

“So, tell me about the conference. I’ve only heard the basics. Speaking of personal touches, did you and Rozanov get to spend any quality time together outside of the Rolex meeting?”

Shane coughs and almost spits his salad out. By the time he’s done coughing, he’s thought of an answer, “Like you said, hockey keeps him busy. But I went to a great session on representing women in sports I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

“I love it. Definitely an untapped market,” his mom says, leaning forward with interest.

…

So now Shane and his mom are suddenly punching way above their weight class with an incredibly charismatic hockey star and a shockingly wide-open field for potential partnerships.

Which, everything else aside, is really fucking badass. He’s not going to let his personal life ruin this for his mom. Like his mom said, there’s a way to play this so everyone benefits, as long as he doesn’t get his hopes up that it’s going to be long term.

He makes contact with Tom Ford and gets a package together to show to Ilya’s agent. Tom Ford is interested, which is. Holy shit. Tom Ford.

He works on paperwork and details back and forth with Rolex. The tropical beach photoshoot thing is really happening, apparently; they’re negotiating Ilya’s schedule with his agent. Which, again, holy shit. Tropical photoshoot with Rolex.

He starts cold-calling vodka companies. He’s surprised that most of them call him back, but apparently that was savvy, because now he’s negotiating between four companies to see who offers the most lucrative deal, because Ilya can only be the face of one Russian vodka looking to build their presence in the US.

He spends two hours on the phone with his mom making a list of products and brands they think Ilya might like, and starts a slide deck with pros and cons for each one.

When he makes pitch decks like this for other players, he usually adds their photo to the slides to help them imagine themselves promoting the brand. The pictures of Ilya are too distracting, though; he likes looking at them way too much.

He leaves the photos out. Ilya seems to have a good imagination.

…

He goes to trivia night the next Friday and meets KyungSun’s friend Jeremy. Jeremy is a nice guy, but not a once-in-a-generation talented hockey player with soft hands and a quick wit and a rolling, sensual Russian accent who really does look uncannily similar to Michelangelo’s David.

That is a very specific and high standard to hold a man to, which is not fair to Jeremy. Shane feels bad, but not that bad. Jeremy goes home with someone else, and they win at trivia again, so it all works out fine.

Ilya does not text him. Or DM. Whatever. He doesn’t even have the guy’s phone number.

…

Jackie has finally gotten a night nanny to come by on the nights when Hayden is on a roadie. The concept of a night nanny is both something Shane never thought about and immediately the most obvious thing that he’s ever heard of.

So the next time Shane heads to the Pikes’, she looks like Jackie Pike, his best friend, and not like a shadowy, sleep-deprived ghost of herself trying to squint at him from behind a haunted, foggy glass. She’s got Arthur asleep in the baby carrier on her chest, but she’s bouncing up and down cheerfully, and her smile reaches her eyes. It’s a relief to see.

He doesn’t mention how much better she looks. He knows from experience that that is rude; that would imply he’d been thinking she had looked bad before, which is not really the case. He was just worried. He does say, “Are you getting any more sleep since the night nanny’s been coming around?”

“Oh my god, yes. Have you heard of it? Sleep? It’s better than sex. My god. People are out there fighting wars for sex and money when the real treasure is sleep.”

Shane laughs. “I brought you guys falafel wraps. You said the twins eat that, right?”

“They loved falafel two weeks ago, so maybe a twenty percent chance they will eat it today,” Jackie says cheerily. “How about you?”

“I liked falafel in the past, and there is a ninety percent chance I will enjoy it today,” Shane answers. Shane has actually gotten himself some kind of chickpea-based salad.

Jackie laughs. “No, how much sleep, sex, and money are you getting? I feel like I haven’t had a conversation with you since we went to the game together; I’ve been so out of it with the kids.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says.

Jackie gives him a look. “Sleep, sex, and money,” she repeats, ticking them off on her fingers impatiently. Arthur’s fuzzy little head shifts sleepily against her chest. He can hear the twins singing and banging on something up in their room.

Shane answers as he follows Jackie into the kitchen. “Okay. Sleeping good, mostly. No complaints there. Got, um, actually on the money front, I had a meeting with—okay, don’t kill me.”

“I think you know I know better than to make that kind of promise,” Jackie says. She’s laying out falafel wraps on plates for the twins. She rolls her eyes dramatically when she sees Shane’s salad at the bottom of the brown paper bag. “Tell me about the meeting,” she asks as she starts cutting up an apple and plating the slices alongside the falafel.

“Well, it was with Rolex. And.”

Jackie looks over at him and narrows her eyes. “Why are you nervous to tell me about a boring work meeting with Rolex?”

Shane winces. “Because it was with Ilya Rozanov and Rolex. And maybe I might also be trying to schedule meetings with Rozanov and Tom Ford. And maybe Rozanov and a vodka company.”

Jackie’s mouth opens, and then she closes it, and then closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath, blows it out. She sets the knife she was using to slice the apple gently on the table.

“I’m sure that’s very good for your company. He’s very high profile,” she says calmly, her eyes still closed.

“I know you hate him.”

Her eyes fly open. “He calls Hayden a pigeon! He plays for Boston! He coos, Shane, he coos at my husband!” Her voice has gone a little shrieky. Arthur stirs on her chest again.

“It’s really good for the company,” Shane steers Jackie back to that.

Jackie sighs and pours two glasses of milk and sets them at the table. She grabs a ginger ale and a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge and sets them down at the other two places.

“Is this because I told you his social media was bad? This is my fault, isn’t it? I could tell you were way too interested in that. What, did you go straight home from the bar and write up a proposal and send it to his agent?”

Shane scratches his nose. “Something close to that, yeah.”

She picks the knife back up and points it at him. “Don’t you dare tell Hayden I had anything to do with this.”

“Why can’t Uncle Shane tell Daddy?” a little voice chirps up, and Shane sees Jade and Ruby have appeared.

“Uncle Shane! Hayden is my daddy!” Ruby announces. Each girl grabs one of his legs to hug, making it really hard for him to reach down and hug them back. He manages, getting a handful of kid in each arm.

“Hayden is your daddy!” Jackie echoes joyfully, and then looks at Shane as she says in a singsong, “and Hayden is Uncle Shane’s friend! Yay! It is so special to have friends! And so fun to not betray our friends by having business meetings where you are literally promoting their worst enemy!”

“There is a song about friends!” Jade more or less shouts in Shane’s ear.

He smiles. “Will you sing it for me?”

“No,” Jade answers.

“Not me, either,” adds Ruby.

“Fair. That’s fair,” Shane says. “I respect that.”

“No songs for you,” Jackie says cheerfully. “You don’t deserve music!”

Arthur wakes up for real and starts fussing.

Shane ushers the twins to sit at the table. Jackie says, “Shane, eat your bowl of beans and vinegar quickly while I feed Arthur, and then you’re holding him while I eat, otherwise he’s going to be covered in tzatziki drips and he already suffers enough indignities, you know?”

Shane nods. Jackie gets the carrier down and Arthur latched on in a smooth, practiced movement.

Shane starts on his chickpea salad.

Arthur slaps one fat little baby hand lazily against Jackie’s throat as he nurses, which she ignores as she encourages the girls to eat.

Shane likes baby cuddles, he does. Babies are cute and warm and relatively easy to read—knowing the difference between crying and not crying will get you pretty far as far as baby social cues. Babies are impossible to offend by asking them to sign an NDA or whatever stupid thing Shane might think of to alienate grown-up people. Babies can’t ghost you on Instagram because babies don’t have Instagram.

So he is happy to scoop up his sort-of-nephew when Jackie tells him to, and to bounce-walk him around the room when Jackie turns on Hayden’s game. He watches the game, eats the plastic play food the twins prepare for him, and holds Arthur up so he can take it all in with his bright, serious eyes.

Montreal wins their game against Columbus. Right after the game, Jacinthe the night nanny appears and Jackie and the children disappear upstairs with her.

Shane watches the post- and then pre-game content while he waits. There’s another game after Hayden’s. A game the Boston Raiders are playing.

Shane is trying to feel neutral about the talking heads speculating on what tactics to expect from Ilya Rozanov, a guy that Shane has had an absolutely fantastic one-night stand with. He’s used to seeing his athlete friends on TV. There’s no reason it has to be different with Ilya.

It is different, of course.

A half hour later, Jackie comes back downstairs alone. “I love her,” Jackie says fervently. “Jacinthe is my favorite person on the planet, and not just because if she hadn’t been willing to work with us my parents would have had to move in. Have a drink with me to celebrate.”

“I shouldn’t,” Shane says, but he’s on the fence. He kind of really wants to get drunk and watch Ilya play hockey, for reasons he is not interested in analyzing. “I drove.”

“Order a ride home, and come get your car tomorrow. Or sleep in the guest room. I’m making us mixed drinks. Whiskey ginger?” Jackie asks. “Wait—a Moscow Mule?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a mixed drink with vodka and ginger ale, perfect for your new boyfriend, Ilya fucking Rozanov.”

Shane looks at her with wide, panicked eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he says quickly, too quickly, but Jackie’s digging around in the fridge.

“I don’t have copper mugs. Do you want coffee cups or a glass? I’m not sure how integral the handle is to the Moscow Mule drink experience,” Jackie calls from the kitchen area.

“I have absolutely no idea and no opinion on cup handles,” Shane calls back.

Okay. Calling Ilya his boyfriend was apparently a one-off joke. He has not triggered Jackie’s uncanny parental sixth sense for trouble.

Her reaction time must still be slow due to the sleep deprivation, but he’ll take the win.

Jackie returns with two coffee mugs, a lime wedge on the rim of each one. Shane takes a tentative sip; it’s pretty good. He would like it better without the vodka, but the ginger ale and lime are nice.

“So, Money: you’re killing it with the hottest client in the NHL, somehow? I hate it, but for the record, I support you and I’m happy for your company. And I want to hear more about that. You covered the category of Sleep, but how’s Sex? We got interrupted.”

“I want to hear about how you’re doing. How’s Jacinthe working out?”

“I know how I’m doing; the kids are incredibly cute and incredibly boring,” Jackie waves a hand impatiently. “Adult gossip. Did you hook up with any hot PR guys in New York last week?”

Shane takes a gulp of his drink and shifts in his seat.

Jackie crows.

“You’re so obvious! Random guy or someone you want to see again?”

Shane considers. He decides to be at least somewhat honest. “I would be interested in seeing him again, but I don’t think it’s likely. And I’m okay with that. It was a nice time.”

“Why is it not likely? Where does he live?”

Shane hesitates, because right now the “he” that Jackie is referring to is on her TV, skating around the ice during warmups while the camera zooms in on his exquisite jawline and an announcer runs through his (excellent) stats for the last few games. He looks younger, somehow, than he did in Shane’s hotel room. Maybe it’s because all his hair is now tucked into his helmet.

“He lives in Boston,” he says. Ilya is saying something to another player. It’s Marleau, his roommate who snores. It seems serious, but then Ilya’s face transforms to a mischievous grin. Marleau punches Ilya on the shoulder and Ilya skates away.

Jackie makes a sad noise. “Boston is closer than California? At least it’s in the same time zone?”

Shane nods. “If I’m ever that way, I will probably be in touch to see if he has any time to hang out.” Shane takes another sip of his drink, considering how to put it. “He’s an interesting guy. Our paths might cross for professional reasons, so hooking up again is probably a bad idea, but he’s someone I wouldn’t mind getting to know as a friend or at least having a friendly professional relationship with.”

“Very mature. Do you have a picture?”

“No, that’s weird. We hooked up once.”

“The man must have a digital footprint.”

“I don’t want to get into that right now,” Shane says. Which is true.

Jackie huffs in mostly-fake annoyance, but the puck drops, and conversation is done for now.

During the first commercial break, Jackie says, “Does your Boston boy know about your Rozanov thing? Does he hate you for it?”

Shane looks at her in confusion.

“That Rozanov might become your client? I assume that’s like the holy grail of Boston sports PR guys. He’d be dying of jealousy, right?”

Shane considers. “Rozanov is definitely one of the holy grails of the Boston sports world. I mean, there’s only one holy grail, technically, in the myth, but of course Boston has a robust sports culture beyond hockey, so there would be multiple in the Boston context. Rozanov is for sure one of them.”

“Oh god, is that your polite way of telling me you hooked up with a guy who’s into baseball instead of hockey? Please, Shane, no.”

Shane laughs. “I would be incredibly surprised if he is into baseball. We didn’t talk about it.”

“Okay, text him and confirm, because if he’s obsessed with baseball you can’t date him, I can’t have that in my life. It’s the worst sport and grown men that are obsessed with baseball are all horrible.”

Shane laughs. “We’re not dating and he’s not obsessed with baseball. He likes hockey.”

“Okay! I knew it! So he is gonna be insane about the fact that you have Ilya Rozanov as a client! And that’s why you are afraid to talk to him even though you like him!”

Somehow Shane’s drink is empty. “Stop asking me questions. You got me drunk and you’re trying to take advantage of me.”

“I’m practicing for when the kids are teenagers. I have to be skilled at this kind of interrogation.”

“You’re going to get your teenagers drunk?”

“I have a few kinks in the plan I need to iron out. I have time.”

“I believe in you,” Shane says, and Jackie toasts their empty cups, realizes they are empty, and heads to the kitchen to make another round.

By third period, Jackie is asleep with her head on a pillow in his lap, and Shane is free to focus on Ilya as much as he wants.

It’s 3-2 with Vegas over the Raiders. All the goals were scored in the first period. It’s been a frustratingly tight game since the early flurry of action. Shane watches Ilya closely. He looks slow. His push-offs aren’t as explosive as they usually are in the clips he’s been watching. His stance isn’t as deep. His mechanics are off, and he’s pretty much stopped using his crossovers. If Shane was there, at the rink, he would look at Ilya’s edges to see what evidence they show of the altered mechanics of his skating. Stupid cameras always show the wrong stuff.

Most likely injured, though. Probably knee, based on his stiff stance. No wonder they can’t seem to score.

There’s less than two minutes left in the game, and Vegas is still up by one. Shane sighs, but that’s hockey for you. Your team isn’t always gonna win. He is trying to decide if he should sit here all night with Jackie’s head in his lap, because he’ll feel terrible if he wakes her up and she can’t get back to sleep, but what if she wakes up with a sore neck? That would be worse, probably? He’ll have to wake her.

He’s considering the best way to do that when a flurry of movement on the screen catches his eye.

Ilya is in a battle for a loose puck at center ice, and then he has it on a breakaway. His crossovers are textbook gorgeous as he careens by two Vegas defensemen and takes a shot on the goalie.

The puck bounces off the goalie’s outstretched pad, and Shane winces, and then says, “No shit!” because Ilya takes the rebound and backhands the puck right back. This time it soars over the goalie’s glove and into the net.

Art by Britbrit99

“Let’s go!” Shane shouts. He bounces in his seat and pumps his fist in triumph, which has the effect of sliding Jackie mostly off his lap. He looks down guiltily, but she somehow hasn’t woken up.

Shane slides out from under his friend and moves closer to the TV. He can feel the energy of the Vegas stadium all the way in fucking Montreal, it’s insane. Ilya has brought his team up to a tie with thirty seconds left in the game. Right in time to force an overtime.

Ilya isn’t on the sudden death team—all the more reason to assume there’s an injury at play, Shane thinks, his eyes flicking across the screen. He’s so annoyed he’s not there: he needs to see it, to feel it up close. The camera is showing the action on the ice, which makes sense, it’s a sudden death overtime and the play is frantic, manic, but Shane is trying to psychically will the broadcasters to show Ilya on the bench; he needs to see Ilya’s face.

He pulls his phone out.

Shane: holy shit!

Shane: that goal on the rebound was a fucking beauty

Shane: how’s your knee? I’m guessing left knee. You should rest it. I hope you didn’t make it worse on that last breakaway

Fuck.

The thing about Shane is that he has incredible impulse control. He is a structured, precise person. He likes this about himself. It’s the kind of thing you can’t say out loud because everyone at the bar will start making sex jokes about it, but Shane likes discipline. It’s something he takes a lot of pride in.

He had told himself he wasn’t going to bother Ilya by texting him. He would just respond if Ilya did, but not initiate. But once again, his hands aren’t obeying him.

Fucking Ilya Rozanov is fucking with his fucking brain.

The messages are too desperate, too sappy, maybe. Too something. He’ll say something flippant.

Shane: you know what’s cooler though? ricocheting the puck in off a helmet

That was too flippant. That was dumb. That makes no sense.

Jesus Christ.

He quickly opens a browser to check; it doesn’t look like you can unsend messages on Instagram, which is the worst. What is wrong with people who own social media companies? What a bunch of sadistic fucks.

Vegas scores, ending the game. Shane swears. The camera finally cuts to Ilya on the bench; the captain observing the moment his team let go of the chance he’d given them. His face is stoic. He’s showing nothing. The utter neutrality is, Shane thinks, as much of a tell as anything.

Ilya’s face is so expressive when he wants to be.

Shane has a brief sense memory of Ilya’s face that night in the hotel.

Shane: I’m sorry, that fucking hurts to watch all the way from Montreal. You’ll get the next one.

He does a couple of box breaths to collect himself. He switches off the TV. He needs to focus on the task at hand.

He sets a hand gently on Jackie’s shoulder. “Hey Jacks, if you don’t move up to your bed, you’re gonna hate yourself in the morning.”

“No,” Jackie slurs, her eyes shut tight.

“Yep,” Shane says. Jackie doesn’t stir.

If Shane didn’t have a fucked-up knee, he could maybe carry her, she’s pretty fucking small, but he can’t risk it. And maybe it’s weird to carry your friend’s wife into her bed when your friend is away on a work trip.

He’s pretty sure neither Jackie nor Hayden would give a fuck, though. It’s mainly his bum knee stopping him.

He eventually gets Jackie awake enough that she heads to bed. He catches a ride-share home. He goes to bed. He stares at the ceiling and thinks about all the things Ilya said to him when they were in that NYC hotel room.

Chapter End Notes

Some things: Tumblr link for this fic and the Playlist on Spotify

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

When his alarm goes off at 5 am, his phone is open to Instagram before he's even aware he's awake. Ilya has messaged. God. What if he's telling Shane to go away and never come back?

Rozanov81: i see you pay close attention to my body

Rozanov81: game is game. We do not win them all. We are better team. Vegas knows this. Everyone knows this.

The time stamp shows a half-hour break before the next message.

Rozanov81: part of your hockey game is on YouTube. From when you are child playing for Canada in 2006 Junior World Cup

Rozanov81: beautiful goal against Finland. The announcer in video says it is thinking man's goal. They say Shane Hollander is smartest kid in hockey in 2006. Probably true yes?

Rozanov81: I don't remember. I might have been happy you were hurt. You were competition. Or maybe no one tells me

Rozanov81: but now I am sorry. Is bad to see this talent wasted by some Finnish bastard from hell

Rozanov81: Shane Hollander goes to bed early I think.

Shane has so many feelings he can't feel anything at all.

He reads the text chain a few times through. He then re-reads all of their messages to try to put it all in context.

He still feels too messy.

He decides to go swimming and then eat breakfast and then maybe he can touch whatever the fuck that series of messages is.

…

The water is the same temperature as always, the lanes the same length, but something about the texture as he cuts through it feels wrong. Sluggish. Uncomfortable. His turnover rate feels too fast and then too slow. His flip turns are sloppy, too much drag. It makes him feel gross. Messy.

Or maybe it's not the flip turns that are messing with his head right now.

He doesn't like the fact that that game is on the Internet, and he doesn't like the fact that Ilya watched it. That whole period in his life is foggy, and not just from the concussion. He scared the shit out of his parents, but he got through it. He lived, and eventually he was glad he lived.

Athletes get injured and can't play anymore every day. He knows plenty of people celebrated his injury in some way—it's natural. He knows plenty of people feel sorry for him—also natural. He feels sorry for anyone that goes through a major injury that limits their ability to play their sport. That's reasonable.

It's all reasonable because many things that happen in life are both terrible and reasonable.

That’s just how the odds work. Even when the odds are on your side, sometimes you draw the short straw. There's no one in charge of statistics that you can be mad at; there's no secretary at the front desk to take your strongly-worded letter to argue that you were special. That you should have been kept safe from statistics when you were fifteen. You can't bargain with statistics and there's no way to control them.

What you can control is how prepared you are.

He focuses on his breath, on his form as he cuts through the water, on lengthening his neck on the final stroke before the turn, on making his movements snappier. He knows this. He knows how to swim with efficient, powerful strokes.

Eventually his mind clears and it's all rote. He feels the rhythm slide into place.

His watch alarm tells him it's been an hour. He considers adding a half hour to make up for the sloppy swimming at the start, but he's tired.

…

He gets back to his apartment. He makes a smoothie and a coffee. He sits down with his phone.

Shane: thanks but it was so long ago. It's so weird that old footage is still on the Internet. You're possibly the only person that's ever watched it

He's going to think of some other stuff to say, but Ilya replies right away

Rozanov81: has 11 000 views

Shane takes a long sip of smoothie. And then a sip of coffee. He rubs his face.

Shane: fuck that's fucking weird

Rozanov81: are you hungover? Get drunk watching game?

Shane: I watched the game at my friend Jackie's house. Actually Jackie Pike. Hayden Pike's wife.

Shane doesn't know why he wants Ilya to know that.

Rozanov81: Pike with Montreal Metros?

Shane: yes. Don't say anything too mean about him he's my friend

Rozanov81: he is good little pigeon. Keeps bench very warm. So cozy

Shane: fuck you he's a first line winger!

Rozanov81: ok. Good for him

Shane: that's almost worst than you chirping him

Rozanov81: ok

Shane: how is your knee ?

Rozanov81: so you can tell Hayden Pike?

Shane: no! Never.

Rozanov81: then why are you obsessed with my knee

Shane: probably because I have a pre-disposed reason to care about knee injuries. If it was your elbow I wouldn't give a fuck

Rozanov81: I am resting two days. We have no game so is fine. Boring. It will be better. check from Hughes in second period fucked it some but not so much

Shane: sucks

Rozanov81: come entertain me. we talk about ugly new cufflinks that come in mail today

Ilya texts a picture of a pair of tacky cufflinks with the Rolex logo. They are indeed in Boston’s colors, black, gold, and red.

Shane: sorry is that annoying? Now you have to wear them I guess.

Rozanov81: no is good. Wealth in gold jewelry can not be taken away. Good investment

Shane stares at that for a minute.

Shane: you sound like a refugee or something. You also have actual investments like in the stock market, right? Those are insured and also can not be taken away?

Rozanov81: sure sure

Shane: do you have like a financial advisor you work with? If you invest well at this point in your career you'd be set for life within a few years. Gold is one kind of investment sure but compounding dividends are a better bet.

Shane: I mean the most likely thing is you play till you're 40 but you don't have control over that. You need to be saving through strategies beyond collecting gold cufflinks

Rozanov81: many beautiful women send me proposals on social media. And men. Many sexy dms

Shane: Sounds rough

Art by BritBrit99

Rozanov81: none ever mention compounding interest or conversion rates

Shane: you didn't have to message me back

Rozanov81: I think maybe I did

Rozanov81: 1hr 25 min flight from Montreal to Boston. I am so bored. 🥱 You fly here. Come tell me about your pounding interest

Shane: compounding interest

Rozanov81: your interest in pounding yes

Shane: I can send you some YouTube videos about conversion rates and compounding interest and save myself 3 hours on a plane and $500

Rozanov81: I buy ticket. Of course. Uber. everything.

Rozanov81: we can talk about your work. I have been thinking about cologne. I wear excellent cologne. Very good taste. They should pay me to wear cologne yes? You make them pay me

Shane: why don't you have any cologne sponsorships that's insane

Rozanov81: help me Shane Hollander Swims you're my only hope

Shane: oh wow you're a star wars nerd

Rozanov81: Star wars is cool lightsavers are cool

Shane: it's light sabers. With a “B” A saber is a type of sword. Usually one with a curved blade, but in the Star Wars context obviously the blades are straight.

Rozanov81: I don't care

Shane: I have work today

Rozanov81: obviously. work to help me get cologne money

Shane: I can do that from Montreal

Rozanov81: 😢🤕🤕

Rozanov81: I am very injured

Shane: then I definitely shouldn't come to Boston I don't want to injure you worse

Rozanov81: how would you injure me worse? Tell me

Shane: never mind

Rozanov81: 😛

Shane: you are ridiculous

Rozanov81: my tongue is not injured only sad. No Shane Hollander Swims 🍑

Shane: I don't even have your phone number

Ilya immediately DMs a string of numbers.

Shane feels a wave of vertigo. What the actual fuck.

Here’s the thing. It's Friday. He works from home on Fridays. No one is going to know where he is. But there is trivia tonight and he told Alyssa he would be at trivia. He has dinner with the Pikes on Sunday, and Hayden will actually be there, and he misses Hayden. He has a phone date with his dad on Saturday morning, though obviously he could take that from anywhere. But he goes to the farmers market on Saturday morning.

None of those things are things he can't skip. But…

Why is he even considering this?

He saves the number in his phone as Ilya.

Shane: I can't tell if you're serious

Rozanov81: 😐

Rozanov81: I look up serious in faces. this is me 😐 serious

Shane: that is the silliest way to try and appear serious that I have ever seen

Rozanov81: I am serious of course I want beautiful sexy man to be my sexy nurse

Shane: you shouldn't put stuff like that in writing what if my phone was hacked?

Rozanov81: you have 500 passwords on phone and emergency plan for this. Your phone is safe from hacks

Shane: you have no way to know that for sure

Rozanov81: i think I know

Shane: okay what if your phone is hacked?

Rozanov81: then is problem for my new PR firm

Shane: oh my god

Ilya sends a photo of his legs stretched out in front of him, propped up on a coffee table, his left knee piled high with ice packs. A huge TV is on in the distance. Shane can't make out what he's watching, because the focus is on—

Jesus Christ.

The focus is on his tented gym shorts.

Rozanov81: you kneel on couch I suck your dick

Shane slams his phone face-down on the counter. He looks at the oven clock. Fuck, it's almost ten in the morning. He's supposed to be working!

Shane calls the number.

If it isn't Ilya's number, if he's being catfished or whatever, he'll know, and this will be done with.

“Who calls me from Canada? Is it reporter who has hacked my phone?” It's Ilya's voice, low and sexy, rich with his perfect fucking accent.

“You're a fucking asshole,” Shane says.

“If you want big scoop on how Ilya Rozanov likes to suck dick, you need to be more polite than that, unknown Canadian number.”

This was such a mistake.

“That's not why I called,” Shane says.

“Hmm, why did you call?” Ilya's voice is low. Shane wants to feel his chest while he talks, see if he can feel the rumble of his voice through his hands, through his tongue on Ilya's throat.

“Because you are—” Shane is not the best with words at any time. He's completely run out.

“Because you want my mouth on your dick,” Ilya hums.

Shane takes a breath. “I should be working right now.”

“But you are not,” Ilya says.

“I am not.”

“Because of me.”

“Because of you.”

“You are home?”

“I work from home on Fridays, so, yes.”

“Go to your bedroom.”

“I thought you wanted me to go to Boston.”

He hears Ilya take a breath in. “If I let you on plane so hot, maybe some other hockey player scoops you away from me. You need to first release tension.”

“That's ridiculous,” Shane says, and then rubs his hand over his face.

“You suck at phone sex,” Ilya says thoughtfully. “Is okay. I like challenge. Are you in your bedroom yet?”

There's a thousand reasons he shouldn't, but Shane wants to know what will happen next. He walks to his bedroom. He lays back against his headboard, arranges the pillows around him. Shane puts his phone on speaker and turns it up all the way. He needs to hear everything.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m in my bedroom. In my bed.”

“You have nice lube, from New York?” Ilya asks. “Your cock feels good with this lube. Feel it for me. Touch yourself.”

“Okay,” Shane says. He gets the lube from the nightstand drawer, gets two pumps of the cool, slick liquid in his right hand, and warms it up with his palms.

“I want you to feel how you felt in my hands, in New York,” Ilya hums. “Is good memory.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, and then he gasps.

“Yes, da, this. Good.” Ilya takes a big breath of his own, makes a soft noise. “Do you miss my dick?”

“I think you know,” Shane says. “I called you.”

“Tell me anyway,” Ilya challenges, and speaks slowly, like Shane might not understand. “Do you like my dick?”

“Yes,” Shane manages. He remembers Ilya saying he sucked at phone sex, and feels something like competition flare up. He can do this.

“Yes, you made me come so fucking hard,” Shane says, which is true. He closes his eyes. He tries to imagine Ilya fucking him, sucking Ilya off, Ilya's hand on him, Ilya's mouth. It's not hard; it's where his mind always wants to go lately.

It’s nothing new, his hand, but with his eyes closed, and Ilya’s voice, it feels more intense, incredible. He lets the pleasure build; a moan escapes his lips.

“Hmm, you are beautiful when you come,” Ilya says. “And beautiful sounds. Let me hear, Zaika.”

Shane’s eyes fly open and his hand pauses. “My name is Shane,” he corrects. Ugh. He knows Ilya is probably fucking a million different people, and that’s fine, but he can at least get his fucking name right.

“Yes, Shane,” Ilya echoes. He makes a soft moan.

“You called me Zaika?”

“Yes, is Russian, means, doesn't matter, means I want to hear you come,” Ilya's voice is tight. He sounds so turned on.

Shane blows out a breath.

“Faster,” Ilya says. Shane begins moving his hand again, hesitant at first, then speeding up. “You have good mouth,” Ilya adds, his voice frayed.

“Yeah?” Shane says, and then he feels a competitive flare. “Tell me about my mouth.”

“Beautiful. Prekrasnyy. Looks good,” Ilya says, and Shane is back on board, leaning his head back. “Looks good on my dick.”

Ilya is quiet, and Shane is quiet, except Shane can hear quiet gasps, and it’s almost like the sound of his own slick hand is Ilya, and he breathes out, “Holy shit.”

“Da,” Ilya says, “yes,” and the slip into Russian makes Shane feel a hot satisfaction, a bravery.

“You close?” he asks shakily.

“Mmm,” Ilya says back, “yes. Close.”

“Same,” Shane says and then he doesn't think about trying to talk, he just thinks about strong hands, a hot slippery slide, a twist, and growing heat. Ilya's strong thighs tensed in pleasure, his forearms, the line of his neck with his head tilted back, his mouth open.

“Fuck, Shane Hollander,” Ilya groans, and hearing his full name, it's some kind of magic, a confirmation.

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, and that's what does it. He doesn't think about the sounds he's making, just on how good it feels. How good he hopes Ilya feels.

“Yes, come,” Ilya says, his voice twisted and then he’s moaning and it’s the sexiest thing Shane’s ever heard, like it’s Ilya’s hand on him, that the sounds through the phone are Ilya’s hot breath along his neck. He comes.

Shane pants into the quiet morning.

“That was so fucking hot,” Shane says, and his voice sounds adoring. Maybe Ilya won't notice.

“Yes,” Ilya breathes.

Shane slowly drifts on that, until he starts to realize that he's got come on him, yuck, and it's a fucking work day and he just had phone sex with one of his clients and it's not even eleven in the morning.

“I can't believe we just did that,” Shane says before he can stop himself.

“Hmm, yes. Am trapped on couch and sticky. You are bad influence.”

“I'm a bad influence?” Shane is incredulous.

“Mm. Yes. Trouble.”

“You are trouble. I should be working right now.”

“No, you should be coming to Boston and bringing me wet towel to clean up,” Ilya smirks.

Shane can't see his face, but he can tell he's smirking.

“There's gotta be some kind of local service that can help you with that,” Shane says. “DoorDash.”

Ilya laughs. “You get me sponsorship with DoorDash, I make commercial about this helpful service.”

Shane laughs too. His limbs feel light and easy. He smiles up at his bedroom ceiling. “If you'd stop interrupting my work day, I could get on that.”

Ilya begins speaking in a mock formal voice, like a cheesy spokesperson. “Hello. I am very famous hockey player, and every time I come all over couch when my knee is wrapped in ice, I call stranger from DoorDash to clean up.”

Shane laughs, lets his head fall back and laughs again. “Ten thousand gig workers just shuddered in horror and they don't know why.”

Ilya laughs, deep and rich. Pretty. Shane sighs.

“I really should do some work,” he says.

“Yes. Otherwise everyone will find out how much trouble you are.”

“Fuck you,” Shane laughs.

“Hmm. Next time,” Ilya says, and hangs up.

And that's that.

Shane sighs and grins up at the ceiling.

He picks up his phone so he can check for whatever work emails he's missed.

But first he looks up zayka Russian translate. He frowns at the results.

“Little bunny! Are you serious?!”

Rude. Shane is a grown man. But. At least Ilya wasn't calling him by someone else's name. Apparently it means, like, honey. Sweetie.

He was calling Shane something sweet.

He then remembers about puck bunnies and feels annoyed again at the possibility that Ilya was trying to imply that meaning of bunny. Shane is not a puck bunny. Not that there's anything wrong with puck bunnies, but Shane is a man, for one, and for two, he's not waiting around after a game trying to catch Ilya's attention.

Not that he doesn't want Ilya's attention.

Fuck. He makes a note to research Russian pet names more so he can decide how annoyed he is about the zaika thing.

Shane then realizes he may have left something up in the air. He texts Ilya's phone number, which he now has.

Shane: to be clear I am not going to Boston this weekend.

Ilya: 😢

Shane: send me a list of your ten favorite colognes

Ilya: ahh, you want your pillow to smell like me?

Shane: fuck off. to research dumbass. To get you brand partnerships

Shane: why would I want my pillow to smell like hockey feet

Ilya: I smell good

Shane: you might after we get you these brand partnerships

…

An hour later, Ilya texts him a list of colognes and Shane starts a spreadsheet to track outreach. He drafts a proposal for the cologne work and sends it to his mom to get her eyes on it before he launches that into action.

He briefly considers going to a store and sampling some of the colognes so he can figure out the one Ilya was wearing during their hook up.

He spends a lot of time staring into space thinking about how incredibly fucking hot Ilya Rozanov is.

…

Shane hasn't had that many crushes, really, but the thing about them that always seemed cruel is that when you have a crush on someone, it is deeply weird and creepy to start researching them on the internet. And he gets that, because he doesn't like the idea of people learning things about him without him knowing.

So it makes sense, but it's also counterintuitive, because in most aspects of his life, his dedication to careful planning and research is a benefit.

It's all very disorienting, anyway, because right now, scrolling back through several years of his crush’s Instagram presence is literally Shane's job.

It's a unique situation.

He gets through Ilya's Instagram with a list of notes for sponsorship ideas and how to make the page more dynamic, how to make the voice more consistent so brands will feel more confident seeing their products fit in with Ilya’s ongoing narrative.

He moves onto his Wikipedia page, which mentions that Ilya's father is named Grigory Rozanov and that he has one brother and was raised in Moscow. No mention of a mom.

There's extensive stats and data about his international competitions as a teen and his NHL career and stats, but very little about his personal life.

Shane feels a twitchy need to learn more about Ilya. In part because Ilya deserves to have a more in-depth Wikipedia page—he’s an incredibly talented player. Shane could update it. Or not. Because probably Ilya hasn't talked about his childhood for his own reasons, and Shane can respect that.

Shane could ask himself a question like, “How is knowing about Ilya's childhood relevant to whether he might want to pursue a high-end luggage company partnership,” but he doesn't want to know the answer.

Anyway, Ilya spends most of his life traveling, so luggage sponsorship makes sense.

He clicks out of Wikipedia and adds Louis Vuitton luggage? to his list.

Louis Vuitton’s luggage is hideous to Shane, so he researches other stupidly expensive luggage brands and finds some options for more architecturally sleek and pragmatic $3,000 suitcases to add to his list.

Then he wonders how old Ilya was when he started playing hockey, and how old Ilya was when he started to learn how good he was. Whether he went to camps. Whether he had a parent that went with him on roadies like Shane always did. How he felt when he was nineteen and living on his own in a foreign country with his family thousands of miles away.

He thinks about how Ilya's voice sounded in his ear this morning when he told Shane to touch himself. He thinks about Ilya's hands, firm, strong, holding him tight when they were fucking in New York.

He opens a browser to look up flights from Montreal to Boston.

Then he realizes if he doesn't get moving he's going to be late for trivia night.

He sends over his slide deck of product partnership ideas to his mom for review and closes his laptop lid.

…

Saturday morning, he goes to the market, which has moved indoors for the season. He navigates the crowds to buy some local cheese and a loaf of bread. Ben, his apple guy, has McIntosh and Lobos this week, which are two of his favorite varieties of apples, and he likes them for different reasons—the McIntosh more tart and crisp, the Lobo more mild and juicy—so he’s really pleased about that. He chat with Ben about the apples, and about Ben's daughter, who just graduated with a degree in sports marketing, same as Shane, and now works for the Metros in social media. It's sweet how proud Ben is of his daughter and his apples.

Shane wishes Ilya was here to appreciate how endearing it is. He thinks that he would like to talk to Ilya about how many delicious flavors of apples you can get at his local market, and then he feels hot tears press into the sides of his eyes while he’s in line to buy some sweet potatoes, because, seriously dude? Is he fucking serious right now? How pathetic is he to think that Ilya Rozanov would give a fuck about Shane Hollander and his apple adventures?

He reminds himself that he and Ilya are just blowing off steam together.

He texts Jackie about the apples and offers to bring some over when he stops by tomorrow. Jackie texts back five exclamation points and that she would also like sweet potatoes if they have any.

…

Walking home from the farmers market with the amount of apples and sweet potatoes he’s purchased puts his gait off balance, which is not good for his fucked knee. Annoying.

Also, he keeps thinking of Ilya. What if he’d gone to Boston, what would they be doing right now? A hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.

He gets home and unloads his many kilos of produce.

He pulls out his phone.

Ilya did say he was bored and stuck on the couch.

It would actually be really efficient and professional for Shane to take advantage of this rare and timely window of downtime to have a meeting with Ilya to learn more about what he likes. He’s been researching Ilya, because that’s normal and expected for someone in his career. Usually all the boring early-stage stuff is handled via the agent to save the athlete stress and paperwork.

But usually the PR guy doesn’t have phone sex with his client.

So whatever.

…

Shane: Don't get any ideas, but if you are still bored today, we could do a call or video meeting to talk through potential new partnerships. I have a slide deck ready. I was going to run it by your agent next week to vet for you, but again if you have time to kill, it’s just an idea.

Ilya: not sure how useful i will be in meeting if I'm not allowed to have ideas

Shane: you know what I mean

Ilya: my mind is free of ideas please be more clear

Ilya: Marleau is visiting. I call in one hour.

Ilya: video please

Ilya: send link

…

Shane stares. Okay. Okay? Okay. He feels nerves on about fifty different levels. First, he’s going to have a video call with a cute boy he has a crush on. Second, he’s going to have a very important work meeting with a new and very high profile client. And also third, he hasn’t gotten his boss’s, aka his mom’s, approval on that slide deck, so he really shouldn’t be showing it to the client. He feels an echo of the comments Ilya has made about Shane working for his mother and feels—something he doesn’t want to touch.

Nope. He needs to stop listing out stressful things. That is not a productive way to calm down. He takes a deep breath, paces across the room. Time to lock in. He spends the next fifty minutes making adjustments to the slide deck, researching last-minute details, swapping out images of luxury luggage for images of different luxury luggage.

It’s fine, he decides. It’s good enough. He needs to keep it light and fun. He spends the last ten minutes before the video call doing side planks, because they strengthen the muscles that control the lateral movement of his knees, and because he needs to get some blood flowing before he fucking passes out.

He opens the video link and a moment later sees Ilya join.

“Hey,” Shane smiles. “How’s the knee?”

Ilya’s curls are loose and full, messier than the last time Shane saw him. He’s sitting on a couch with a big painting of some kind behind him. He looks great. He’s not wearing a shirt. Shane can see his collarbones, his gold necklace tracing along the arc of them, the cross resting on his chest.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya draws each syllable out, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Fuck, Shane wants to kiss that smirk. Lick it. Stick his nose against it. Anything, literally anything. “You wear glasses?”

Shane startles out of his fantasies of what he wants to do with Ilya’s smirk and whips his glasses off. He’d completely forgotten about them. “Not really. Mainly when I use the computer. Or read.”

“Glasses back on,” Ilya says, tapping the side of his forehead. The gold Rolex on his wrist catches the light.

“You want me to wear my glasses?” Shane is so confused right now.

“Hmm. Yes. They suit you.”

Shane puts his glasses back on.

Ilya nods with solemn approval. “Okay, good. Now you show me your slide deck of potential new partnerships that I am not going to get any ideas about.”

“I’m not going to show it to you if you’re going to be an asshole about it.”

“Me?” Ilya widens his eyes. “I am perfect audience. Very professional. You are the one who says swears in this important business meeting.”

“You’re not wearing a shirt in this important business meeting!” Shane should not be smiling at this absolute bullshit. He is smiling so broad his cheeks feel stretched.

Ilya tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “True. Probably you should take yours off. More businesslike, for you to match your client. Otherwise the client might feel bad. He didn’t know about formal dress code.”

Shane laughs and says, “I should take off my shirt so you can feel more comfortable.” He starts out sarcastic, incredulous, but by the time he’s done with the sentence he feels a hot twist in his gut and his voice is lower, more breathy.

Fucking Rozanov.

“No,” Shane says firmly. “I’m going through this slide deck. You’re giving me feedback. I’m going to take notes on your feedback.”

“Sounds very productive,” Ilya hums, and why does that sound so sexy? There’s not any innuendo there, that’s not a double entendre, but the way he says it makes Shane think absolutely filthy thoughts.

“It will be,” Shane says, and starts up his slide deck. “Okay, how do you feel about luggage?”

Ilya blows out a breath. “Bored. Very bored.”

“How do you feel about getting paid a million dollars to stand next to a suitcase?”

“Like this is a stupid amount of money for a picture,” Ilya says.

“No shit. It’s the dumbest. Wait till you see how much these ugly suitcases cost,” Shane says. “Okay, so Louis Vuitton would probably pay you the most, based on historic trends for athlete sponsorships across luxury luggage, but their stuff seems like it’s the ugliest, so if there is a brand you like better, I can try and get them to match the Louis Vuitton rates? Because I think they’ll expect you to use their luggage when you travel, so it’s probably best if you don’t totally hate it.”

Ilya smiles, a slow lazy thing. “You pick. For one million dollars, I don’t care what my luggage looks like.”

“I thought you might say that,” Shane says. He switches to the next slide, which features a handful of options. “Fabric, leather, or aviation-inspired aluminum?”

They speed through Ilya’s opinions on luggage, vodka brands, sports cars, skin care, hair care, fashion houses, and jewelry brands. Ilya’s feedback is useful, if interspersed with an unnecessary amount of sexual innuendo. The only strong opinion Shane gets is on the jewelry slide. Ilya pronounces a firm and immediate no when Shane asks if he would swap up his usual necklace for a more high-end one for post-games and events, but he is intrigued by the images of big, chunky rings Shane has assembled.

“Yes, I thought you might like those, and I think any company would want to see you in their pieces—you have beautiful hands,” Shane says absently, marking Ilya’s preferences in his notes.

“You like my hands?” Ilya asks.

Shane looks up from his notes and at Ilya on the screen and tries for stern. “Do you want to get through the rest of this or not?”

“Not really,” Ilya says, and he takes his lower lip in between his teeth. Shane follows the movement on the screen.

Shane decides to be honest. “Me either.”

“Such an important business meeting, and you still don’t make your client feel comfortable about dress code,” Ilya tsks.

“This is so inappropriate.” Shane shakes his head, and then closes out his slide show. He double-checks the call isn’t recording in any way whatsoever, reaches for the hem of his shirt, and pulls it off.

He expects Ilya to laugh, but his gaze is dark through the screen. “Touch yourself with your beautiful hands,” he says softly. “I want to watch.”

Shane does as he’s told. He’s always liked being good at following directions, and Ilya makes it easy for him to do a good job. Like the best coaching, things that he didn’t think were possible suddenly feel inevitable. Within minutes, Shane’s laptop is on the coffee table, his hand moves across his chest, slips lower, drawn by Ilya’s gentle murmurs that slide between Russian and English, his low, “Fuck, Hollander,” that makes Shane’s head fall back with a gasp.

Shane should feel ashamed of himself, but it’s all pretty soft words and hands, and he can’t. Not even at the end, when he’s just fucking come while on a goddamn work video call, and Ilya says, smug and gorgeous, eyes glassy, flush high on his cheeks, a hint of sweat in the curls against his forehead, “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Hollander,” and Shane says, “Fuck off, Mr. Rozanov,” and Ilya says, “I told you, you should have come to Boston this weekend,” and Shane says, “Yeah, fuck.”

And they look at each other for a minute, close enough to kiss, except for the two screens and 500 kilometers between them, and Shane has no idea what he’s doing here, so he says, “I’ll get all this written up for you and your agent early next week, so we can get moving on the outreach to your preferred brands.” His voice is so soft he barely recognizes it.

“Montreal plays here next week,” Ilya says softly. “You could travel with team.”

“That’s not a thing,” Shane says. He feels a grin on his face. He wants to press his face into Ilya’s neck so bad. “That’s not even remotely a thing.”

“Probably for the best. Some other player would snatch you up,” Ilya says.

“That’s also not a thing,” Shane says, shaking his head.

“Mmm. I will hope not,” Ilya says. “I go to shower now. Goodbye, Shane Hollander Swims.”

Shane laughs out loud. “Please stop calling me that.”

“Nope,” Ilya says, and hangs up.

…

Chapter End Notes

Well if you were just reading this fic until they had phone sex twice, then this chapter should have you covered and you can set yourself free.

The chapter count keeps going up. First time readers - Don't worry, I always have my shit together when it comes to chapter count and have never had a story grow to novel length when it was supposed to be a one-shot, this is all cool and i have everything under control.

Long time readers - please stop laughing at me (fine laugh, lord knows we need some kind of joy).

Chapter six is mostly done but I'm tweaking some things, working title for Chap 6= Chapter fucking 6 oh crap I'm already at chapter 6 and barely anything has happened this is so stupid. again.

Thanks again to BritBrit99 for the embroidery ! It's so fun conspiring with you!

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Shane has no idea what to do about the Rozanov situation, so he doesn't do anything about it.

On Sunday he brings a pile of produce from the farmers market to the Pikes’. Hayden has Arthur in the carrier and greets him with a warm hug, a little awkward so they don't squish the sleeping baby. Jackie greets him with instructions on how she wants the sweet potatoes prepped for dinner.

“Give him a minute to pretend he's our welcome guest before you put him to work, Jacks,” Hayden says, and Jackie says, “He likes being useful.”

Shane does like being useful, so he washes sweet potatoes while Hayden gives him shit for setting Rozanov up with a fuck-off giant gold Rolex.

“He wore that Rolex while shirtless in a locker room interview last week! Can you be any more ostentatious! You know he took off his gear and then put on the watch instead of a shirt for the interview! JJ pointed it out to me and I didn't have the heart to tell him our good buddy Shane was the one that got him that thing.”

“Shane, don't listen to him, he's just jealous,” Jackie cuts in.

“I'm not jealous, that's an ugly fucking watch! Why would I want the watch? The baby would just drool all over it and fritz it out if I had that watch. And the twins might hit it with a hammer.”

“It's waterproof and can handle 31 atmospheres of pressure,” Shane offers.

“That's worse! That means I can't blame it on the kids when I break it so I don't have to wear it!” Hayden laughs. “This is weird, for the record, but I'm not pissed. I mean, it's your fucking job. But if he gives you shit, tell me, okay? Just ‘cause Rolex wants to give him a bucket of money doesn't mean he gets to disrespect you. Most of the team is looking for a reason to kick his ass.”

“Ilya isn't that bad,” Shane says, and Jackie says, “Four dollars for the swear jar, Hayden.”

“I’m just saying that I know the Rozanov money is good, but I don’t like the idea of you being forced to suck up to a dick like that,” Hayden says.

Shane focuses extremely hard on a particularly stubborn patch of dirt in a sweet potato crevice.

“Listen to yourself, Hayd, what on earth did you just say?” Jackie laughs. “Anyway, everyone in this room has to be nice to hockey assholes we don’t like on a regular basis. If Shane says it’s fine, it’s fine.”

“One dollar for the swear jar, Jackie!” Hayden crows, and then leans forward to kiss Jackie on the lips, Arthur sandwiched between them in the carrier.

Ruby and Jade come tumbling in, demanding Shane look at the tower they have built from the colorful magnetic blocks he'd gotten them for their birthday. Hayden takes over the potato washing for him so he can follow the twins to their room.

With some adjustments to the base of the structure, they can make the tower even taller. Soon he's lifting them up in turns to add blocks because the tower is as tall as him. Squats and lifts are good for his knees and hips if he keeps the movements controlled.

Jackie had said it was too many blocks when he showed up with the kit, but how else are you going to build a two-meter-tall tower? The twins are clapping and demanding Shane take pictures to put on YouTube for the Internet to see their tower.

Jackie calls for dinner, and Shane calls back, “Just a minute!” The girls pretend to be dragons hatching from eggs and then crash their tower down while he takes a slow-motion video of the annihilation.

The girls love the video. “For YouTube,” Jade says solemnly, her pudgy finger poking at the screen to pause and unpause. “Rawr,” says Ruby.

Shane's first instinct is to share the cute little video—not with Hayden or Jackie, not with his mom or dad, but with Ilya.

Obviously, he doesn't do that.

…

If there had been more than three minutes of peace between the three kids and dinner and bedtime, Shane might have mentioned to his friends that he had a crush taller than the tallest magnet block tower ever constructed on Boston Raiders star center, Ilya Fucking Rozanov.

But also, he doesn't want to talk to them about it yet. They’d ask him logical questions, and he isn’t ready to answer them. It doesn't make any sense, is the thing. But he likes it. It's stupid and it's impractical, but it's his and he wants to keep it. He feels kind of like an idiot shepherd boy who is trying to hide a magical egg. Maybe a dragon will hatch from it and eat him and then burn down the whole village. He has no idea what this whole thing is or what will happen next.

He still wants it.

…

When he's laying in bed that night, he texts Ilya to say he hopes his knee is better.

Ilya texts back a thumbs-up.

Which is a perfectly reasonable response.

…

On Monday, Shane has to explain to his mom that he knew Ilya's knee was hurt, that he had Ilya's personal phone number, and that they ended up scheduling a video call and talking through a lot of their ideas on Saturday, and that he'll send a write-up to her by the end of the day with Ilya's feedback.

His mom knows he's being weird; he can tell by the way she goes from surprised to very quiet and accepting. Shane hates it when she gets quiet and accepting. No, he doesn't want to talk about it, but he doesn't need to know that she knows he doesn't want to talk about it.

…

On Tuesday, Ilya texts him at 11 am that his sandwich is boring and he doesn't want to eat it.

Shane smiles.

Shane: you're a fucking millionaire order 700 new sandwiches.

Ilya: no time

Shane: wow this is so sad. They could make a movie about how sad this is but it would be too sad to watch.

Ilya: you are mean person.

Shane: on the bright side the cruelty you face makes you seem brave and noble re: mediocre sandwich

Ilya: I inspire the people

Shane: Hey do you have plans for Christmas? Because we are looking at your schedule with Rolex. They can do the shoot in the three days you have off that week if you want. Let me know if you have days that are off limits. Obviously I will also reach out to your agent re: specific dates and details but I wanted to do a quick temperature check.

Ilya: western Christmas sure. Russia has different Christmas. I don't care about either.

Ilya: you coming?

Shane: You don't want to try and see family for the holiday? You have a few days in January that could also work for this shoot - Jan 17-20.

Ilya: is not big deal in russia. New years is big Russian holiday. This is on wikipedia

Shane: your personal schedule preferences are not on wikipedia

Ilya: What if rolex has bad sandwiches and ruins my fake christmas?

Shane: in that case I should probably come so I can make fun of you

Ilya: are all swimmers so cruel?

Shane: only to hockey players

Ilya: practice begins again

...

Shane considers the facts as he moves through the water the next morning.

Ilya surely has people in Boston who would fuck him on his couch while he's resting his knee. People less likely to tell a rival team that Ilya is on forced rest for a secret injury.

But he chose Shane. Phone sex with Shane (twice!) was a convenient option for Ilya, though. A person in Boston might have tempted him to be more active sexually and caused more knee strain. So maybe Ilya choosing Shane means nothing.

He can't tell how serious Ilya was about Shane making a last-minute visit to Boston.

Probably serious. The money is nothing to Ilya, and Ilya would know he could trust Shane to be careful with his injury and discreet. So it would have been convenient and reasonable and no trouble to Ilya to have Shane rearrange his life and fly across an international border to give Ilya a blow job and then leave and fly home.

Easy for Ilya, complicated as fuck for Shane. Like Shane is a goddamn desperate puck bunny. Shane realizes he is, in fact, fully a goddamn desperate puck bunny.

Shane blows out too much air on the next stroke and has to stop to fully reset his breathing and stroke rhythm.

Whatever. Jackie has complained to him extensively about, on the one hand, distaste for the women who express their willingness to sleep with her husband, and, on the other hand, hating hockey players for being misogynistic dicks about the women they sleep with. And understanding the irresistible draw of a man who is so skilled and strong on the ice and knowing you could own a piece of his softer side. He knows it’s not a simple thing.

Nothing is simple, really. Life is annoying like that. But just because nothing is simple doesn’t mean everything has to be complicated, is what his dad might tell him. He reminds himself of Matt the Handsome High Jumper, of those heady couple of days during the Olympics when he thought that having enjoyable sex meant he was in love. The sex with Ilya is good, but he knows better now than to lose himself in it.

He likes it, he reminds himself. He reaches the wall and enjoys the way his muscles flex and spring and twist him effortlessly, the way he trained them to, and the burst of speed off the wall as he slices back down the lane, the water smooth over his arms, his chest, his hips, his thighs.

He’s allowed to do things he likes.

…

Ilya is in St. Louis and then New Jersey. The texting is at longer intervals and they don’t have phone sex.

Shane keeps busy. He moves into final negotiations for the vodka company. He reaches out to Rimowa, a luxury luggage company whose products aren’t deeply hideous.

He doesn’t have to go to the store to smell Ilya’s colognes because he gets sent packages with samples. It turns out Tom Ford sells cologne; which makes sense, Shane just never thought about it. He only finds out when he gets the packing list of samples from Estée Lauder and it turns out they own the Tom Ford cologne line.

He blushes for an hour about how dumb he feels for not realizing he almost made things awkward by recommending Ilya to one fashion house for fragrance and another for clothing.

What the fuck is he doing? He’s so out of his league.

But no one but him knows about it, so he takes the cologne sponsorship concept to his Tom Ford contacts and they are excited about combining the fragrance and cosmetic line in a campaign with the fashion and accessory side of their brand, and hopefully Shane doesn’t sound like a total rube. Shane researches Tom Ford’s cologne options and which ones are the most similar to the ones that Ilya liked. He really shouldn’t have wasted Ilya’s time on the other ones, but, well. Fuck.

He’s not actually qualified for this. He’s been focusing on baby carriers and swim caps and helping players navigate CCM versus Bauer hockey gear and how to get in a local franchise Tim Horton’s ad.

He keeps his mom updated on all his progress, edited somewhat to hide the fact that he didn’t fully understand how fashion houses work, because he does know how an employee/employer relationship works.

On Thursday morning, she calls him.

“Rozanov has a game in Ottawa next week, you should come down and meet with us. We can go over some of the finer details of the Tom Ford and Rolex options with him. Then you can stay for the game with Dad and I, spend the night at our place, and maybe work from here the next day. It would be great to see you, and we can make more progress on the Rozanov account in an in-person meeting, I think, since there are so many loose details to check in on. What do you think?”

Shane takes a deep breath. And another one. “He’ll probably want to focus before the game.”

“I checked in with scheduling and the team’s arriving at 10 am from Vancouver and the game starts at 8 pm. He has plenty of time for a short lunch meeting and a game-day nap after that. These are huge deals we’re talking about; he can spare an hour to talk about them. He’s the only client on our roster I haven’t met in person, which I know in a larger company is common, but remember, we’re bringing that personal touch, which is why I’d like you to join me. I think we need to show Ilya how much we’re thinking about him.”

It’s Friday, so Shane is working from home at his desk, which is set up in front of his living room window. He stands, feeling like a wooden doll version of himself, and moves stiffly from his office chair to his couch. He lays down and presses his face into a pillow.

“Shane? Is service good? Did you catch all that?”

Shane tilts his head to the side so he can talk. “I caught that, yeah Mom,” Shane says, and then turns and presses his face back down into the pillow.

“So, what do you think? I know I can get ahead of myself, which is why I called to check in.”

“It’s very logical,” Shane says.

“I can barely hear you.”

Shane turns his head out of the pillow again. “That’s very logical, Mom. I can’t think of anything that isn’t logical about that.”

“Okay, do you want me to set it up? I’m not completely sure what the dynamic with Rozanov is on your end, it may make more sense for you to be the point of contact for outreach, just let me know what you prefer.”

Shane also has no idea about the dynamic with Rozanov on his end either, except that he definitely doesn’t want Ilya to know how much he’s thinking about him, and he definitely doesn’t want his mom to be within 300 kilometers of it.

“Go for it,” he tells his mother. And boss.

“I’ll text you updates. Dad says text him what you want to do for dinner; we can grab something before the game near the stadium, or he can have an early dinner ready, just let us know.”

“That makes sense,” Shane says. His face feels really stiff. Like really stiff. And hot, but also cold at the same time. The rest of him feels pretty much numb. He presses his face harder into the pillow.

“Okay, I have a call with JJ’s agent soon, I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“Sounds great.”

“Love you.” His mom hangs up.

Shane takes deep breaths into the pillow.

Maybe his whole life is imaginary and none of this is happening, actually?

…

By evening, Shane has a better understanding of the entire Tom Ford empire and all related subsidiaries, with a special focus on the cologne, including where it’s made, key inspirations, and the groundbreaking fragrance innovation that happened in 2007 when the fashion house began infusing an artisanal spirit into the world of designer fragrance in its distinctly elevated yet accessible way.

He’s also done some research into Estée Lauder and products for hair in the 2C/3A curl range. He hasn’t found a way to suggest promoting products for beautiful curls to Ilya without admitting that Shane can’t stop thinking about Ilya’s beautiful curls, but the more he’s prepared to approach the topic from a clinical, professional tone the better.

It’s all a good distraction from the fact that he’s apparently going to have lunch with his smoking hot hockey hook-up and his mom.

And then apparently he’s going to be in the same city as Ilya Rozanov and tell him he can’t have sex with him because instead of meeting Ilya in his high-rise hotel room with a bottle of vodka and his favorite lube, he has to go sleep in his childhood bedroom with his Pokemon bedsheets and framed hockey player card collages.

Either that, or he has to tell his parents that he can’t crash at their place because he wants to get fucked through the mattress by a hot Russian hockey player, and also, just FYI, if he has been properly fucked through the mattress then the next day he’ll be deliciously sore and achy in treasured, lovely ways that are not compatible with sitting next to his mother for an all-day business meeting.

…

Shane goes on an evening swim because he can’t right now.

He keeps making efficient, clean strokes. They all feel like they are going to lead to some kind of insight, but instead he hits the wall and flipturns and he’s just going back the other way.

…

He wants to talk to Jackie about it, but he doesn’t want to tell Jackie about it, so he tries to picture the advice Jackie would give him.

Unfortunately, when he envisions telling her, instead of imaginary advice his mind’s eye just gives him an image of her laughing hysterically, so hard she has to lay on the ground. He then imagines getting her a glass of water and patting her back when she laughs so hard she has a coughing fit.

It is not a useful thought exercise.

…

He briefly considers asking KyungSun or Alyssa about it at trivia, but there isn’t a way to explain it without them asking him a million questions about which hot professional sports star he’s fucking.

And also, they would probably laugh at him.

He can admit that it would probably be funny if it didn’t involve him. Maybe in seventy years he’ll have enough distance from the situation to have a reaction besides sweaty palms and difficulty pulling in a full breath.

The good news is they win at trivia again.

…

On Saturday morning he’s at the indoor market waiting in line for apples when he gets a text from Ilya that makes him leave the line and find a bench to sit on.

Ilya: Mama Hollander lives in Ottawa

That’s it. That’s the text. What is Shane supposed to do with that? He sticks with what he knows.

Shane: I grew up in Ottawa, then I moved to Montreal for university. My mom and dad still live there.

Ilya: you still like hockey with such shit home team. Wow

Shane: Fuck off. The Centaurs franchise has a super interesting history.

Ilya: «interesting» this is English word for bad?

Shane: Says the guy whose hometown hockey was so good you fled the fucking country to play literally anywhere else

Ilya: Russia sucks but Moscow hockey is best

Shane: Montreal has won 20% of all Stanley cups.

Ilya: is lie. Liar told you that.

Art by BritBrit99

Shane: There have been 119 cups and Montreal has 24?

Ilya: before 1993 does not count. Modern hockey only. Zero cups.

Shane: Boston is also original six? you’re saying you don’t count any of those cup wins? By that metric, Boston only has two cups

Ilya: yes and I win 50% of all Boston Stanley Cups

Shane: you’re such an asshole

Ilya: asshole with Stanley cup

Shane laughs and shakes his head at how the conversation got off track. He re-reads Ilya’s texts to see where it went wrong, and realizes that he missed an important piece of information.

Shane: sorry Russia sucks

Ilya: Russia is boring. it does not matter

Ilya: Your mother tells my agent she wants to meet me for lunch in Ottawa

Shane: sorry about that too

Ilya: nice restaurant

Ilya: is your idea?

Shane’s eyes widen and he hits the call button.

“Shane Hollander Swims,” comes Ilya’s warm voice.

“This is obviously not my idea,” Shane says. “My mom takes her work incredibly seriously. She’s just doing her due diligence with a new client. It’s just a coincidence that, you know. Whatever.”

“Does your mother know about your due diligence with new clients?”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, and then remembers that he’s in public. A woman with a toddler in her lap on the next bench over gives him a pointed look. He needs to put a dollar in the swear jar. “My mother has no idea about our,” Shane has no word he can use in front of the lady with the toddler, so he goes with Ilya’s euphemism, “due diligence. This is just a business meeting. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“I never said it was big deal,” Ilya said, his voice light, like this is funny to him. “Just curious. Does your mother know about you?”

“Know what about me?”

“Hmm. Maybe that you like boys.”

“My mom knows I'm gay. She doesn't have any idea that there's anything unprofessional between us.”

Lady-with-the-toddler is staring at him with avid fascination now. Shane gets up and walks across the crowded market hall.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

“Okay, what?” Shane is feeling twitchy.

“Okay, okay. Is fine. I am very professional in business meetings. I do not say swear words, like you.”

Shane laughs, which surprises him. “Just make sure you remember to wear a shirt.”

“Hmm. Maybe. We will see,” Ilya says with a sly grin that Shane can hear, that makes him grin back. “And after? You need tickets for game?”

Shane blows out a breath. “My mom said she'd get tickets. She has plenty of connections. She loves hockey.”

“Ahh. Does Mama Hollander have any requests for goals?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Shane groans, and then, because it's not like this can get more embarrassing, “My dad is probably coming to the game too.”

“Mama and Papa Hollander. Big happy family of Hollanders. Are there brothers and sisters Hollander coming too? Hollander Puppies? Kittens? Do all of you swim?”

“I'm an only child. No pets. And I'm the only one that swims. I mean, my parents know how to swim, obviously. But like, competitively swimming, that's just me. My dad played hockey for McGill, the same university where I went.”

Why is Shane saying all this? He doesn’t know.

“Hm,” Ilya says. Shane knows he's being mocked, and he knows his responses are boring, but he doesn't know how to be any more interesting than he is. “And where are you now? Is noisy.”

“I'm at the market. Marché Jean-Talon. I walk here to get groceries on Saturdays. Apples and bread or whatever. You distracted me with your text message.”

“Distracted you from apples and bread,” Ilya hums.

“Really good apples and bread.” Shane should not be this defensive about his apples, but he can hear everything he’s saying and how aggressively mundane it all is compared to Ilya’s life, and he still can’t stop saying it.

“Do you order your apples in French?”

“Unless the vendors speak in English to me first for some reason, sure,” Shane says. “Of course.”

“Of course. So. After game. In Ottawa. Does your mother give you curfew?”

“I don't have a curfew,” Shane says immediately, appalled. For fuck’s sake, this asshole.

“Then I have ideas for you,” Ilya says smoothly, his voice low. “Do you want to hear them now?”

“I'm in public,” Shane grits out. He does. He really does want to hear Ilya's ideas.

“Is that yes or no?”

“Goodbye, Ilya. Good luck against Nashville tonight. I'll see you next week,” Shane says, and then hangs up.

He looks at his phone in surprise, impressed with himself.

He gets back in the apple line.

…

Shane wants to circle back with Ilya to see if Ilya is getting a hotel room for them or if Shane needs to do that. He certainly has no interest in joining Marleau in the room he’ll be sharing with Ilya. But now it seems weird to break the text silence between them, so he doesn’t text Ilya to clarify how he would prefer they navigate that dynamic.

His mom has made a reservation at a ridiculously nice restaurant; it has a compelling architectural history, award-winning cocktails, and constantly changing chef-made specials with ingredient terms Shane doesn’t fully understand. It’s maybe not what Shane would have picked, but it’s better than spending twelve or more hours researching restaurants and then panicking because none of them feel right, so he doesn’t comment.

On Monday he confirms that the Brookstreet Hotel, which is where the visiting hockey teams generally stay when they play Ottawa, has a number of vacant rooms. So it should be feasible for him to book one for Ilya and himself at the last minute.

He stares into space and thinks about how Ilya's mouth felt on his…everything. All the parts where Ilya put his mouth. 10 out of 5 stars.

He double-checks all the details of his alibi for Tuesday. He thinks it's plausible enough. He realizes if he doesn't tell his parents that he isn’t staying at their house soon, it's going to be weirder.

…

Shane: You know how I've been going to trivia night with some of the old McGill swimmers and other Montreal based swimmers?

Dad: I wonder if there is an Ottawa trivia night for much, much older McGill hockey players. Though I’m not very good at trivia. Maybe a sudoku night.

Mom: Yes, that's so great. Was there an interesting development?

Shane: Not interesting exactly. However, Jeremy, a swimmer I met through trivia, is going to be in Ottawa on Tuesday. He invited me to go out after the game with some Ottawa based friends. I will most likely spend the night at one of their apartments, that's what everyone else in the group is planning. Hope that isn't inconvenient for you all.

Dad: I can't believe they didn't invite your parents to go out drinking with you. Who are these young hooligans?

Mom: Of course that's not inconvenient. Go out with your friends and have fun. I'm glad you've reconnected with such a fun group of friends.

Dad: Joking of course

Dad: Joking about how they should have invited me to go, not about the part that Yuna said.

Mom: Let me know if you're still interested in meeting in person on Wednesday. I have my morning blocked off from 8:30-noon, but I can cancel that hold if need be.

Shane: I will be there Wednesday morning. Thanks.

Dad: Yuna, push it back to 10. He has all these fine young hooligans to keep up with. Let him sleep in

Shane: 8:30 is fine!

Mom: How about 9:30

Shane: 9:30 also works

Dad: 👍🍷🎉

Mom: David - there are definitely not group Sudoku nights. Can you imagine?

Dad: If there aren’t sudoku nights then I think there’s an opening in the market. I’m going to send the suggestion to some bars, see if I can inspire a new hot trend.

Dad: We’ll have your bedroom ready if you change your mind about staying here. You have a key and can come to the house anytime you need. Or we’ll pick you up. Any time, any place, no questions asked.

Shane: I am not a teenager and this is not an after school special

Dad: Just re-notifying you of the terms of our contract in case any of the finer details had slipped your mind

…

He can't believe he's going to see Ilya Rozanov again in less than 24 hours. He can't believe he's only met Ilya once, and that he only started talking to him not quite two months ago. He can't believe that beautiful, effortless, cool, confident, and internationally feared star center Ilya Rozanov is giving him the time of day.

He can't believe his mom is going to meet him.

Shane closes his eyes, and he doesn't sigh heavily, and he doesn't grow tentacles or fly away or turn fluorescent yellow with pink dots or any of the other things that seem more likely and easier to navigate than his current actual life.

…

He wakes up with his alarm on Tuesday. He goes swimming. He does yoga. He dresses carefully. He packs some of his dad's favorite Quebecois cheese in a cooler. He drives to Ottawa.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to QueerIntentions for joining the Beta squad for this fic. (with BooksandaBeer and TenMileStilts). This week I went to a work conference and had a lot of work conference calls and at no point did I hook up or have phone sex with any hot hockey stars, which is sad, I know.

Shane is clearly better at conferences than me.

Let me know your favorite Quebecois cheeses you want Shane to pick up for you at the market.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Yuna Hollander is already waiting by her car when Shane pulls into the public lot nearest the restaurant where they had agreed to meet. When he gets out of the car, she gives his outfit a critical once-over, then nods, something he’s reasonably sure she isn’t aware she’s doing. She then smiles fondly at him.

The thing about your mom viewing you as both an employee and a son is that yeah, there’s double the chance to disappoint her, but double the satisfaction when he gets it right.

She would claim he could never disappoint her, but if there is the potential to impress a person with a job well done, then there is obviously capacity to disappoint them with a fuck-up.

Anyway. So far so good.

“You look great,” she says, stepping forward and bringing him into a hug.

“Pretty sure you bought me all these clothes, so I’m glad you like them,” Shane says. His mom laughs and squeezes his hand for a brief moment before letting him go.

“Are you nervous? Excited? I guess you’ve already met him. I have a number of options for how the meeting could go based on his reactions to the initial material.” She straightens out her clothes, makes a small, precise adjustment to the purse on her arm, and then adjusts Shane's collar before turning to walk to the restaurant. “I’m sure you'll be okay with being flexible and following Rozanov’s direction.”

Shane imagines the face Ilya might have made if he’d heard that last sentence.

He may need to just extract his brain from his body for the rest of this meeting.

His mom reviews all her meeting strategy with him, which he’d already read and sent back notes on, but it’s somewhat soothing to listen to her talk. It means time is moving forward, which brings him closer to the time that this meeting will be something that happened in the past that he has survived. Or he’ll die during the meeting and be done with it. Also an option.

The waiter brings them to their table. They chat easily about the Pike kids and the miracle of Jackie's night nanny and then his mom obliquely asks a few questions about the alibi/red herring that he invented to get out of spending the night at his parents'. He suspects she is trying to figure out if he's dating Jeremy without actually asking him.

He suspects this because he's been receiving subtle, carefully-calculated-to-be-no-pressure inquiries about his personal life on a regular basis ever since he was sixteen and yelled at his parents to stop pressuring him about his personal life or he'd never talk to them again.

At the time, he had the excuse of being emotionally fragile because he had had hockey taken away from him and he hadn't yet fully committed to swimming. Back then, he spent a lot of time contemplating whether he wanted to make any concerted effort towards living if the life he wanted wasn't an option. He feels bad for being so mad at his parents for trying to help him; he definitely needed the help.

These days, his parents giving him space, but not too much space, is old habit. He still doesn't like talking about his personal life until he's ready to talk about his personal life, though.

So he meets his mom's polite but knowing look with a calm nod and says, “Salad looks good.”

Then he glances up from the menu and sees Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Ilya's wearing a black turtleneck sweater with dark gray pants and it looks, Jesus, it looks so good. Formfitting, showing off the breadth of his shoulders and the curve of his ribs and waist as it slims to his hips, the elegant muscles of his biceps. The black contrasts with the bright gold of his Rolex, the pale skin of his elegant hands; accents the line of his jaw.

He's fully covered; even his gold necklace is hidden, but it somehow feels more provocative than if Ilya had shown up in a Speedo. Or maybe that's just Shane.

Shane had wondered what Ilya would wear; he couldn't picture him in the bland business casual khakis and team-branded polo shirts that Hayden and so many other hockey players wear to this kind of meeting.

Now he knows.

Ilya's eyes find them, and a small, pleased smile, and maybe a suggestive angle to his eyebrow ghosts across his face before his expression shifts to stoic.

“Mrs. Hollander, is pleasure to meet you,” Ilya says as he reaches the table, Shane and his mom stand so they can shake hands. Shane can feel himself blush when Ilya grips his hand. He can feel the callouses on his palms, smell his cologne. This bastard. “My agent is sorry to miss meeting. It is good to meet you in person. And Mr. Hollander. Good to see you again.”

“Please call me Yuna,” his mom says as Shane says, “I told you to call me Shane.”

Ilya grins and gives Shane a little wink. Shane furiously cuts his eyes to his mother, but she is adjusting her chair to sit back down and seems to have missed the wink.

Ilya is back to the serious young man again, listening as politely as he did during the Rolex meeting. For all of his reputation as a pest on the ice, he apparently knows how to behave when he needs to.

They work through pleasantries, and his mom offers some insight into Boston's team strategy versus Ottawa’s, sharp and incisive because that's his mom, and Ilya says, “I see where your son gets his hockey knowledge from."

Yuna laughs. “His dad loves the game too. I grew up watching the Metros on Saturday nights with my dad, so I'm thrilled to engage with the sport with my family and as part of my career. Of course, we represent a wide variety of athletes, but I can't deny that particular passion for hockey.”

“And swimming?” Ilya asks, taking a sip of his water.

Shane watches his mom process that. Her eyes flick between Ilya and Shane for a millisecond before she says, “Of course swimming, yes. Did Shane mention his swimming career to you? Another thrilling sport to watch and even more thrilling to be a part of.”

The waiter takes their orders, and Yuna shifts the conversation from small talk about the existence of sports to details of Ilya's brand partnership portfolio.

Ilya is extremely polite and deferential which is giving Shane layers and layers of feelings. Being polite to parents is such an important part of how Shane was raised that it's thrilling to see Ilya display that kind of compatibility, but also that's weird because why does he care if he and Ilya are culturally compatible in how they defer to elders? Also, he feels kind of sad that his mom isn't meeting the charming, quick-witted version of Ilya he's been so enchanted by.

The entrees are out quickly, though Shane has already forgotten what he ordered. He's relieved it's salmon, which he can almost always eat, no matter how much of an existential crisis he's vibrating through.

Currently the existential crisis is maybe a six out of ten, it was a five, but Yuna Hollander seems to have decided she needs to lecture Ilya about money, which had been on the list of topics they had prepared for, but Shane had explicitly said not to bring this one up unless Ilya did.

“Oh, before I forget, your agent didn't provide details on any financial advisor relationships. Is that something that we could offer any support with?”

Ilya waves an elegant hand. “No, the team has people who manage this.”

Yuna's eyes widen. “The team. You let Boston manage your finances.”

“Not manage, but they introduce me to company and it is fine for me. Some money goes to Russia, some goes to bank. The more cars I buy, the less that is there for Russia or bank.” Ilya gives a small chuckle. He looks between Yuna and Shane and evidently sees the horror there. “Is joke, is joke. I will introduce you to financial advisor, you can talk about how much you hate my jokes about buying cars. You will get along perfect.”

“It's not necessary, per se, but given our goal of maximizing your earnings, you may find it convenient for us to have a line of communication on tax planning, budgets or even investment management for timing purposes,” Yuna says.

Ilya is focused, listening. He nods and says, “Hmm.”

“We can get you all this in writing,” Shane cuts in. “I know you're focused on prep for the game, so we don't have to get into the fine print right now. Plus, anything finance-related we'll make sure you can see written in Russian before you commit. But this would just be a line of communication so your finance people aren't surprised when a check for a million dollars shows up.”

His mom adds, “A coordinated strategy is key to long-term stability. Obviously the most likely scenario is you playing two decades and retiring on your own terms, but it's important to ensure you're financially secure for any eventuality.”

Ilya cuts his gaze between Yuna and Shane. “Is this service you always provide? Extra fee?”

Yuna lets her eyebrows show a tiny frown and shakes her head slightly. “Coordinating with your advisor to ensure that your earnings through the partnerships we create with you are well-invested, I see that as basic due diligence. I want you to be protected. I know how many draws players can have on their funds and on their personal time. I want you to be able to focus and do the work that you are uniquely qualified to do. I don't want you to have to worry about being taken advantage of, or finding out in ten years that your time spent doing advertising work hasn't paid off for you long-term. I know your free time is extremely limited.”

Ilya glances between Shane and his mom again. Assessing.

“No extra fee,” Shane sums up, because that was a lot of words. “We just want to make things smooth for you, so you can focus on winning some more cups.”

Ilya’s lips quirk at that. “Even though I win cups for Boston? Not Montreal?”

“Boston and Montreal can switch off every other year,” Shane offers.

“So generous of you,” Ilya hums, his voice warm, and then he leans forward and takes a bite of the pasta on his plate.

“They should make you commissioner, Shane, with a creative strategy like that,” his mom says drily.

Ilya coughs a surprised little laugh as he chews his bite of pasta. He swallows and says, “All other teams in league may disagree.”

“No, I think they'll see my vision,” Shane grins, and then adjusts his posture to sit straight up again. He's apparently been drifting towards Ilya, angling like he's a plant trying to get more sun. Ridiculous.

“Every other year starts next year,” Ilya says. “This year cup is mine again.”

He looks over at Shane, confident, handsome, and he's joking, sort of, but it's also a strong possibility because Ilya is a fantastic player and a good captain. The cocky competence he carries around could be off-putting, but it's not; it's charming. Shane feels a hot twist of want in his gut so intense he lets out a small cough and clears his throat.

He's blushing, he can feel it. He looks at his plate and focuses on finishing his salmon.

“Vancouver might disagree on that point. They seem very confident in their new goalie and the changes they've made to their lines,” his mom says.

“Confident is not enough to beat Boston,” Ilya says, and then gives Yuna a little wink, which makes her laugh, and—is Ilya flirting with his mom?

Luckily for Shane, the conversation moves back to advertisements, to suitcase and cologne brands and how wonderful it is that Ilya has been photographed wearing the Rolex out and about. The buzz of the Rolex will be an intriguing signal to other brands that Ilya is worth investing in, his mother informs them.

Shane has survived ‌lunch to this point by avoiding looking at Ilya as much as possible, but it's getting harder. He keeps sneaking looks at Ilya and the flash of the gold Rolex on his wrist, and the way the black sweater hugs the strong, elegant bulk of his arms. Thinking about how the calluses on Ilya’s hands during the handshake earlier contrast with the smooth skin of Ilya’s ass when they were-–Shane really needs this meeting to be over.

He clears his throat and shifts in his chair again, accidentally interrupting his mom's speech about the frequency with which Ilya should wear Adidas.

She gives him a questioning look.

“I don’t want to keep you longer than we need to; I’m sure you need to be getting back to the hotel to prepare for the game,” Shane says to Ilya.

Ilya cuts him a glance and then looks at Shane’s mother with an angelic smile. “Thank you for perfect lunch. I am so very happy to work with you.”

Shane could swear his mother blushes, which is, Jesus Christ, Rozanov, but a moment later she’s laughing it off and echoing her appreciation for Ilya’s time.

“You have your car here?” Ilya asks Shane.

Shane nods. “Um, yeah, I drove in from Montreal this morning.”

“You drive me to hotel. Is not far. Easier than annoying cab driver that asks me for autograph.”

“I’m not going to let you sign my car, no matter how nice you ask,” Shane says, and then readjusts his posture because he's doing the damn leaning-closer-to-Ilya thing again.

“That’s a great idea, Ilya,” Yuna says. “You boys can go on; I’ll get the check.”

“I pay,” Ilya says, pulling out his wallet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, we invited you to join us,” Yuna says.

Ilya drops four Canadian one-hundred-dollar notes on the table as he stands. “I insist.”

…

“This is your car?” The disdain in his tone is obvious.

“Fuck you, it’s good in the snow,” Shane says.

“It is not snowing,” Ilya points out.

“I don’t have multiple cars I can switch through based on the weather,” Shane says in annoyance. He’s glad he keeps his car clean, though he might have wiped down the dashboard and seats with one of the wipes he keeps in the glove box if he’d known he was having company in his car today. “I don’t have hundreds of dollars in foreign currency in my wallet either. How much money do you carry around?”

“Why, you are going to rob me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shane sighs.

“You and your mother like to tell me not to be this word. It’s too annoying to say.” Ilya grumbles as he buckles his seatbelt.

“Which word,” Shane asks, fascinated by this little vulnerability.

Ilya looks over at him, frowning. “I will not say the word.”

“I want to hear how you’d say it,” Shane says, rolling the word ridiculous through his head a few times, trying to imagine it in Ilya’s voice. He types the address of the hotel into his GPS to make sure there’s no recommended traffic reroutes.

“How do you know what hotel I am staying at?”

“This is my hometown, and I grew up obsessed with hockey. I know where the hockey teams stay,” Shane says as he confirms the route the GPS suggested.

“Hmm.”

Shane has no idea what the rules are between them. Ilya hadn’t shown him any sign during the lunch that he’s still interested in hooking up, which, on the one hand, thank god, but on the other, what if it’s because Ilya has met Shane’s mom, who is great but also certifiably a lot. And now he's seen Shane’s boring car, and he’s done with Shane?

Honestly, it makes sense. When you look at it logically, why would Ilya want to spend any more time with Shane?

He glances over at Ilya, who’s looking over at him, his eyes dark, his gaze intense. Ilya reaches one hand out and traces along Shane’s cheek. Shane holds his breath.

“You are looking very pretty today,” Ilya says.

Art by Britbrit99

“I’m driving,” Shane says. “I need to focus.”

“I have extra hotel room. I must rest before game. You should join me.”

“I’m not actually tired,” Shane says, idly, like ‌he’s not taking Ilya up on that offer.

“You torment me,” Ilya sighs, and Shane laughs.

…

Shane drops Ilya off, parks, and then tries to look suitably nonchalant and business-like as he walks through the hotel lobby to find Ilya’s room.

By the time he’s outside Ilya’s door he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. He doesn’t like sneaking around, and part of his brain tries to tell him that what the fuck is he doing chasing after a closeted hockey star if he doesn’t like sneaking around, but he knocks on the door, and thoughts leave his mind. Ilya’s pulling him into the room, and his lips find Shane’s and Shane’s hands find Ilya’s hair, because he didn’t get to touch it during lunch, and his shirt’s being untucked and his belt is open and Ilya licks into Shane’s mouth right as he gets his hand on Shane’s dick and Shane makes a noise that is not at all nonchalant and business-like.

“How do you want?” Ilya says, and then he’s pressing his hand into Shane again, licking and biting down his neck, and Shane may never have a thought again.

“I’m easy,” Shane manages.

“Hmm, yes, I know this already,” Ilya purrs before biting on his collarbone and Shane says, “Fuck you,” and Ilya says, “Maybe some time, you do this to me, but not before game, Shane Hollander Swims.”

“What?” Shane asks, he’s losing focus. Ilya’s calloused hand feels so good around him, and his mouth is so hot.

“Hmm, I want to fuck you,” Ilya says in a soft voice, almost whiny. “But is okay if you want to wait. Busy day for you.”

“I want that too,” Shane sighs, because there’s no universe where he doesn’t want that every chance he can get.

“Hmm, this is why I like you,” Ilya murmurs.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Shane says, because he’s not in the mood to be teased.

Ilya is not in the mood to be rushed, apparently, he walks Shane to the bed, carefully pulls off his clothes, leaving most of them in a neat pile on the edge of the bed, and then pins Shane down, kissing him long and filthy into the mattress.

Shane’s not usually this relaxed with partners, he can’t believe this is only the second time he’s sleeping with Ilya, but the phone sex loosened things up, maybe, because everything feels so easy, firm hands, the press of skin, Ilya’s beautiful sounds, his breath picking up speed, like Shane presents a real challenge for him, which is so hot.

Everything is building in Shane, he feels full and beautiful and he can’t handle it, it’s so good, so he has to hold on. He grips Ilya’s shoulder, his back, like if he can get his fingers into Ilya deep enough they could merge, like Ilya could feel the incredible pleasure he’s driving into Shane, again, again, and again. It doesn’t make sense, so Shane just holds on, until his head is dropping back and he's coming, and Ilya is saying, “God, Shane,” like he’s seeing something beautiful.

About one second after Ilya collapses down onto Shane’s chest, Shane gets his wits about him enough to realize he’s possibly carved fingernail tracks all down Ilya’s back. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says into Ilya’s shoulder.

“Why is good Canadian boy apologizing,” Ilya says, his voice thick, his lips tickling Shane’s neck.

“I may have scratched you all up; I wasn’t thinking,” Shane says. He runs his hands up and down Ilya’s back. He can feel smooth soft skin and the subtle texture of some of Ilya’s moles, but he can’t tell if he’s left behind fingernail marks.

“That was goal. No thinking. You are failing at goal. Stop thinking.” Ilya smacks a sloppy kiss into Shane’s neck. “Sleep. We nap now.”

“Not until the condom’s off,” Shane says.

Ilya groans and rolls off him. “Yes, okay, of course, but still no thinking. Don’t test me. I will hear your brain and I will be angry.”

Shane laughs. Ilya disappears into the restroom and comes back with a washcloth for Shane. He collapses back on top of Shane, which makes Shane laugh as he swipes at the sticky spots.

Ilya has no shame at all as he arranges Shane how he likes him, until his arm is around Shane’s chest and under Shane’s arm, perfectly warm and interwoven. Shane would have said he wasn’t capable of turning his brain off, but Ilya will be pleased at how well Shane is following the direction to stop thinking, because it’s not long until he’s asleep.

…

He wakes to a soft alarm and grumbling in Russian. He’s pinned down under Ilya’s arm, and Ilya’s nose is pressed into the back of his head. It’s so nice it feels dangerous as hell.

“Game time, I must go. You can stay here, is booked for whole night,” Ilya says into Shane’s hair, before pulling back.

Shane lets his eyes stay closed for one more moment. The sheets are still warm and everything still smells good. He’s not ready for it to end. He also can’t imagine leaving these cozy sheets to play a hockey game.

“Is hooking up like this before a game a good idea? Are you okay to play?” Shane asks.

“Yes. I play better after I fuck,” Ilya says, like that’s just a normal, reasonable thing to say.

It makes Shane feel cold. Right. Because Ilya regularly hooks up with people when he’s traveling for hockey. Shane should maybe feel proud that Ilya has chosen Shane over whoever Ilya normally fucks in Ottawa. Or maybe Ilya is hooking up with that person after the game and Shane is just the pre-game special. Ha ha ha. Cool. Awesome.

This is definitely dangerous as hell.

Ilya sits up and Shane sees the red scratches down the pale white skin of his back with horror. “Oh fuck. Shit.”

Ilya looks over at him with mild curiosity.

“Fuck, I kind of, it looks like you wrestled a bear.”

“You think my back is bad, see bear,” Ilya says back idly. “Is fine. Will heal. No one cares.”

Shane was, granted, fifteen years old the last time he was naked in a hockey locker room, but he’s spent a lot of time in locker rooms with swimmers. “They will definitely notice and definitely will give you shit.”

“Jealousy does not trouble me.”

“What will you say?” Shane asks, not sure why he’s nervous. Ilya’s the one that’s not out to his team. Shane did a Pride month themed ad for Speedo. He has nothing to hide.

“I am captain,” Ilya says easily as he slides into his boxer briefs and then does the shimmy to get his slim gray dress pants up over his beautiful thighs and ass. “I can say nothing or I can say, oh so sad for all you fuckers who do not have prettiest girl in Ottawa in their bed.”

Shane makes some kind of noise at that, and Ilya looks over. “You want me to say it was prettiest man in Ottawa in my bed?”

Shane frowns and shakes his head. “No, of course not. Obviously. You should say whatever you want. I respect that. Of course I respect that.”

Ilya slips his black turtleneck sweater back on, and leans over the bed to kiss Shane gently on the lips. And again, and then again. “Such nice, polite Canadian boy,” he hums, sliding his hand up Shane’s neck. Pulling Shane’s lower lip between his own, adding a tiny nip of teeth, like a promise.

Shane feels a warm, drifting feeling from Ilya’s palm on his skin, from his lips. It’s growing and it’s so good, time is sliding and beautiful, and then it ends when Ilya pulls back.

Ilya clears his throat. “Any requests for goal?”

“Surprise me,” Shane says, because he has possibly forgotten every single thing about anything that isn’t Ilya’s body. How is he supposed to remember how a hockey net works?

…

Ilya leaves first, because they can’t leave the room at the same time. He gives Shane a pointed look and leaves a room key on the dresser.

Shane lies in the hotel bed for a long moment, trying to get up the energy for a shower. He definitely needs to shower before he meets up with his parents.

Now that Ilya is gone, Shane’s brain is apparently working overtime to make up for the time it spent not-thinking.

He types, “I slept with Ilya Rozanov Reddit” into the search engine on his phone. He easily finds a subreddit of people who post about sleeping with famous people, which Jackie had told him was a thing. And sure enough, there is a thread of women talking about sleeping with hockey players, and a number of them mention Ilya Rozanov. He reads through a few sharing similar stories about how Rozanov is a god at oral sex but refuses to give out his number before he feels a flash of heat and a flash of cold at the same time as a wave of nausea and turns off his phone.

That was stupid. That was so fucking stupid.

He wants to slap himself across the face. What the fuck is he doing? He either wants to hook up with a hot famous guy with no strings attached, or he fucking doesn’t. He doesn’t get to be a fucking creep about it.

Ilya likes to fuck people before games to relax.

Shane likes to be fucked by Ilya. It’s simple math. Nothing more.

Shane knew exactly what he was doing.

…

Shane heads to his parent’s house for dinner. He sits in the living room while his dad preps the meal. His mom sits in the armchair next to the couch, takes a sip of wine, and asks him in a very precise sort of tone, “So how was the drive with Ilya back to the hotel?”

“No traffic, so the route was easy,” Shane says.

His mom nods thoughtfully. “How do you feel about Ilya?”

“He’s a high-profile client. I feel optimistic about the partnerships we can get for him. Evidence so far suggests he’ll work to fulfill his end of the relationship.”

“Not as a client; I’m curious what you think about him as a person,” Yuna asks.

Shane looks at her. Her face shows nothing, which is annoying but not unexpected. So this is a thing.

“He’s a complex person,” Shane says slowly. “I don’t know him very well.”

“I was surprised by how seriously he took the meeting, given how he often appears in the media. I admit that I was impressed.”

“I think,” Shane says, and then pauses to consider what he actually thinks. “I think that Ilya doesn’t do anything unless he knows he can do it well. If he commits to something, he’s going to do it impressively.”

“You think? His attitude in most of his interviews is that he doesn't care that much about anything.”

Shane thinks about that. He lets his mom wait while he thinks. He says, “I think maybe that’s another thing he works very hard to achieve.”

“Fair.” Yuna says. She takes a sip of wine. David clangs something in the kitchen. There’s a long pause, and Shane wishes a game of some kind was on the television. “Maybe I don’t want you to get too attached to him.”

Shane frowns at her. “Attached?”

“He’s very…nice looking.” Yuna says tentatively. Which is an unfathomably weird thing for his mother to say.

He makes his face very blank. “Obviously, that’s one of the reasons companies want him repping their products. I mean, it would be great if you could get by on talent alone, but I think we both know that his looks factor into the callbacks we’re getting.”

“I was watching you during lunch; you seemed to pay a lot of attention to him,” Yuna responds.

“Was I supposed to not pay attention to him? Yeah, mom, I noticed Ilya was there. It would have been kind of rude not to.”

Yuna sighs. “You’re turning this around on purpose.”

Shane wants to say, If I were any other employee, would we be having this conversation? Which is an unfair question. He’s not any other employee. And she’s not wrong.

“Sorry. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on getting attached to Ilya,” Shane says. An easy promise to make, because getting attached to Ilya would be about as productive as trying to put the sun in his pocket.

“Well, good. We can work with the international playboy fantasy for the purpose of an ad campaign, but it’s not exactly something to get your hopes up around on a personal level.”

Shane stares at his mom.

She continues. “I wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable going with him for the Rolex photoshoot. It’s too important for us not to have someone there, but I think if we send anyone else from our team, it will feel too heavy-handed. He seems to like and trust you. It’s a bigger scale, and maybe a lot of pressure, but it won’t be all that different process-wise from those shoots you supported with Jackie and Hayden when they were first starting with us.”

“If you think it’s a good idea,” Shane says. He hadn’t asked his mom yet, because he hadn’t been able to decide if it actually made professional sense for him to go or if he just wanted to see Ilya Rozanov in a swimsuit.

“We’ll miss you at Christmas, of course, but it will be good for you to get a big boost of Vitamin D.”

Shane has no idea what his face is doing. “Sounds good, Mom.”

David pokes his head in from the kitchen. “Yuna, are you torturing our son? You know that’s my job.”

…

Ilya’s well known for drawing penalties by getting under other players' skin, and only a few minutes into the game, he skates past Ottawa’s right winger, Dillon, with some kind of cocky comment. Shane can see the smirk on his face from the audience. There’s a flurry of jerseys and sticks that’s screened by the movement of other players, but it ends with Dillon taking a holding penalty and getting sent to the box for two minutes. Ilya gives him a cheerful salute after he scores on the power play. He then skates by the section Shane and his parents are sitting in and gives them a smirking nod and a wink. The whole section erupts into outraged boos.

Ottawa is yelling at Ilya with more enthusiasm than it can usually muster up for a home game. The negative energy clearly makes Ilya more showy, cocky, which makes the Centaurs players even more aggressive, which just ends up in more penalty time for them.

Shane doesn’t understand how the Centaurs coach doesn’t see it. Ilya is a master at using his skills as a pest to draw defenders into bad positions where they make mistakes; it’s painful to see his hometown team fall for such obvious tactics.

At the same time, it’s hot as hell to see Ilya pulling a whole stadium behind him like puppets on a string, like it’s nothing, like it’s fun. Shane follows his movement as he soars, fast, elegant, crossovers perfect, like he owns the ice.

Fuck, Shane misses playing hockey sometimes.

“He telegraphs when he passes to the point,” Yuna says, leaning into his shoulder so he can hear her over the crowd. “Every time. His whole upper body shifts to center. I don’t know how they aren’t catching this on the tape.”

“Maybe somebody is, but it isn’t Ottawa,” Shane says.

“It’s one thing to see it on the tape; it’s another to clock it in the moment and act on it. That’s a level of player instinct you can’t teach,” David says.

The next time Ilya sets up a shot from the boards, ostensibly to shoot toward one of his linemen positioned by the goal, Shane catches the tell his mom had mentioned. It’s fast, but it’s there. The puck flies back to Marleau, waiting at the blue line. It takes Ottawa a full second to pivot off of Rozanov and onto Marleau, and by then Marleau is slamming the puck into the back of the net.

Yuna groans in frustration. David swears and says, “Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Shane, maybe you need to convince him to play for Montreal.”

“Boston drafted him,” Yuna says in horror at David’s suggestion.

“Montreal has better cheese,” David says easily. “Tell him about the cheese, Shane.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

…

Shane hugs his parents goodnight after the game and then acts like he’s heading downtown for a night out. He’s not exactly sure what he’s going to do with himself if Ilya doesn’t reach out for a hook-up. He has twelve hours to kill before his meeting with his mom. He could obviously get a hotel room somewhere, which is easy enough, but he feels distressed by that idea on a number of levels.

About fifteen seconds after he starts catastrophizing Ilya will never reach out again, his phone is buzzing.

Ilya: What’s a lonely boy to do, all alone in Ottawa?

Shane: Parliament Hill and the National Gallery are important and interesting cultural sites, but unfortunately those are closed at this time.

Ilya: Many canals and rivers yes? Very historic? Maybe I drown you in one of them?

Shane laughs out loud, and then orders a car to take him to Ilya’s hotel.

Shane: Wow, taking notes on your pick up lines. No wonder you have a reputation as such a Romeo

Ilya: You do not need special pick up lines

Ilya: only face

Shane: okay. Mental note to not remove my face

Shane waits for a response, but Ilya’s quiet. Shane re-reads over their text thread and winces. It’s really weird, Shane says such weird stuff. He just gets so excited when he talks to Ilya, he forgets to filter. He tries not to think about times in elementary and middle school and in hockey and at swim meets when this tendency of forgetting to hide how odd he is when he’s happy ended with him being made fun of. Ilya isn’t a mean guy. Unless you’re playing hockey for the other team.

His ride comes, so he climbs in the backseat, and that’s that. He gets out at the hotel, he takes the elevator up. He lets himself into the room. Ilya isn’t there yet.

Shane texts, here.

He sits on the edge of the bed, on the armchair by the window, on the uncomfortable couch. He leans against the window and then the dresser.

Then he decides, fuck it, and just gets in the shower.

It's not long before the bathroom door clicks open. Shane doesn't turn around. The glass shower door opens next, bringing a line of cold air and a quiet word that Shane suspects is Russian. He still doesn't turn away from the showerhead, letting the warm water hit his face, roll down his neck, his shoulders.

He hears another murmur of Russian and then feels the slide of Ilya's hands on his hips, up his sides to his ribs, his shoulders, and down his arms, and then the warm press of Ilya's body against his back, the press of his chest, his lips on the back of Shane’s neck, his hardening dick up against Shane's ass, all of it mixed in with the flow of the water over him. He sighs and leans his head back. Ilya's hands wrap around Shane to find his chest, his neck, and Ilya's long fingers find Shane's chin and tilt his head so Shane is facing him, and Ilya licks into Shane’s mouth, his tongue sweet from Gatorade, the water moving over their mouths. Shane turns in Ilya’s arms, so that they are wrapped around each other, Ilya’s hand still on Shane’s jaw, tilting his head so he can lay his teeth and tongue and lips where he likes, and Shane closes his eyes and lets it all run over him, feeling so clean and hot that he might be glowing.

…

After, they move to the bed like they’re one unit, towel-wrapped and loose-limbed. Ilya makes moves like he might head back to the room he’s sharing with Marleau, and Shane thinks back to how good the nap was earlier today and says, “Don’t be stupid. Just sleep here.”

…

He wakes up to his alarm under a pile of hockey player, warm and lax and smelling of hotel soap and something underneath that he knows is the scent of Ilya’s skin.

Ilya grumbles, “This is terrible,” and presses his face into the back of Shane’s head. “Alarms,” he adds, putting enough dramatic emphasis on the word for it to be a dissertation on all the ways alarms should be banished from the earth.

“Sucks to be you,” Shane answers.

“So much winning, it is so tiring,” Ilya says, his voice sounding more alert. His hands are also more alert, searching along Shane’s body, finding the curve of his ass, sliding along his hips, and then, low, “I have some time before morning call.”

“Well, I’m terribly busy, triple-booked,” Shane says. He can hear the smile in his own voice. “So many emails. Phone calls. PowerPoint presentations.”

Ilya makes a low growl, rolls Shane over so he’s straddling him and says, “I will show you triple-booked.”

…

Ilya shows him things. They part ways, Ilya to his actual, team-assigned hotel room to pack up and leave, and Shane to his favorite lap pool in Ottawa, where he cuts meter after meter of crisp lines into the water that disappear behind him as he goes.

Chapter End Notes

Y'all, it has been a fucking week. This chapter is dedicated to modern medicine and the scientists who keep making medicine better. How lucky are we! Special shout out to allergy meds, inhalers, decongestants, expectorants, and steroids. Okay! I have a huge report to finish and then I have to travel to a conference for three days next week, so no promises on the timing of the next chapter. Soooorry.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Shane drives home after working in Ottawa for the day. He sits on his couch and eats a frozen burrito. He thinks about turning the TV on, but there’s nothing he wants to watch.

Ilya texts him.

Ilya: St. Louis is boring

Shane does a quick search before replying.

Shane: St. Louis is a major Midwestern hub with a population over 2.8 million people, known for its beer brewing history and home of the first kindergarten in the United States

Ilya: The fuck

Shane: I was going to try to convince you that St. Louis isn’t boring but Wikipedia just convinced me that St. Louis is pretty fucking boring

Shane: apparently there is some kind of giant arch. Is that real?

Ilya: yes once Marly threw up on it

Shane: sounds very exciting

Ilya: it was not

Shane: wait how does that work it says the arch is like 200 meters tall?

Ilya: he puked on bottom part. Shiny metal.

Ilya: Marly did not fly like bird to top of arch and barf. That would be maybe interesting

Shane: wow you know so many English words for vomit

Ilya: Ralph. Hurl. Blowing chunks

Shane: I'm in awe

Ilya: finally I manage to impress you

Shane: Steamboats first arrived in St. Louis in 1817, improving connections with New Orleans and eastern markets.

Ilya: if I go into coma from boredom it is your fault

Shane laughs. He's not sure what to say next, so he says nothing, and neither does Ilya.

…

The next night he sits on his couch and eats a frozen burrito and watches Ilya’s game against St. Louis on the television and thinks: I slept with him yesterday morning. He has scratches down his back that I put there.

It’s only nine days until the trip to the Virgin Islands. Or, more specifically, the Ritz-Carlton on St. Thomas, because, yeah, Shane upgraded Rolex from the initial proposal of a soundstage in New Jersey to the Ritz-fucking-Carlton.

The rest of his week is busy with finalizing details for the trip, and following up with all the other companies that he reached out to about Ilya back when he was under the assumption that he should cast a wide net because he'd only hear back from a fraction of his cold calls.

So he is plenty busy, and it’s not a big deal that Ilya doesn’t text him.

Shane could text Ilya back, but he’s following Ilya’s lead. Ilya plays hockey best when he has sex before his games. He has played a game in St. Louis and now Michigan and probably slept with people in those places.

Shane thinks about a text of his arriving in Ilya’s phone, which is maybe dropped haphazardly on the same dark brown nightstand that’s in every hotel room. Ilya’s pale, broad, muscled back leaning over an anonymous naked person on the bed, Ilya’s clever smile and soft words as he murmurs that the person is beautiful, that he likes them, that they don’t need special pick up lines, only face.

Ilya is welcome to do that. That’s fine. But Shane doesn’t need his text messages sitting on the nightstand while he does it.

…

Friday night he goes to trivia again. They win. Based on the evidence of a few tables frowning over at them, he suspects the other teams are maybe starting to hate his team.

“Sucks to suck,” KyungSun says smugly when Shane mentions it.

“What if the other teams try to beat us up for being too good at trivia?” Jeremy wonders. “The finance bros in the corner kind of scare me.”

“That’s why we have Shane. He’s fucking stacked and he can fight,” Alyssa says confidently.

Shane looks at her in alarm at that characterization. “What makes you think I can fight?”

“You played hockey in, like, the World Cup for hockey teenagers, right?” Alyssa says.

“It’s been a decade,” Shane says. “And centers don’t really fight.”

KyungSun looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You’re telling me an Asian kid playing hockey never had to fight some dumbfuck from Alberta?”

Shane has no particular memory of any kids from Alberta giving him shit, so he says, “Plenty of racist dumbfucks from Ottawa and Québec.”

“Yeah, don’t be racist against white people from Alberta, KyungSun,” Jeremy says cheerily. “And okay, Shane is our bodyguard. Shane, you can never miss trivia again. You have to protect me from the finance bros in case they turn on us.”

Jeremy is flirting with him, Shane’s pretty sure.

“If it was a water-based fight with the finance bros, obviously, we’d dominate,” Alyssa considers.

“Disagree!” Jeremy exclaims.

“You can swim so fucking fast!” KyungSun assures him. “They couldn’t catch you.” Jeremy’s not as fast as Shane was, but he had some solid times at university.

“For fifty meters! I’m shit at distance!” Jeremy says dramatically. “They can just walk around the pool and beat me up on the other side!”

“The key to any battle is getting the terrain advantage.” Shane’s tone is serious, so serious that Jeremy and KyungSun look at him like he’s crazy for a moment, so he adds solemnly, “Alyssa is distance, so ideally the fight is stretched out over a few thousand meters to really give us an advantage. Someone get me a whiteboard, I need to map this out.”

“You got it boss!” Alyssa laughs with delight. “How about a napkin?”

“Napkin will do,” Shane nods. He’s never really thought about a hypothetical water-based street fight strategy. He takes the pen Jeremy finds somewhere and grabs a bar napkin and starts marking x’s and o’s while his trivia team eggs him on.

His mom always said that the way to get back against people who show poor sportsmanship (her preferred polite euphemism for racism) is to be better. He always thought maybe she said that because she didn't trust him to win in a fight. Or maybe she didn't want him to hurt his hands and miss a game. Or she didn't want him to get a rep as overly sensitive with his coaches.

Or maybe, he thinks, as he laughs with his trivia team while the team of finance bros pout in the corner, she really believed it was true.

…

He shares a ride with Jeremy. He does not tell Jeremy that he lied to his parents by saying that he was hanging out with him in Ottawa last week in order to throw his family off the scent of the fact that he was actually hooking up with a famous hockey player/client.

Shane watches the city lights move over the planes of Jeremy's face, catch in his short eyelashes, and disappear into the inky black of his hair.

Jeremy looks over and raises an eyebrow, like, are you checking me out ‘cause you want to fuck me or ‘cause you're drunk and randomly staring. At least Shane thinks that is what the eyebrow means.

He doesn't really know the answer to the imaginary question. He thinks of Ilya, who is in Denver, and probably had sex with someone today, and wonders if he should sleep with Jeremy to keep things balanced. But that seems rude to Jeremy, somehow. Jeremy is a nice guy, even if he isn't nearly as good as Shane at the 100- and 200-meter freestyle.

Shane makes some kind of face at Jeremy that he hopes means, I do not know what I am doing and having sex with you about it sounds exhausting.

“See you next week?” Jeremy asks when they get to Shane's place.

“Yeah, next week,” Shane agrees. He gives Jeremy a grateful smile for making it easy and heads upstairs.

—--

On Saturday morning, he heads to the market. As he texts Jackie to get her list, a new text from Alyssa pops up in the Montreal swimmers group chat.

Alyssa: What r u all doooooingg?

Alyssa: I need bruuuuunch and I have enough punches on my card to get a free crepe at the crepe place at Jean-Talon who is innnnnn.

Shane: I'm already here. I could go for a crepe

Alyssa: this is fate!! crepes are step 436 on the journey to trivia world domination

He's genuinely pleased to find Alyssa by the crêperie, her dark eyes sparkling and long hair in a loose bun instead of the usual Friday night look of a perfect curtain of black hair. He's a little surprised to see Jeremy there, and a few other people he's never met before.

The conversation is mostly easy. Jeremy mentions that he’s been competing with the local Adult Masters swim team. He pulls up Shane's most recent international competition times on his phone and assures Shane he would dominate most of the current area swimmers. The idea doesn't sit right with Shane. It makes him nervous; he's not sure why.

He likes swimming. He likes swimming every day. He likes being a valued member of a team. He worries that giving even a small part of his brain back to competitive sports will lead him back to all the rough places he went to when his injury ended hockey, and again when he hit his limits with swimming and his limits weren't good enough.

He tells Jeremy he'll think about it.

…

Shane joins the Pikes for dinner. After, Hayden’s doing bathtime with the twins upstairs and Shane’s holding a softly snoring Arthur while Jackie cleans up dinner.

It should be quiet and calm, but Shane feels an insistent pressure against the walls of his chest.

He has to tell her about Ilya. He clears his throat. No words come. He sighs. He shifts and clears his throat again, but still no words.

Jackie looks over at him with the same exhausted look she has when she’s trying to convince the twins to wear their raincoats when it’s pouring rain. “Shane, say the thing. Don’t make me guess.”

Shane closes his eyes and makes himself talk. “You know how I said I slept with that guy at the conference? In New York? A few weeks ago?”

He hears Jackie huff. “No, I completely forgot the only piece of decent gossip you’ve given me in months.”

Shane makes himself say more things. “I might sleep with him again?”

Jackie hums thoughtfully. “And how do we feel about that?”

“Complicated.”

Jackie sighs. “Good complicated or bad complicated?”

Shane is completely stumped by that question. He frowns, trying to parse it out. He rubs his hand up and down Arthur's tiny, warm back. Listens to his small breaths.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Jackie says, her voice a mix of fond and wry. “Okay, more multiple choice questions. Is he dangerous? Mean? Bad vibes?”

“No,” Shane says quickly. “No, he’s really—He’s really good. He’s great. That’s the complicated part.”

“Because it’s casual, and long-distance, but he’s someone you could see yourself being serious with?” Jackie asks.

Shane shakes his head. “That’s not appropriate.”

Jackie throws the wet sponge she’s using to wipe down the counter at him; it bounces off his shoulder and lands on the table. He glares at her, betrayed. “You could have hit Arthur! Rude!”

“I didn’t ask if it was appropriate, I asked if you could see yourself being serious about it.”

Shane knows the answer to that, but he doesn’t feel like he can say it out loud. He doesn’t want to make his stupid feelings any more real than they already are. He sighs.

“Oh my god,” Jackie says under her breath as she retrieves her sponge. Then, louder, “You give me nothing to work with, so I’ll cover my bases: Shane, you’re a fucking great guy, and even though I would barf if I had to kiss you because you’re like my brother, you are objectively hot. If he doesn’t adore you, then he is garbage. If he adores you and you like him back, then you have my official permission to see where it fucking goes. Have a fun, sexy sex affair. You can make him move to Montreal or break his stupid Boston heart. If he hurts you, I’ll join Hayden on his next roadie to Boston and,” Jackie gestures with her sponge, looking for the words. “Drown him in a vat of Boston baked beans or something.”

Shane laughs at that. “That won’t be necessary.”

“That’s not your call to make,” Jackie counters, her tone fierce now, and then smiles. “Did I miss anything?”

Shane smiles back, and Arthur shifts against his chest, his warm, heavy baby head lifting and flopping back down against Shane’s chest. Shane continues to slide his hand up and down Arthur’s back to soothe him. “I think you covered it all.”

“Good talk. If, at any point, you want to have a conversation about feelings where I don’t have to provide both sides, let me know.” Jackie says, and then turns around to rinse out the sponge in the sink. “I have ice cream sandwiches in the basement freezer that I’ve been hiding from Hayden and the kids, you want one while he does the twins’ bedtime?”

Shane does.

…

No matter how tightly you try to hold on to time, it passes.

Things roll out in sequence whether or not you're ready. After Shane's injury, he tried to push back against this, because it sucks and it isn't fair.

But it probably is, actually, fair. Time does the same shit to everyone. Time is probably the only thing that is actually fucking fair in the world.

Still sucks.

Anyway, he's walking off an airplane, and the warm humidity of St. Thomas hits him immediately, so different from the icy pull he left back in Montreal. It doesn't feel real, but then again, neither does anything else about this trip.

…

The first stage is all business, Ilya's still in transit, but there's a pre-shoot meet and greet. Shane’s ready for this. Handshakes, smiles, confirmation of details: schedule, ensuring Ilya's meal plan is accounted for, meeting the wardrobe people and the rest of the crew. Shane's pretty irrelevant to the whole process, but everyone is nice to him. By the end of the meeting, he feels more in the loop on everything than he actually expected to be.

After, they’re mingling over a spread of food. He thanks people for working over Christmas to accommodate Ilya's schedule, but everyone he says it to is Jewish or otherwise not personally invested in celebrating anything about the specific date of December 25th, so maybe Shane is the only one inconvenienced by the timing.

The lead makeup person pleadingly requests that Shane keep Ilya out of the nightclubs or, if that isn't possible, to make sure he hydrates well or maybe even sleeps in a moisturizing facial mask. Shane makes no promises on any of those fronts, but he does take the elegant white paper gift bag full of the facial masks and lotions he's supposed to convince Ilya to apply before the shoot begins tomorrow morning.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. There's a picture of a black limo with a palm tree in the background.

Ilya: you are not at airport driving limo to pick me up? 😢

Shane: if it was up to me you would walk to the hotel so….

Ilya: bad idea. I might get kidnapped. By a beautiful millionaire widow. Become sex slave on yacht. Then you would be in trouble.

Shane: how am I in trouble? In this scenario I'm just relaxing, having drinks and watching the sunset. You're the captive concubine.

Ilya: you would have to do paperwork. So much paperwork. Lost your client. Typing words. PowerPoint. Computer. All of it.

Shane: your understanding of what my job entails is uncanny

Ilya: concubine! No

Ilya: I look this word up «a woman who lives with a man but has lower status than his wife or wives» no

Ilya: I am highest status sex slave

Shane: pretty sure highest status sex slave is still one notch under wife or wives?

Ilya: you are fired. I quit. Lawsuit! call my lawyer for me

Shane: I take it back. I'm sure the wealthy millionaire widow who kidnaps you would make you her highest ranking wife.

Ilya: thank you for acknowledging this important truth

“What's so funny?”

Shane looks up from his phone with a start. The makeup person who wants Ilya to use face lotion is staring at Shane with interest. “Oh. Um. Just. Texting. A friend.”

“Cool. Thought maybe it was a funny meme or something good. Must be a funny friend. Hey, you know Rozanov, right? Is he as big of a dick in person as he is on the ice?” Their tone is almost mocking. Dismissive.

Shane thinks of Ilya tipping the driver when they were in Manhattan, of the generous tip he left at lunch in Ottawa. Of how polite Ilya was at the meeting with Rolex and again with his mom. Of Ilya setting their clothes carefully on the bed in Ottawa, even though in Manhattan his first instinct had been to throw them haphazardly until Shane tidied them up.

He frowns. “Ilya Rozanov is a professional hockey player. His job is to be aggressive on the ice. He's good at his job. As long as you're not wearing a New York Admirals jersey and trying to slam him into the boards I think you'll be okay.”

“Okay. Right. Makes sense.”

Shane blinks. Probably that was rude. If Hayden was here, he’d probably be giving Shane a look right now. One that says that Shane was being a dick. Well. Shane is never going to be as nice as Hayden. He holds up the white bag and tries to plaster on something like a professional, polite smile. “I'll make sure he hydrates his skin.”

…

Shane makes small talk for a while more and then wanders up to his hotel room. He opens the sliding door and looks out at the small deck. Or lanai would probably be the proper word. He is pretty sure a hotel room deck in a beach area is always a lanai, or maybe a lanai needs to have an ocean view, which Shane did not get. That’s okay, he thinks. Because he knows Ilya got one of the best views in the hotel, and if Shane isn’t going to be getting within close proximity of Ilya’s lanai on this trip, then he’s going to have a much bigger disappointment than a subpar view.

Shane sets his laptop at the little desk in the corner, checks his email, and goes back over all his notes.

His phone buzzes.

Ilya: 6554

Shane: is that your room number? Pin code to your bank account?

Shane: I’ll assume room number. did you want me to order some pizza up to your room or something?

Shane: more towels?

Ilya: I need 100 liters of blue Gatorade and one swimmer to dump them on

Shane grins and shuts the lid on his laptop.

Ilya's smirking at him when he opens the door, and Shane was going to say something, but he looks too delicious, with his curls loose and perfect, a black tank top and some kind of interesting black athletic pants that are either European or just strange, Shane doesn't know about pants, and he doesn't care, it's just part of the package. He flicks his eyes over Ilya's face, and he is pretty sure he sees permission there, so he takes a long step into the room and moves his mouth onto Ilya's and his hands into those curls and his hips up against Ilya's goddamn hips.

He's pressing Ilya hard into the wall, licking into his mouth. Ilya's hands find each side of Shane's face and hold on. Shane wonders if he’s being too aggressive, but he knows Ilya could check him across the room if he didn't like it and fuck, that's the hottest fucking thing Shane can think of.

“You missed me,” Ilya says, his voice breathy but teasing. Shane wants his mouth along the curve of Ilya's jaw, the elegant, beautiful architectural line, hard, sharp and masculine compared to the fragile give of Ilya's neck.

He wants to lick him, so he does, and Ilya drops his head back against the wall, so Shane runs his teeth along the path of Ilya’s jaw next.

“No idea what you're talking about,” Shane breathes back, and Ilya’s neck is still exposed, so Shane kisses and sucks down to his collarbones. He's getting kind of lost. He had a goal here, but he's fuzzy on the details beyond getting as much of Ilya in his mouth as he can.

He slides his hands up Ilya's shirt, and Ilya presses off the wall enough to pull the shirt off. Shane tries to touch all of Ilya's torso at once.

“Fuck, you going to get on your knees for me?” Ilya says.

Shane feels a hunger at that, and his mouth is already opening as he drops to his knees to press and breathe into Ilya's hard cock through the cloth layers of his pants, which is horrible, the pants, so Shane slides them down and Ilya helps and then his mouth has Ilya's dick in it and Shane feels something very right settle over him and Ilya says, “Ohhh fuhhhk, Shane,” in this low drifting almost-growl.

Shane knows exactly what he needs to do and it's exactly what he wants to do, so he relaxes into it, letting the weight of Ilya press farther back in his throat before he bobs his head, letting himself enjoy the movement and texture of Ilya's warm dick along his tongue. It's so perfect he could die. He knows it's weird. No part of him gives a fuck.

“Holy fuck, Shane,” Ilya gasps. Shane moans and Ilya echoes that moan in his own chest and Shane reaches his hand up to feel the vibrations for himself. There are hands in his hair now, hands cupping his cheek; Shane lets those hands be all he needs for long, drifting minutes.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya says, “a break.” He pulls Shane up, which is frustrating for a second, but Ilya gently kisses the feeling away as he steps out of his pants, now fully naked with Shane fully clothed, and walks them towards the enormous bed at the center of the room.

“Take this off,” Ilya says, pulling at the hem of Shane's shirt, his accent thick, his tongue slow; he sounds almost drunk.

Shane wants to do what he says, so he pulls off his shirt, and slides out of his pants, pauses to shake them out neatly, and lays them on the nightstand at the edge of the bed when they finally reach it.

Shane doesn't have his good lube or his favorite condoms with him in Ilya's hotel room, but he has Ilya's hands, his mouth, the dense weight of his perfect, athletic body pressing down into him. Then Ilya pulls out a condom, and it's the brand Shane likes, which is more comforting than Shane wants it to be, but Ilya tells him to roll it onto his dick so he does, and fuck. Ilya's dick.

Shane feels like a wild animal.

Ilya murmurs in Russian, says, “Okay?” in English and Shane is about the most okay he's ever been. He holds on.

…

After, Ilya is sprawled across him like an extremely troublesome weighted blanket, and Shane is running his hands lazily up and down the skin of Ilya’s back, because his skin feels so fucking good under Shane's fingers. Shane’s mind should be fucked out and blank, but he keeps thinking of questions.

The questions are a symptom of a thing that is not-very-smart that Shane is doing to himself. He knows what he's like when he gets one of his weird passions that other people don't seem to get. On the one hand, too bad for everyone else because it is so deliciously exhilarating to dig into the details of a fascinating new topic. This is often appropriate and fun and healthy and even productive when it is for work, or something neutral, like when he was reading on the plane about what wildlife he might find off the shores of St. Thomas when he goes swimming tomorrow morning.

Unfortunately, a person is not the same as seashells.

So far he has been contractually obligated to be somewhat fixated on Ilya, just like any of his other clients, though unlike his other clients, Shane has crossed some lines, to say the least. But also, he knows he's been doing a great job with building Ilya’s account.

The problem is, right now, the questions aren't about what sports drinks Ilya might want to sell or which suit designer best fits Ilya's style. Right now the questions Shane wants to ask are selfish.

He wants to know every thought Ilya's ever had, every opinion and preference. Shane knows he might be annoyed by a lot of Ilya’s thoughts and opinions and preferences, but he also knows that even the aggravating ones are going to be interesting and he just wants them.

He wants to know about Ilya's family and his favorite food as a kid and how he acts when he's watching a movie. Shane can't decide if Ilya would be focused, his face angled and almost predatory as he analyzes the information, or if he'd be silly, making jokes and asking dumb questions so that Shane has to remind Ilya that he would know the answer to that question if he'd just focus on the movie.

Shane is pretty sure it's both, depending on the movie. But that’s not the same as knowing.

He tries to corral his thoughts. Right now it is nearly time for dinner. He’s on an island in the Caribbean; it's two days before Christmas and the door to the lanai is open and a gentle breeze that smells like warm sun and saltwater is drifting over their bare skin. Ilya's hair is tickling Shane’s nose, because Ilya has his face buried in Shane's neck, and Shane is having pretty, floaty fantasies about how Ilya might look if they were on a date, watching a movie together.

There’s a term for the not-very-smart thing Shane’s brain is doing. It starts with a “falling in” and ends with an “-O-V-E”, and it has no place in any of this.

He takes a deep breath in, holds it, and slowly blows it out.

“Mr. Businessman sighs. What is our next assignment?” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s neck.

“Hmm?” Shane understood the words, but he's not fully sure what they mean.

Ilya pulls back and smirks down at him. “I assume you are thinking of your very important work list. So far today, you travel to Caribbean island, abandon highest-ranking concubine at airport, ravage highest-ranking concubine’s body. Busy day for important businessman. So. What is our next assignment?”

Shane tries not to smile, and fails. “At what point did you get the impression that you’re anywhere near the highest-ranking concubine in my life?”

“I know this. Everyone knows this.” Ilya is so smug and confident and Shane wants to put it all in his mouth.

“Literally no one but us knows anything about this,” Shane corrects.

Ilya blows out an annoyed puff of air. “You are changing the subject. Obviously I am highest-ranking, you confirmed this in writing already.”

“Right, I'll get you a medal you can wear around your neck for it,” Shane says dryly, and runs his mind over his list one last time, to make sure he didn’t forget anything that needs doing today. “The only thing on your to-do list is to moisturize your face.” He pauses and adds, “And my to-do list is to ask you to put moisturizer on your face.”

“Wrong. I also must eat food soon, and later we must fuck on the beach.”

“Ew. No. Sand,” Shane says immediately, wincing at the idea. “Absolutely not.”

Ilya groans and sits up. “You are so boring, Shane Hollander Swims. Tell me you will at least put your glasses on for this trip. For business purposes.”

“My glasses?” Shane had kind of thought Ilya was making fun of him when he made him wear his glasses during the video call phone sex.

“Yes, you did not wear them in Ottawa,” Ilya says, and then reaches over and traces his thumb along Shane’s cheekbones, where his glasses would rest if he was wearing them. “So cruel to me. It is like you enjoy my suffering.”

“Sure, Ilya, my decision on whether or not to wear my reading glasses, which I use for reading, is actually, secretly, one hundred percent about you.”

Ilya nods solemnly and wipes a fake tear from his eye.

Shane should really stop smiling this wide. He probably looks like an idiot.

…

Shane gets Ilya to apply a layer of face lotion before they head down to dinner. Ilya insists on also smearing the cream onto Shane's face, but it's expensive, high quality stuff, so he doesn't hate it.

He isn't sure if they should be seen out together, but Ilya just rolls his eyes and says, “I think if you can resist sucking my dick over salads we will be okay,” as he pulls a fresh outfit, a light linen shirt and dark shorts, from his suitcase and starts to get dressed.

Shane heads down to his own room to change and then, feeling his face flush hot with embarrassment, grabs his glasses off his desk and slides them into his shirt pocket.

They meet back up at the hotel restaurant where they’re seated on a nearly private deck with views of turquoise water, green neighboring islands and white stretches of sand. There’s a light, warm breeze that feels perfect against Shane’s skin.

“How are you?” Shane asks, because he’s a nerd.

Ilya looks up from his menu. “I will be better when I see you in your glasses again,” he answers.

Shane pulls his glasses out of his pocket and puts them on. At Ilya’s raised eyebrows, Shane says, “I wear them to read, and I’m reading the menu, this has nothing to do with you.”

“Okay, sure,” Ilya says with an easy shrug, but he looks way too pleased. He gestures out to the view. “Is not Boston in December, but this will do, yes?” Ilya says, and flashes Shane a boyish grin.

He looks really happy and also beautiful in the angled afternoon light.

“Hard to believe tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I can only remember a handful of Christmases when there wasn’t snow on the ground,” Shane says.

“Christmas is big deal to your family? Mama Hollander, Papa Hollander, many Hollander cousins, roast marshmallows over fire and sing songs about snowman?”

Shane laughs. “Fuck you. I can’t tell if you’re joking, but you don’t roast marshmallows at Christmas. You maybe put them in hot chocolate, I guess.”

Ilya nods. “But did you have big holidays? One hundred happy Hollanders in matching Canadian plaid, all keeping their hot chocolate marshmallows very far away from the fire.”

Shane smiles. “My family is small; my dad’s not super close with his family and my mom’s is mostly in Japan, so we usually had a pretty quiet holiday, but I never minded that. How about you?”

Ilya considers. “Of course we don't do Western Christmas, but Novy God. Russian New Year. Usually just family at home, brothers, sisters, parents, maybe grandparents. Some people have all the cousins and aunts and uncles coming over, but in my family, it was also small. And, maybe, a big boring party on a day before the holiday. For children to be seen and not heard.”

“You have brothers and sisters?” Shane asks.

“Ah, no. Just brother.”

Shane nods and licks his lips, and tries not to look overly alert that Ilya is sharing information about himself. “And being seen and not heard, at the boring parties? Was that hard for you when you were a kid?”

Ilya scoffs. “What do you think, Hollander?”

Shane tries to picture it, staring off at the waves as he slowly answers the question. “Well, you’re disciplined. You have incredible focus, and you’re skilled at reading a room. I imagine you’d have had to develop those skills pretty young since they’re so intrinsic to your hockey style.” He turns to Ilya, who is staring hard at him, his face somehow both blank and intense.

“I hate parties full of important Russian assholes,” Ilya says.

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean you're not good at sucking it up and doing the thing that’s expected of you,” Shane reasons.

Ilya frowns and says, “I think I am ready to order.” His watch flashes on his wrist as he gestures the waiter over.

They order, but Shane asks his next question the second the waiter turns away.

“So are you and your family close? These days?” Shane is pretty sure this is a reasonable question to ask.

“Yes and no,” Ilya says shortly.

The waiter shows up with their drinks and slips away.

“You must have missed them when you moved to the states,” Shane tries. “I imagine it's hard being so far away; you were basically just a kid when you were drafted.”

Ilya rubs his nose and shrugs. “Hockey keeps me busy. You may not know this, but I am best player in league. Companies fly me all over the world to take pictures of me wearing a watch.”

“Just because your career is going well doesn't mean you can't miss things about Russia,” Shane points out. “Or wish your family wasn’t so far away.”

“This is not very interesting,” Ilya says with a playful, teasing tone. “Why do you ask so many boring questions?”

“These aren’t boring questions, they’re normal questions,” Shane says, he sounds stiff, maybe, because he doesn’t like being teased. He feels his face heat up in a blush.

‘Normal for you, maybe,” Ilya tosses a hand up in frustration. “It is not simple for me. Not everyone's childhood is Disney movie perfect like Shane Hollander Swims.”

Shane stiffens more. “Most of the Disney movies are full of traumatic, fucked up shit. Cinderella had to become a servant in her own home after her parents died.”

Ilya says something dismissive in Russian and rubs his nose again. Shane realizes with frustration that he has once again gotten too intense, but he’s not sure how to stop being frustrated at this point. If Ilya thinks Shane is so boring, what is he doing here at dinner with him?

“Sorry I am not expert in American fairy tales,” Ilya says disdainfully, taking a sip of his beer. “Did you study this in university?”

Shane feels a flare of heat at that. “I watched a lot of Disney shit during rehab appointments and surgeries I had after my injury, because that's what they had in the Children's hospital where I spent the better part of a year,” Shane says, and he sounds so much more sour than he wants to.

Ilya winces and Shane adds quickly. “I do have great parents. I had a pretty perfect childhood, until it went a little sideways, and even then, my parents had my back. You're not wrong. I just,” Shane gestures, at what, he doesn’t know. “I guess, it isn’t simple for me, either.”

Ilya looks at him for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is softer, almost tender.

“What I do not understand,” Ilya pauses, looks down at the table, and fidgets with his beer. Ilya looks back up at him, his hazel eyes sincere, and speaks again. “It makes no sense to me why you cannot roast marshmallows over your fire at Christmas? If you can roast them over fire in summer, is same chemistry, yes? Why is it different?”

Shane barks a laugh, and Ilya lets a hint of a smirk twitch at the corner of his mouth. Shane takes a sip of his wine and feels something loosen in his chest.

“Well, melting marshmallows indoors sounds kind of sticky for one,” he muses.

“Oh, you never do anything sticky indoors?” Ilya raises an eyebrow, and Shane has to marvel at how beautiful this bastard is, as well as how skillfully he just eased them out of that conversational quicksand.

Shane smiles, “I mean, I don’t eat that many marshmallows, period. They’re just sugar. Setting them on fire doesn’t change that. Actually, I think the black stuff in roasted marshmallows can give you cancer.”

Ilya rolls his eyes so dramatically his head tips back. Shane’s eyes catch on the white arc of Ilya’s throat, the constellation of moles there, traces the line of them up to his chin, his cheek, his forehead.

“Everything in America gives everyone cancer.”

Shane resists the urge to point out that he's Canadian. “And people in Russia don’t get cancer?”

“We get it or we don’t! Kashu maslom ne isportish. You can’t spoil a kasha with butter. I can’t remember the English word. Kasha is like oatmeal, but not always oatmeal, and better. It means a good thing is a good thing. Why be afraid of good things? Russians have more scary things to be afraid of than marshmallows.”

“Fair enough,” Shane says, though he’s pretty sure he disagrees with some of that.

“I know it is annoying how I am always right,” Ilya says. “Must be so sad for you.”

“Suffering builds character,” Shane says, and he’s pretty sure his smile is too fond for a business dinner with a client, but he’s not sure how to fix it. He takes a sip of his wine to at least cover it up a little. He's surprised to see it's nearly empty. A moment later, the waiter smoothly brings him a replacement.

…

The sun sets as they eat. They’re on the wrong side of the island to catch the full show of the sun sinking into the waves, but Shane still gets to enjoy the pinks and oranges stretch across their portion of the sky, making the turquoise water glow, laying color across Ilya’s cheekbones, drawing gold and peach highlights into his curls. Magic hour.

The food is good, but Shane is too focused on Ilya to notice it much. He’s probably drinking more wine than he should, but it feels nice in his mouth, and he likes the way Ilya watches when he takes a drink.

Warm-colored string lights flicker on above them; it’s nearly dark now, but the breeze moving through the palms planted around the deck is still warm. Shane is preparing himself to be fine with being dismissed so that Ilya can do…. whatever Ilya likes to do when a company pays him to visit a Caribbean island. Clubbing or something.

Ilya looks over at him, his eyes dark in the low light. He clears his throat. “We are at beach, we should go for walk on beach, yes?”

“Sounds like something I’ve heard about before,” Shane says. Shane has some issues walking on sand with his knee and hip - the sinking, shifting surface means his tendons have to work overtime to hold his joints steady, especially after drinking when everything is even looser. But he’s in good shape right now, so it’s not a bad idea to test how he does. Also: he fucking wants to.

The beach is technically public, but anyone who's out just after sunset is probably on the western side of the island. Shane and Ilya have it to themselves as they walk.

They're quiet, at first, just the waves of the bay gently moving in, and in, and in. The sound and the rhythm is so soothing. Shane loves the water. He loves ice too, but you move across the ice with blades, with cutting and pressure and edges, almost adversarial.

It’s never been like that with the water, not for him. The water holds him, keeps him, teaches him, again and again, how to move with it. The water saved him once, when he learned that he could love swimming, when he discovered the ways that the water would support him enough to push his battered body back to health. He wasn’t good enough to win, to keep winning, to be the best, but that’s not the water’s fault.

He’s been to the Caribbean before, but he’s never been in the water of Turquoise Bay, and he realizes that he needs to. Right now, preferably.

He turns to Ilya, “Want to go swimming?” He’s grinning, the breeze in his hair. He pulls his shirt off and folds it, takes care that his glasses are safe in the pocket, and sets it on the beach.

“I don’t have suit,” Ilya says, which is absolutely silly.

“Your boxers cover more skin than the suit I usually wear,” Shane says. He toes his shoes off, shimmies out of his shorts and folds them and sets them neatly over his shoes, just past the high tide line. “There’s no one here. You’re fine.”

“Oh, what is this tiny swimming suit you usually wear?” Ilya teases, and then, “Are you actually getting in the water? It is dark.”

Shane laughs. “All the more reason you don’t need a suit. Are you worried I’ll get lost? The hotel is lit up. You can probably see it from a kilometer out.”

“You are not swimming a kilometer out,” Ilya says, alarm in his voice now. “You had wine, is not safe.”

“Only two or three glasses,” Shane laughs again, and now he’s just in his black boxer briefs, and the rest of his clothes will be safe where he’s set them, so he turns and walks into the water. It’s not as warm as it will be in the summer, but he’s fucking Canadian, it’s warm enough, miraculously warm for December, and the water is on his ankles and then his knees and then licking up his thighs. He turns and looks back at Ilya, “You coming?”

“You had four glasses of wine. One of us must pay attention,” Ilya says, backlit by the brightly lit white architecture of the hotel, the outlines of palm trees, the starry night above that. “You are crazy.”

“I’m Shane Hollander Swims,” Shane tosses back, and lets himself fall backwards into the water, flip over, and swim out a few meters, then a few more, till the floor of the bay drops down, gets deeper. The water feels like a fucking miracle along his skin.

He pauses to tread water, and he can feel the cool of the deeper water below him, his feet dipping down through the layers. The ocean makes his hair cling to his forehead, puts salt on his tongue.

He wants to share it with Ilya. He looks back. Ilya is smaller, still standing on the beach. He wants to shout, you’re beautiful, but that’s the wine talking. If he’s shouting stuff like that, he’s too drunk to swim.

“You can take your boxers off if you don’t want to swim in them,” Shane calls out.

“There are sharks,” Ilya calls back.

“The sharks here are nice!” Shane’s offended on behalf of the local sharks. “And small. A nurse shark is not going to bite off your dick.”

“You don’t know this. How could you know this?” Ilya calls back again, but Shane sees his dark outline walk further into the water. “Come back. There is a pool, safer for night swimming.”

“No,” Shane shoots back, but he swims a few strokes closer, and then adds. “I’ll protect your dick from the sharks.”

“I do not think this sounds as nice as you think it sounds.”

“I’m romantic as fuck, Rozanov, and it’s not my fault you can’t see it,” Shane chirps back, and dives below, and pops back up, now he’s close enough and the moon is bright enough to see that Ilya is shirtless, in just his boxer briefs, and the water is up to his waist.

“Stay above the water. Is not safe,” Ilya says.

“You’re a baby,” Shane says wonderingly, diving below the water again. He swims till he knows he’s close to Ilya, till he can grab at his legs in the shallow dark water, and hear Ilya yelp and splash backward.

Shane sets his knees into the sand, keeping his head just above the water, right at Ilya’s waist. “Hey,” he says, looking up at Ilya. “Take a few steps back.”

“What are you doing?” Ilya breathes as he steps back. Shane moves with him, till he can have his shoulders above the water, the waves are washing over them, but he doesn’t mind the waves, he loves the waves. He reaches for Ilya’s boxers, runs his face along them. Ilya’s soft, but he twitches. The water is warm to him now; everything is warm all around them.

Shane was asked a question, so he answers: “I’m protecting your dick from the sharks.”

“No. I can not get hard in the ocean where there are sharks. This is not sexy for me,” Ilya says, but his voice is low, and Shane presses his face into the salty damp of his boxers and breathes, and Ilya cups Shane’s face.

Shane grins up at him. “Okay,” he says, because he can be agreeable. His hands move over Ilya's thighs, his ass, reach down to feel the strength in the tendons of his ankles and feet in the soft sand under the water, and back up.

“You are like mermaid from a fairy tale, offering dangerous treasure in the dark,” Ilya hums.

“Hmm,” Shane says, mouthing along Ilya's abs, licking at the muscle-wrapped bone of his hip. Salt.

“I hear these fairy tale stories all end in tragedy,” Ilya murmurs, his voice moving in and out of Shane's ears with the sound of the waves.

“They start in tragedy. They end happy,” Shane clarifies, and then presses his mouth against Ilya through his boxers. Fuck. He's really into Ilya's dick. He should probably worry about that when he's sober. It might not be healthy how much he likes it. Right now, though, he lets his mouth do what it wants.

“Okay, we go inside, you tell me more about it,” Ilya says.

“It's not different from a blowjob in the shower,” Shane reasons. The water laps gently against his shoulders. The shape of this small bay means the water is incredibly calm, really.

“Yes, like shower, except with completely black, dark water filled with sharks,” Ilya's voice is a low rumble, his hands are in Shane's hair.

Shane pulls back, but he sighs, “You're so boring,” to see what will happen.

“You try to manipulate me,” Ilya says, soft, fond.

Shane decides to behave. He isn't ready to stand, so he does a lazy couple backstrokes away from Ilya and then swims back to him. He stands, and Ilya wraps his arms around them and then they're kissing.

“Solenyy,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane says, “hmm?”

“Salty,” Ilya hums.

Shane breathes, “Let's go to your hotel room.” Because he's remembering all the sexy things that work much better in a dry bed.

Ilya kisses him for long, lingering moments before he says, “Is trick. You get my guard down, you drag me into the dark water like rusalki.”

Shane kisses him back, letting the water press around their legs, the waves, in and in and in. “What's rusalki. Are you the rusalki or me?”

The question doesn't really matter to him; it could float away on the soft warm breeze. But he asks it, in case it matters to Ilya.

Ilya pauses and steps back, which he's been doing, Shane realizes, leading them toward their clothes at the edge of the water, even as he runs his warm fingers over Shane's skin, delicately nips along Shane’s lips. Now the water’s barely lapping at their feet.

“Rusalki are beautiful, sexy water spirits. They like vengeance. Very angry about men that betray them.”

“I'm happy right now,” Shane says, and even as he says it, he sobers up, because that was so fucking sappy and honest that it ruined his buzz, but Ilya murmurs something in Russian and keeps kissing him.

They move along the beach, towards the growing lights of the hotel—dressing, everything is sand—and up the elevator, and into Ilya's shower. Shane manages to get Ilya to rub in another layer of the lotion the stylist had handed Shane so many hours ago, and then finally, they are in Ilya's bed.

This morning I woke up in snowy Montreal, he thinks with wonder, as Ilya moves over him. Shane loves Ilya's skin, he thinks, letting it get hazy. He loves the warmth of him; he loves the cleverness of his mouth against his skin, the expertise of his hands. The power he holds, and the grace he holds it with. He loves that Ilya's scared of sharks in dark water.

He doesn't say these things. He doesn't say anything. There's nothing that needs to be said; their bodies are saying it all.

After, Ilya hums, “Stay?” and Shane says, “If you don't mind that I'm getting up at six to swim,” and Ilya says something muffled into Shane's neck, and Shane realizes his boyfriend might already be asleep.

And then it hits him like a record scratch, stressful and sudden, because Ilya is not his boyfriend.

Hookup, Shane thinks sternly to his inner monologue. His hookup is definitely asleep, and Shane is glad Ilya used the last of his consciousness to invite Shane to stay, because he needs to think, and he wants to do that while wrapped in Ilya, letting the gentle breeze coming in from the lanai drift over their skin.

Chapter End Notes

Okay, I got behind but that's because *gestures wildly* but anyway Chapter 9 should be next week and also I suspect this fic will not be done at ten chapters to the best of my knowledge but my knowledge is not trustworthy I don't know why I thought I could trust it.

Anyway.

I think a trip to the seaside would cure me.

Also! Shout out to britbrit99 for the art AND for sharing about this amazing species of shark that can maybe live to be 500 years old but no one knows. https://oceanservice.noaa.gov/facts/greenland-shark.html

Also I am retroactively adding an embroidered quote to the previous chapter. Feel free to tell me in the comments about your favorite animal that is very strange and interesting. Tumblr post with art

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Hi this chapter has two images sexy beach art so if you are reading on a large computer monitor with your grandma sitting behind you and your grandma is also looking at your computer monitor, just FYI, your grandma is gonna see some sexy beach art. Good for her, is what I say!

Y'all know I love putting you into compromising situations on the bus, etc, so please feel encouraged to read this chapter featuring sexy beach images in the most highly public way you can manage.

*Note for people that use the Imperial system FYI: 60 degrees F = about 16 degrees C. This will matter in about 3800 words*

Shane wakes up with his alarm at six. Ilya makes an overdramatic noise of outrage when Shane extracts himself from the vice grip Ilya has on him, and then falls back asleep. Shane stands by the bed and watches him in the dim, gray light. According to the app he checked, there's still thirty-seven minutes till sunrise.

Ilya's curls are messy on the pillow; his face is so fucking pretty when he sleeps. Shane doesn't want to be this shallow. But Jesus fucking hell. It's not reasonable how goddamn beautiful Ilya is.

But Ilya isn't his to stare at. And even if he was, Shane is going to be walking on uneven surfaces all day, and it’s going to be hot enough that he’d rather not wear his knee brace. He'll feel better if he has a long swim to start things off strong and stable.

…

Back in his hotel room, he refreshes himself on the route he’d assembled back in Montreal. He pulls on a swimsuit and then slides his wetsuit over it, latches his orange swim buoy to his waist, next goggles, then swim cap. He eats a protein bar as he heads to the water. He texts Jackie, “Headed out, should be back before 8,” and she immediately texts back, “I will never understand.”

He slips into the water with a smile on his face, and heads west.

He traces along the curving edge of the island with firm, efficient strokes. He pauses now and then to swim at an easier pace so he can look for interesting shells, plants and fish. Whenever he sees flashes of color that coalesce ‌into sea glass upon examination, ‌he swims down and picks those up, tucking them into the mesh pocket at his waist. They're pretty, but also, trash.

His watch alerts him at forty-five minutes; it's time to turn around.

When he gets back to the hotel beach, he swims slowly, cooling down and grabbing a few more pieces of sea-glass and also a Cheetos bag half-buried in the shallow waters a few meters out from shore.

While he was swimming, he’d worked through his role in the agenda for the day, until he had it all down to a point of comfortable precision. Now he’s mainly thinking about coffee and a real breakfast. And in between all that rational thinking, of course, his brain has been whispering: Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

He stands at the water’s edge and scans the beach, which has a few people lying on the chairs provided by the hotel, a family under an umbrella with some kids digging in the sand, and, unmistakably, Ilya Rozanov wearing a black swimsuit and a gold Rolex, walking toward him.

Ilya on the Beach by Aaliyah Sparrow

Shane pulls off his goggles and swim cap, and pulls off the orange buoy still attached to his waist and starts to deflate it.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Ilya says crossly when he’s still several meters away.

“Swimming,” Shane answers.

Ilya scoffs in frustration and puts his hands on his hips.

Shane cocks his head to the side, Ilya’s pissed about something, but he has no earthly idea what. “Did I miss something I said I would do? I didn’t have anything on my calendar for this morning; we aren’t scheduled to meet up for the shoot till ten. It’s,” Shane checks his watch, “quarter till eight.”

“I know what the time is. You left hours ago, I saw you walk into water from the hotel. You never came back out. You could have been dead. No one knows where you are.” Ilya’s voice is tight, his hand gestures sharp and frustrated.

“I was swimming along the shoreline, with proper safety gear.” He holds up the buoy he’s packed back into its little pouch. It works both as a signal for boats not to run him over and as an emergency flotation device, because Shane fucking prepares. He’s annoyed by the implication that he would be unsafe, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“And there are sharks, and speedboats, and–and–undertow.” Ilya’s hand gestures are getting bigger.

Shane swallows a lecture about the gentle, safe, wave patterns of small Caribbean bays and how the lack of undertow here is extremely common knowledge, hence the location of this very hotel along this very fucking beach.

Instead he looks Ilya over. It’s nice, probably, flattering, really, that Ilya is worried. Something fluttery in his chest is definitely overly excited about how mad Ilya is at him. Another thing to add to the list of things Shane should worry about.

Shane blows out a breath. “I texted Jackie before I left. She knows to check my tracker if I don’t text her when I’m done by a certain time. Make sure I'm not a corpse drifting out to sea, being feasted upon by sharks. Or more likely, seagulls, because the sharks here are harmless.” Shane can forgive the mischaracterization of the local wave patterns, but he is definitely offended on behalf of the sharks.

“Who the fuck is Jackie?” Ilya grinds the sentence out, he’s not looking at Shane, he’s looking down at the beach now.

“Jackie Pike. Hayden Pike's wife. From the Metros. I've mentioned her before.” Shane pulls his phone out of the zipped wetbag on his belt and says, “Actually let me text her now.”

He types, “back safe,” and she types back, “good job👍”

Ilya is staring at him again now. “Hayden Pike’s wife tracks your phone.”

“Her name is Jackie, and she's one of my best friends.”

“She is in love with you,” Ilya says definitively.

Shane barks out a laugh at that. “She absolutely is not.”

“She can find you any time? She must always know where you are?”

“She has three kids under three years old and a professional hockey player husband. I can promise she's not devoting that much energy to tracking me.”

“Why not check in with your mother?” Ilya says.

Shane stares at him. First: for a thousand reasons. Second: “Because I knew Jackie would be up with the baby.”

Ilya crosses his arms and flicks his eyes over Shane. Across his face, down his wetsuit. Licks his lips and swallows.

“You were worried about me,” Shane says slowly. And also, apparently, jealous of Jackie. The fluttery thing in his chest likes that. Shane rubs along his chest to make it chill the fuck out. It doesn’t work.

“There's sharks in the water!” Ilya says, exasperated. “Anyone would worry.”

Shane is also exasperated. “No, Ilya. In fact, most people would not worry about a largely sedentary, bottom-feeding fish.”

Ilya rubs the side of his nose. “I am team captain, I am used to being responsible for idiots with no sense.”

There, the truth comes out. What an asshole. “Well, fuck off. I have fucking sense, Ilya.”

“Okay, I know this now,” Ilya says, still sounding grumpy and then with a frustrated gesture, “Also, this is terrible look, coming out from the water. All of this gear, you look like, ah, CIA murder squad. Not sexy at all.”

Shane blinks. “Are you more upset that I was gone so long you thought I drowned, or that my entrance onto the beach wasn't sexier?”

Ilya glares. “Don't make me decide. Also, you scare the children, all in black. Not good. This is a family beach. You should display family-friendly behavior. I read a sign about it.”

“Sorry, am I supposed to be seducing people while also appealing to small children?”

Ilya just stares at him, arms crossed. It’s a good look, with the bare biceps and pecs on display. He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand that is Slavic in that way that Shane can never figure out. Shane suspects it means that Ilya is embarrassed for worrying and he would like Shane to move on.

Shane can do that. He starts unzipping his wetsuit, slowly, keeping eye contact with Ilya. He slides his arms out of the suit. He does not try to shimmy it off his legs, because there is no way to make that sexy, but he’s spent enough time looking at guys half out of their wetsuits to feel confident Ilya might see the appeal.

Ilya’s eyes are definitely on him, nearly burning into him.

Shane wants Ilya to keep looking at him. He tries to think of something that will keep his attention.

“I got you a gift,” Shane says, soft, and reaches into the mesh pouch at his waist. He pulls out a handful of the sea glass he’d collected. He leaves the Cheetos bag in there. He sorts through the glass in his left hand, picks out a few of the more interesting pieces, and displays them in his right hand for Ilya to take.

“No, no, no, no,” Ilya’s tone is more playful now, and the words are a pretty rhythmic tumble. “I know how this story goes. Beautiful creature comes out of the ocean to offer the handsome sailor a piece of treasure. This is a fairy world deal. You will trap my soul in that glass, or my voice.”

Shane smiles. “If I could stop you chirping, I’d be a millionaire.”

“I knew it. You would ensorcel me,” Ilya says. “Take my powers.”

“How the fuck do you know the word ensorcel? Is that even a word?”

“Of course it is. Now. Take off these scuba clothes, go back into the water, and come back out, sexier,” Ilya demands. “Maybe flip your hair back, jog along the beach in slow motion.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, “I’m going to go shower and eat something. You need to go moisturize your face.”

“My face is perfect,” Ilya says confidently.

“Really,” Shane says, leaning in, and then freezing in place, cause was he about to kiss Ilya? Out here on the beach?

Shane stands up straight. “We'll see what the makeup artist has to say about that.” He goes to put the sea glass back in the mesh pocket, but Ilya covers his hands with his.

“My treasures, you would take them back after offering them?” Ilya hums.

“You actually want them?” Shane asks. “What if I really am trying to ensorcel you?”

“I will take the risk,” Ilya says, taking the sea glass from Shane’s hand and tucking them into the pocket of his swim trunks.

The fluttering thing in Shane’s chest does a loop-de-loop.

…

The makeup artist is enchanted by Ilya, as is the shoot director, and the lighting people, and wardrobe, and everyone else. Shane is both proud of his charming, superstar client and feeling like a sour, childish baby about it.

Ilya is currently swathed in a fluffy white robe and flirting with the person who is adjusting his curls in some kind of endless, pointless way. As far as Shane can tell, the curls have not notably changed in the ten minutes she’s had her hands in them.

If she ends up in Ilya's hotel room tonight instead of Shane, then Shane will…

He doesn't know what he'll do.

Feel like an idiot mainly.

He already feels like an idiot, though, standing at the edge of the photoshoot. Everyone here has a key role but him, it seems like. Now the makeup person is groping along Ilya’s bare torso as they cover up a fading bruise along Ilya’s ribs that he probably got from a particularly brutal check in the Memphis game, as well as the scratches along his shoulders and back. Shane knows exactly where Ilya got those, he thinks with a petty smirk.

Shortly before eleven, the brand people from Rolex show up, so Shane finally has something to do besides imagining grabbing poisonous jellyfish out of the water and dropping them onto the hair and makeup teams’ heads. There are no jellyfish near St. Thomas this time of year, but regardless.

Shane walks over to the Rolex people and stands next to them; this is an important opportunity for networking and creating rapport.

The ad is happening in sequences, inspired loosely by Sean Connery’s 1965 turn as James Bond in Thunderball. Ilya will appear in several outfits Shane's seen and approved in mood boards: a tux, a pink silk shirt with short white shorts, and a tiny black brief-style swimsuit.

There was some discussion of accessorizing the brief-style swimsuit by adding flippers, a knife sheath on his calf, and a harpoon gun in his hand. Shane had been sent a mood board that featured Sean Connery in a similar outfit in vintage movie posters with Ilya mocked into them, but Shane nixed that.

The extra accessories, Shane had emailed back to Rolex, would detract from the watch.

More than that, he had read once to never let your client get handed a prop that wasn’t the implement needed for their sport or the product being sold, and even then, see if you can get out of the prop. Props make people look goofy. Goofy is not the look Shane is going for.

So, Shane successfully negotiated Ilya out of any props for this photoshoot, and he stands by that, but now wardrobe has taken things to the other extreme: Ilya is currently sauntering from the makeup tent to a section of beach framed by aesthetic rocks on one side and a wall of light reflector umbrellas on the other, and he’s wearing only a watch.

Okay, he also has on very small, black, silky briefs.

Shane is not sure where to look. Everyone else on the set seems to be capable of behaving themselves, doing their job, but Shane is. Well. His job is keeping an eye on Ilya, and since he can’t currently make himself look away from Ilya, maybe he is also doing his job?

Ilya photoshoot by Aaliyah Sparrow

“Jesus,” says the Rolex brand lady standing next to Shane. “I didn’t know hockey players were so buff.”

“They usually have a little more padding in the fall, but everything starts to get burned off by this point in the season. That’s one reason you see more injuries when they get towards the playoffs,” Shane says.

“And what about the padding in that Speedo, is that a hockey player thing?”

Shane turns and stares at her. He considers letting her know that Speedo is a brand of swimsuit, not a style of swimsuit. Shane has spent a lot of time in Speedos, and no way that scrap of silk has the structural integrity of anything Shane would consider wearing in the water.

He should maybe also inform her that her comment was wildly out of line and unprofessional. Instead he glares at her for another moment and then turns back to watching Ilya.

She flinches. “Sorry. That was probably out of line.”

Shane raises his eyebrows, crosses his arms across his chest, and blows a short breath out of his nose.

Rolex brand lady clears her throat and tries again. “This is going to go viral on social,” she says confidently. “What do you think about letting some of the tourists trying to figure out what we’re shooting here come close enough to grab some shots and get them on social media? A strategic leak? Should have planned something like that earlier, I didn’t realize how fucking hot this would be.”

Shane takes a measured breath. “That would work in Boston, sure, but I’m not sure he has the celebrity status here. I haven’t noticed him getting recognized around the hotel.”

The brand manager makes a tsking sound. “He might after this photoshoot. People always crowd around photoshoots, whether or not they know who the person being photographed is. I’ll tell security to accidently-on-purpose let a few of the younger looky-loos get close, someone might post something to social, it might get picked up.”

Shane nods his permission for that, then watches Ilya stare insolently at the camera, daring it to fuck with him, posture all confidence and swagger, even though he’s nearly naked and surrounded by people staring at him.

After a half hour or so of Ilya stalking around the beach in various poses, the photographer says, “Okay, let's try some in the water, Ilya, can you go knee deep in the water?”

Shane calls out, his voice loud and firm, “That wasn't in the agreed upon options.”

“Ilya doesn't mind, do you Ilya?” The photographer says cheerily.

Ilya opens his mouth, but Shane speaks first. “That's not something my client needs to be deciding for you mid-shoot when you had weeks to prepare the list of shots you wanted.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at Shane, he looks amused.

The photographer is frowning, he walks over to Shane and speaks quietly, “I think he'll look great in the water. He's an adventurous guy, let him have fun.”

Shane is not impressed. “Let's take five. I’ll check in with him on a potential change in scope, and he can have a water break and we’ll touch up the sunscreen on his shoulders. He has an NHL game to play two days from now, let's not let his electrolytes get fucked.”

“We're almost done and then he can take a longer break before he heads to wardrobe for the next outfit,” the photographer pushes back.

“If you didn't want interruptions dragging out your shoot, you should have suggested water sequences in advance so we could approve them before we arrived.” Shane says it quietly, so no one else can hear, and in an even tone, so he doesn't sound like a total dick.

“Well, fuck you, buddy,” the photographer says. He’s grinning, like that’s a funny thing to say. He gives Shane a look, like he thinks hearing a passive-aggressive swear word is going to intimidate Shane.

Shane smiles, pleasant. “We can do a ten minute break, if you’d rather?”

“Five minute break!” The photographer calls out.

Someone appears next to Ilya with the fluffy white robe, which Ilya puts on, and Shane walks with him back under the tent.

The hair and makeup people start fussing over him immediately. Ilya relaxes into the attention like the vain cat he is.

Shane says, “You don’t have to go in the water if you don't want to. That swimsuit isn't camera tested for being wet, for one.”

“I am not bothered by going into the water. Is okay. Unless Mr. Agent thinks it is bad idea.” His tone is teasing, but Shane feels like Ilya means his words, that he trusts Shane.

“You didn't seem interested in going into the bay last night or this morning,” Shane says quietly.

The makeup and hair people exchange a look.

“It's daytime, it's fine,” Ilya says. Shane looks intently at him, trying to read any concern there. He doesn't see any. Ilya adds, “The watch is waterproof. It makes sense to go in the water. It is hot. I do think it sounds fun.”

Shane nods, sharp. “Okay. But I don't want photographs of the suit wet. We don't know how it will behave in the water and the last thing we want is wardrobe malfunctions. We'll get something with more coverage, and then you can be photographed waist deep only.”

“You have thought about this,” Ilya sounds amused.

“I read way too many PR agent reddit threads about water-based photoshoot horror stories,” Shane admits.

Wardrobe is right behind him, probably trying to eavesdrop, so it's easy to get them on finding a suit that isn't like to slip down in the water and expose Ilya's pubic hair or outline the precise line of his dick or god forbid, fully melt off his body in the water or some other hot mess that Shane can't imagine right now, but knows he doesn't want attached to his and Ilya's first major ad campaign.

He definitely doesn’t want any of the “looky-loos” security is apparently going to let get close enough to grab a candid seeing anything like that.

He goes to tell the photographer about the wardrobe shift and his demand that they capture “nothing below the belt” once the client is wet. The photographer is snotty about it but he consents.

It's not long before Ilya is in a pair of board shorts, waist deep in the water, the trail of hair going down his abs dark with water, with his hands clasped behind his head so his shoulders and biceps look about a kilometer wide. The watch is on display and Ilya is staring into the camera so intensely Shane is at risk of melting when he glances at the monitor.

He shakes himself off. He takes a couple pictures of the whole operation on his phone. The behind the scenes images will be good for social media. Also, he's never taken a picture of Ilya before.

…

The rest of the photoshoot goes more smoothly, that is to say, there's no more shifts in scope that Shane has to negotiate and no one tries to give Ilya a harpoon.

Everything and everyone is behaving except Shane's knees. He should have worn the stupid brace; he knew walking around on sand all day would mess with his fucked joints. The knees are making his hips hurt which is making his neck hurt which is giving him a headache, or maybe it's how tensely he's holding his jaw that's giving him the headache, or maybe it’s the endlessly blazing sun. It’s unnecessary, really, for a place to have this much sun in December.

Earlier today, Ilya was so sexy that Shane was loosely drafting scenarios where he would suck him off in the little privacy tent where he was changing into his tux.

In the current daydream Shane is entertaining, he lies in bed and takes a nap. Ilya lies near him, but not too close. The door to the lanai is closed, the air conditioning is set to 15 degrees, Shane has a bag of ice on his knee, and he has placed a pillow over his head like a mini sensory deprivation chamber.

But it's not the part of his day where he gets to take a nap yet, or even ice his knee. He does manage to get some basic pain meds from one of the assistants, which helps.

After approximately a million pictures of Ilya brooding near some palm trees in a tux, Ilya is off with wardrobe to change back into his own clothes. Wardrobe has orders to bring him to the food table when he's done.

Shane has put on his glasses (and damn Ilya for making that into a thing) and is leaning over the monitors with the Rolex people; they have already selected a preliminary round of images and they want Shane's opinion while it's fresh.

Shane vetos a few where he thinks the camera angle makes Ilya look small. Ilya is elegant, yes, but he's also a terrifying beast of a hockey player, and Shane doesn't want any athletic gear companies to see these images and think that Ilya isn't masculine enough to appeal to sports fans.

Other than that, he doesn’t see anything from his long list of things to worry about, ahem, potential red flags to monitor for, and he gives a preliminary thumbs up to the short list of photos they’ll be sending along to graphic designers.

Shane hopes Ilya is still at the food table; he’s hungry.

…

After the food, and the handshakes, and the thank yous, it's Shane's job to escort Ilya back to the hotel. He fully expects to leave him at the elevators, he really does. He is not planning to follow Ilya back to his hotel room like a stray cat. But Ilya says, “Maybe I need help getting this makeup off my back on the shower? After all, it is your fault I needed so much make up.”

Shane rolls his eyes, and somehow the motion of his head as he's stepping into the elevator puts him off-balance enough that his knee does the twisting-stabbing 8-out-of-10 pain thing it does when he is very tired and takes a step without paying attention.

“Fuck,” he hisses, holding his arms out for balance, because he's standing on one leg and everything has gone white for a moment. He feels the warm meat Ilya's arms moving in around him.

“What is it?” Ilya's voice is sharp. It stresses Shane out.

“Just my knee,” he breathes and it's already better, mostly better. Better enough that Shane can blink the stars out of his eyes and attempt to pull back from Ilya's grip. Ilya does not loosen his grip. Shane pushes back harder, and Ilya lets go. Shane leans heavy against the wall of the elevator. “I'm fine, it's just my knee.”

Ilya is watching him closely as he presses the elevator button for his floor, one hand out like he thinks Shane could keel over at any moment.

“Just knee,” Ilya scoffs impatiently. “I told you I captain idiot hockey players. Do not fuck with me.”

“It's the weak connective tissue in my hip and knee. Usually I can hold it all in place with muscle compensation, but uneven surfaces like sand fuck with it, especially after a long day.”

Ilya's glare could burn a hole through a brick wall. “If walking on sand hurts your knees, why are you walking on sand?”

Shane feels a wave of guilt, and while he never doubted it, he suddenly can see exactly how good a captain Ilya is to his idiot hockey players.

“It was fine until you distracted me. It’s only a brief misalignment between my hip and my knee, which is pretty debilitating, but once it's back in place, it's just a throb.”

Shane can see Ilya process that information, no doubt envisioning the exact system of musculoskeletal structural flaws and compensation therapy exercises that have haunted Shane since he was fifteen. “Why did you not tape? Wear a brace?”

Shane makes a face. “It's hot. It feels gross when it gets sweaty.”

The elevator dings, and Ilya offers Shane his arm. Shane shakes his head. He really is fine if he just focuses on keeping his hip and thigh muscles stable.

Ilya's face softens a little. “Then why are you on trip where it is both hot and sandy?”

“I wanted to go,” Shane says, and maybe he sounds a little whiny.

Ilya hums. “You lied to me.”

“When?”

“This morning. You told me you have sense.” Ilya glances slyly over at him as he slides his keycard to open his hotel room. “You must think I am so naive; you fooled me.”

“Fuck off.” Shane says.

“Not nice,” Ilya tsks. “Lie on bed, elevate. I will get you ice. This is something I know how to do, get ice in hotel rooms for injured people with no sense. Much better use of my skill than pony and dog show all day.”

Shane wants to protest, but he also really wants to lie down.

He flops on the bed and sees the sea glass from this morning on the nightstand, laid out in color order. Oh. Shane thinks.

Oh fuck.

Shane's lying on Ilya's hotel bed trying not to have thoughts when Ilya reappears with a bag of ice, which he sets on Shane's knee.

“Do you want me to massage your IT band?” Ilya asks.

Shane looks blearily over at him. “What?”

“Hips, TFL, glutes. Quads. Hamstring. Massage,” Ilya says, making a squeezing gesture with his hand. “I think you understand me. You just want to make me sound stupid repeating myself.”

“Would you want to?” Shane asks with something like wonder. One of the greatest joys of his life (and also source of confusion and guilt) when he was fifteen was the medically necessary IT band massages he would get from his very attractive physical therapist.

Ilya shrugs. “I am not doing anything else. Get on your side.”

He starts digging his hands into Shane's right glute.

Shane moans. And then blushes. “Sorry.”

“Sorry, he says,” Ilya mocks lightly. “You are sorry you let me do the first useful thing all day.”

Ilya works his hands along Shane's outer hip and ass muscles, and then down the outside of his thigh, slowly releasing the muscles’ pull on his poor overworked tendon.

Ilya eases a lot of moans out of Shane, which at first really are about feeling the tension release in his tensor fasciae latae muscle, and then Ilya's hands are back up around Shane’s groin and his hands have shifted from strong and confident to curious and teasing, and then Ilya is leaning farther forward and so close that Shane can feel his breath on his thighs, and then his shorts are being unbuttoned.

“Part of your captainly duties?” Shane murmurs.

Ilya pauses. “Don't be an asshole, Hollander,” he says, easy, and then, “Can I take off your pants?”

Shane consents to having his clothing removed. He doesn't consent to the level of decimation his brain experiences from the way that Ilya's long fingers and mouth moving over him combine, but it's not Ilya's fault he doesn't do things by halves.

Shane thinks, drifting a bit, because fuck he was up early and he really isn't used to this much sun or also that good of an orgasm, but Shane thinks that maybe he and Ilya have that in common: if they are going to do a thing, they are going to do their fucking best.

Chapter End Notes

helloooooo thanks to The lovely Aaliyah Sparrow for the two (TWO) pieces of amazing art for this chapter. I could not be more excited to share them with you. Please go look at all of her art and her fic and say nice things. Jill made this art for me like a thousand years ago (approximate estimate) and they have been burning a hole in my brain and I am so excited to release them into the world. THANK YOU FRIEND! Several people sent me that ridiculous (positive) leaked photo of Connor Storrie on the beach with a crew but it was Jill who sent it to me and said "Ooh.. maybe I should try to photoshop shane looking all serious into it. Maybe I’ll try drawing it as well." and then made my life (and now your life) immeasurably better.

You can also say nice things to Britbrit99 about the wonderful embroidery. I added embroidery to the last chapter too, which I had forgotten in my *gestures hopelessly around*

All this art as well as the support of my lovely betas and all the comments makes me feel like the luckiest raccoon at the dumpster, y'all.

Okay, I'm on another work trip starting tomorrow at 5 am.

WAIT there's more pictures. If you even care. Here is some examples of sea glass you might find in the Virgin Islands.

And here is my inspiration for the photoshoot people wanting to give Ilya a knife sheath on his calf and a harpoon gun and Shane being like, "hmm, that might distract from the watch" while shooting lasers out of his eyes.

Ope forgot the link to the Tumblr art for reblob

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Shane apparently falls asleep, because he wakes up to the smell of something richly spiced, maybe with tomato sauce, maybe coconut. He’s sprawled on his stomach with a pillow on his head. The air temperature isn’t quite as low as 15 degrees, but it’s deliciously cool after the heat of the day.

He pulls the pillow off his head and blinks blearily. “What time is it?” He doesn’t actually know what day it is. Surely he didn’t sleep through the night. No, because his alarm is set for 6 a.m.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Ilya says. “It is eight; dinner time. I ordered famous local food. Front desk recommends. I don’t know what you want, so I got a lot of shit. We will eat outside on the balcony; there is better table for eating there.”

“It’s a lanai,” Shane says.

“The table is called lanai?”

“No, the balcony. A beachfront deck or balcony, it’s a lanai. It’s a Hawaiian word for outdoor living space.”

“Okay. I will not remember this word.”

Shane smiles.

…

Shane doesn’t know what the local food is called, and neither does Ilya, but there’s some kind of empanadas, a curry, seasoned rice, a soup full of vegetables. Probably way too much sodium, but it’s not greasy, and it's cool to get to appreciate the local culture a little, despite not having time to actually leave this isolated resort.

“We should watch this movie,” Ilya says. “The spy movie from the photoshoot.”

“The James Bond movie? Thunderball?” Shane makes a face. “I’m sure it’s terrible.”

“If you have not seen it, why did you suggest it for inspiration?”

“Because of the classic aesthetic. Because it's set on the beach and it was daring and innovative when it came out. It got good reviews then, and it’s a similar time period to the watch's origins.” Shane takes a bite, considers, and then adds, “I have seen it, when I was a kid, but I don't remember it, really. It wasn't my favorite, just something my dad had on the TV.”

“Which was your favorite? Not Disney.”

Shane laughs. “Not Disney. I guess my favorite was the Miyazaki movies - did you have those in Russia? Ponyo? Princess Mononoke? My Neighbor Totoro? Japanese animated movies?”

Ilya purses his lips, thinking, and says, “Not that I know.”

“Totoro was my favorite, but I liked them all. They're cartoons, but different from so many of the American ones. In the US kid's stories, it seems like the parents are idiots and clueless or cruel and the kids are on their own having this big experience they have to keep a secret from all the grownups. In the Miyazaki movies, the kids have a lot of independence, but the family is still there. The parents know what's going on and they offer advice, but also trust the child to do these big magical things. They expect a lot of the kids, but that confidence and support from their parents is part of what gives them the strength to solve these big problems. It's just–”

Shane pauses. Ilya is looking at him in this intensely focused way that makes Shane feel like everything he says is interesting. It's something Ilya does for everyone, he's pretty sure. Just one of the many magical, impossible things about him that he should know better than to fall for, but when it comes to Ilya, Shane's a hapless fool.

“Just what?” Ilya widens his eyes a little and gestures for Shane to continue. Shane hesitates, taking him in. Sometimes Ilya's eyes look so blue, but right now, against the white wall of the lanai, in the slanted evening light, they are a beautiful grayish-green. His curls are loose and one is in a perfect spiral over the left side of his forehead. Shane has no idea what he is doing with someone this beautiful and talented, but he knows he should probably shut up about some random observations he had when he was nine years old.

Shane shakes his head. “Sorry. I can stop.”

“Okay, good for you,” Ilya frowns. “But why are you stopping halfway through sentence? We are eating dinner. Having conversation. No stopping needed. Talk. How are the families in the movie different?”

Shane blinks. He's so awkward. “Okay, so.” Shane closes his eyes to try and remember the point of this endless boring story that he's trapped them in the middle of. “It's funny because I didn't actually grow up around a lot of Japanese culture so I never know if something that I think of as Japanese actually is or if it's just something my mom or her parents had as a personal habit. I mean my dad’s family is Quebecois, but he grew up mostly in Ottawa, and he said he used to think people from Quebec didn't eat garlic, but it turned out his mom just didn't like garlic. So I get that, like, a single person is not a comprehensive representation of their home culture.” Shane pauses again, but Ilya nods, so Shane continues. “For me, though, the families in those Miyazaki stories made a lot more sense to me than the kids in the Canadian or American stories. So, yeah, they were probably my favorite.”

“That is boring,” Ilya says, and Shane feels his face heat and tries to school his expression so he doesn't look hurt. “Not your story. Story is interesting. Movies are interesting. It is boring to be an immigrant and assume that what you do as an individual is just you personally and not a reflection on entire history of entire home nation.”

Shane can see the quirk in Ilya's expression now, and the careful way he’s looking over Shane’s face to make sure Shane understands that he's making a joke, so he smiles in acknowledgement. Ilya continues, “For me, I don’t want to ride a bike, so I tell people that Russia has no bicycles. Russians do not stop at stop signs. Russians do not check voicemail. Everyone who has one Japanese parent and one Quebecois parent is mean to people with poor conversion rates on their social media advertising. You see? Is more fun that way.”

Shane knows it’s not the point of what Ilya says, but he has to ask, “You don't want to ride a bike?”

“Well, is very confusing for me, since Russia has no bicycles. All the many wheels and chains connecting the wheels. Very overwhelming if you have never even heard of bicycles before moving to US.” Ilya says it with such careless confidence that Shane almost wants to believe him, despite having just heard it's a prank.

“Fuck off,” Shane grins.

Ilya grins back. “There are many things that suck about a new country, but fucking with idiots is not so bad.”

“Do you have to deal with a lot of bullshit with being Russian? Is management okay about it? Or is it more the fans? Or your team?”

Ilya hums and takes a bite of the empanada thing and looks out at the bay. “It is nothing to mention. Fine.” He gives Shane a cheeky little wink. “Everything is easier when you are the best.”

“Except riding bicycles?”

Ilya raises his eyebrows in mock annoyance, and then his face softens as he reaches out and runs a thumb over Shane’s cheekbone. “Solnechnyye vesnushki. You have more freckles today. The sun here likes you.”

Shane feels Ilya’s thumb along his cheek, and an echo of it through his body, his chest, his hips. For reasons that Shane doesn’t understand, the faint pressure on his cheekbone makes it hard to pull a full breath into his lungs. It makes it hard for him to do anything but stare at Ilya. He knows his lips are slightly parted, his eyes glazed over; he probably looks like an idiot, but he can’t remember how to make his face behave.

Ilya leans forward, and brushes his lips across Shane’s, moves his hand into Shane’s hair.

A phone buzzes.

Ilya pulls back, takes his phone out of his pocket, and swears softly in Russian.

He stands and says, “Finish eating, I must take this,” to Shane. He puts the phone to his ear and says, “Papa, ty v poryadke?”

Shane can hear a man speaking on the other end. Presumably Ilya’s papa.

Ilya opens the lanai door to go back into the hotel room.

Shane takes a slow bite of rice, looking out into the now dark night. It tasted good to him earlier, but something feels off about it now. He sets down his fork.

He can hear and smell the ocean, feel the breeze. A few stars are blinking into place, but there’s not much of a view to distract him.

He can hear Ilya speaking in a loud, stern voice, or maybe Ilya just sounds stern when he speaks Russian? But that’s not true, because the bits and pieces Shane has heard of Ilya’s Russian have been mostly soft. So Ilya is upset. Stressed. Shane stands and slowly packs up all the leftover food into the appropriate containers. He puts the empty ones in the bag to throw away in the trash, and carefully stacks the containers with leftovers so they can be put in the fridge. When that’s all done, he walks to the railing, the farthest he can get to give Ilya some privacy without climbing over and rappelling down or something.

Ilya’s voice rises inside, and Shane winces.

It’s seven hours later in Moscow; the middle of the night. Middle of the night phone calls are not good; Shane's not had that many, but he knows that much. When his dad's mom died, that was one. When his first-year university roommate got too drunk to find his way home, Shane had to track his phone, only to find him lying in the bushes less than half a block away. That one turned out okay, but it could have been worse.

Inside, Ilya sounds like he's upset but trying to be patient, articulating a series of points carefully in a language Shane doesn't understand.

For as expensive as this hotel is, the lanai doors sure don't block much sound.

Shane leans on the railing; he traces his gaze over the sky. More stars are appearing. The constellations are off from Canada: the North Star is in the wrong place, too close to the horizon. It’s unsettling. Everything is shifted and skewed; if he was trying to navigate by the stars he'd be completely fucking lost right now.

Ilya’s voice rises and drops down again.

Shane knows fuck all about Russia, really, but he's good at research and hard work. If this phone call is about something that Ilya needs help with, Shane hopes he'd be able to help.

He squeezes his hand into a fist, stretches his fingers out long, and squeezes them into a fist again. He rubs his palms on his shorts. He doesn't have any idea what he's supposed to want right now.

He blows out a breath. It seems quiet inside now, but Shane keeps his eyes on the lopsided stars, listens to the water.

It's only a few minutes before he hears the slide of the door opening, and the quiet movement of Ilya making his way toward him, and then the movement stops. Ilya clears his throat but doesn't say anything.

Shane decides he can talk first. “Is everything okay with your dad? It's late for a call from Russia,” Shane keeps his voice neutral. He doesn't want to add to any stress.

“You speak Russian now?” Ilya asks.

“The word Papa is the same in French and maybe a hundred other languages,” Shane answers.

“Interesting,” Ilya says in a tone that makes it clear that he does not find it interesting. He leans on the railing next to Shane. Their shoulders brush.

“So, is everything okay?”

“Yes, fine.” Ilya's not inviting a response, but Shane can't let it go.

“I mean, it's the middle of the night in Russia? It's not completely fine, I think, if someone is calling you in the middle of the night?” Shane pauses, in case Ilya wants to say anything in response to that. Ilya is still quiet, so Shane adds, “If you want to talk about it, or I can help with anything, let me know.”

Ilya sighs. “Is nothing to help with. My father is sick; he gets confused.”

“Sick?” Shane asks.

“Dementia. There are supposed to be people there: my stepmother, my piece of shit brother, or the nurses I pay for. Tonight, my father calls me and asks me why I am so late getting home from hockey practice and where my mother is, and why no dinner is ready yet. And I call my brother and we fight about it because he fired the night nurse apparently and did not tell me, because he is a fucking bastard who probably snorted the night nurse money up his fucking nose, so now I must send more money.”

Shane feels ice growing inside his chest. “I'm sorry.”

“It's nothing for you to say sorry about,” Ilya says, his voice hard. “Family is often shit. This is not special for me.”

“It's maybe not special, but it's awful,” Shane says. “Even if everyone in the world had the same problem, it would still be awful.”

Ilya grunts some kind of noise that might be agreement or might be disagreement. Shane looks over at him, but Ilya is looking away; his face hidden in his opposite shoulder. There is a sniffing noise. The ice feeling spreads in Shane. Is Ilya crying?

Shane has no idea what to say. He tries to imagine how he would feel if his dad had memory issues and no stable caretaker, and Shane had moved seven thousand kilometers away to play hockey? It would be torture. What a horrible situation.

He tries, “I'm sorry it's hard. To be so far away.”

Ilya makes another meaningless noise.

“Do you want to go inside and lie down?”

Ilya says, “I want a cigarette.” His voice sounds twisted and wet.

Shane hates cigarettes, but he also hates being next to someone having emotions that aren't fixable. “Do you have any? I bet the hotel staff could figure something out.”

“No. I tell Boston I quit. I don't need to fuck that up.” Ilya's voice sounds steadier now, almost normal.

“Okay,” Shane says. And then it's quiet for so long that he gets nervous and says, “The North Star is in the wrong place this far south. Or I guess wrong for me. It's weird to look at the sky and see the stars all mixed up from how I'm used to. When you're a kid, you know, the night sky isn't something you can imagine ever changing.”

After a while, Ilya says, “Not so many stars, in Moscow. Or Boston.”

“Right. Of course. Ottawa has some light pollution, of course, but my parents have a cottage, and you can see all the stars there. My dad was kind of into it, so if it was a good time to see the aurora borealis, or some other, like, special meteor or something, he'd drag us out there for a weekend. I thought it was a dumb distraction from hockey at the time, and I think my mom kind of agreed with my side, but now I'm really glad.”

Ilya makes another sound.

Shane says, “My dad used to say if you ride your skateboard off the handle of the Little Dipper you land on the North Star.” He points to the curve of the Little Dipper and where the handle ends with Polaris. “Not that either of us actually skateboarded.”

Ilya is quiet.

Shane continues. “I was too nervous to skateboard or anything like that. Didn't want to get injured and lose out on ice time.” He snorts. “Not that that fucking helped at all, in the end,” he says drily.

He and his mom had basically kept him wrapped in bubble wrap when he was off the ice as a kid, saving all the risk for hockey. He's not sure what the point of that was, now. Probably just made him all the more mentally fucked up when he lost hockey and had nothing fucking else. He can’t even be mad at her about it; he's not sure he would do it differently if he had to go back.

He wonders how Ilya's mom reacted to Ilya's prodigy level skills; he's never heard him mention her, except now, but then Ilya also mentioned a stepmother.

Because they are still leaning against the same railing and looking out at a night sky that looks like someone got mad they were losing a board game and tilted the table so all the stars slid down, Shane says, “Your mom. Did she like that you played hockey?”

And Ilya says, “Yes. I think so.” His voice is clear and controlled now. “She liked the ice. To skate. She liked skating very much.”

Past tense. Ilya mixes his tenses sometimes, but Shane can always figure out what he means, and he is sure Ilya means past tense now.

From the Wikipedia article not mentioning Ilya's mom, he's figured she had passed away, but there's no reasonable way to ask that kind of thing. At least, not that Shane is capable of. Jackie could ask that kind of thing, of course. He has a sudden urge to introduce them, so Jackie can learn things about Ilya and Shane can listen.

Shane is completely out of his depth, and he kind of wants to die, thinking about Ilya’s mom dying. “I'm sorry,” Shane says, and then realizes the last thing ‌Ilya said out loud was that his mom liked skating, and that’s not what he’s sorry about.

But Ilya seems to follow, because he says, “It was very long time ago.”

Shane thinks about his parents and how they are not perfect people, but they are good people, and they are his people, the fabric of his everyday life in such a casual way that he has absolutely no idea how it would look without them, and says, “I can't imagine it being a long time ago makes it better. Unless she was awful or something.”

“My mother was not awful. She was beautiful. Funny. Very brave. Very kind.”

Shane is listening to those words with his whole body. He lets them sit for a moment, to make sure he's understood every piece of them, and then says, softly, “She sounds just like you.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says, and his voice sounds far away. “Maybe sometimes. I think sometimes I am too much like her.”

“What was her name?”

Ilya makes a small humming sound. “Irina,” he says, and the way he moves the vowels and the r through his mouth is so precious and careful, Shane feels like he’s been handed a delicate piece of glass art. Ilya sniffs again, his breath hitches.

Shane is not the best at feelings, but he's pretty sure that right now Jackie would pull Ilya into a hug, so he says, “Hey,” as soft as he can, and sets a hand on Ilya's shoulder, and adjusts them both, and slides himself between Ilya and the railing, so now Ilya is leaning on Shane, and Shane holds onto him as tight as he can.

After a while, something shifts, and they are kissing, and clothes are being pulled off, and they're moving together to the bed as if they've been moving together all their lives; simmering and heated yet graceful, inevitable, like the water, sliding together, changed, but the same, like the stars across the sky.

…

In the morning, it's Christmas and Shane is in love.

They live in different cities, sure, in different countries, though that's maybe workable, Shane thinks. Ilya has the money, and Ilya's on the road so much, and Shane works from home often enough in Montreal, and sometimes in Ottawa, and there's no reason he can't work from Boston sometimes.

Shane could have his place and his friends in Montreal and Shane could go to Boston when Ilya is there, and he can see Ilya when he travels to Shane’s home turf, and maybe Shane can meet him down south for some of the games in warm, beautiful places where it's fun to go, and it would…be stupidly naïve and dangerous for Ilya's career.

Shane breathes out a long, slow breath. Is he in love, or is he drunk on hormones and competency kink? Maybe he's just having another Olympics moment, like with Matt, the handsome Welsh high jumper.

After all, this is the second time he's turned a professional trip into a sex-cation in a foreign country. He is once again lying in bed with a beautiful, internationally ranked athlete with curly hair and a beautiful accent sprawled snoring across him while his brain makes schemes about how to make this feeling pass through the liminal space of airports and hotels into real life.

Beyond that, though, everything about Ilya is different from any other way he’s ever felt about anyone. He’s absolutely, completely sure about it.

The relevant question is this: does it matter in any way whatsoever if Shane is in love?

Ilya can't be queer in real life, and Shane can technically fuck his client, but it reflects poorly, particularly to his client base of Montreal Metros players. Shane has gotten Ilya the most prestigious deals his firm has ever landed because Ilya's the most prestigious player the firm has ever landed. The fucking has, so far, been irrelevant to the portfolio's success.

Explain that to a WAG who raises a terrifyingly sculpted eyebrow at the disparity in ROI between her guy and Shane’s newest client, assumes that her husband is getting substandard representation, and makes her husband switch to another firm.

And also, Ilya likes having a lot of sexual partners, and that's okay with Shane, till it isn't. He can feel his discomfort with that growing. He's not proud that he can't be cool about an open relationship, but he is increasingly sure he can't, and that's not fair to anyone.

He's been to churches a few times for his dad's family funerals. And at one he remembers they said a rich man getting to heaven was as likely as a camel passing through the eye of a needle.

And this is like that: everything in this hotel room, Ilya's broad beautiful shoulders, the sketch of his struggles with his family that he let Shane see, the way Ilya worried when he didn't know if Shane was safe on his swim, the food he ordered while Shane was sleeping, and the ice on Shane’s knee, the beach glass arranged by color on the nightstand.

You can’t fit that through the eye of a needle.

Shane can feel his eyes getting hot with tears, and he knows he’s being maudlin and overdramatic about all this, but maybe it’s fair to feel a little dramatic when you have the most beautiful person you’ll ever meet in your arms and you know there’s no way to keep them there.

Shane is a good, hardworking, loyal person; at least he tries to be, and he’ll always try to be, and he’s probably good-looking enough, whatever. He knows he’s not bringing nothing to the table, when it comes to a romantic relationship, but he also knows he’s not bringing anything in particular either. He’s nothing Ilya can’t find again and again as he moves through the world.

In contrast, Ilya is extraordinary, he’s the whole night sky.

He keeps picturing Ilya at dinner with his parents, Ilya taking a turn walking Arthur around when he’s fussy, Ilya building towers with the twins and charming Jackie and taunting Hayden and adding some real defensive muscle to the trivia night world domination scheme.

It’s all embarrassingly one-sided. Shane knows why he wants those things, but why on earth would Ilya?

He’s trying to take a force of nature and thread it into the world’s most boring life.

Fuck, he’s the stupidest, most babyish, most naïve person who's ever fucking lived. How the fuck did he think this was going to end? What the fuck was he thinking?

He takes long breaths because he’s not going to cry; he’s not. Thank God Ilya sleeps later than him, so Shane can wake up at 6 a.m. and have his little dumbass freakout that Ilya will never buy apples at the farmers market with him, will never know the ingredients that Shane puts in his favorite smoothie. He needs to get all the stupid out of his system before the day starts properly.

He slides one hand out from under Ilya to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. Tears start hot, but get cold so quickly. Disgusting. He hates the feeling of tears on his face.

His next breath hitches, but the one after that is smooth, and the one after that too.

Jesus Christ, this hurts.

It’s fine. He’s survived worse. He just needs a plan.

The plan is like this: he’ll keep working on Ilya’s branding portfolio. He’ll stop sleeping with Ilya.

He frowns. He doesn’t like that plan.

He’ll maybe sleep with Ilya a few more times?

He’ll stop spending the night, for sure, and stop eating meals with him. Though some meals are going to be inevitable for work purposes. He’ll definitely need to stop the insanely romantic meals where he gazes pathetically into Ilya’s blue-sometimes-gray eyes.

Here’s the real plan: Shane will be desperately in love with his perfect, untouchable client till the end of time, and maybe they’ll have sex sometimes, when Ilya feels like it. No one but them will ever know and it will never be anything more than that.

Okay. That plan also sucks.

Whatever. Shane has the whole plane ride home to work on the plan.

For now, it’s Christmas, and Shane is in love, and that’s okay, because he’s going to make a plan to stop being in love on Boxing Day.

…

Shane hears a change in Ilya’s breathing; he’s pretty sure that’s the moment Ilya wakes up. A moment later, there’s a cozy warm shifting of Ilya’s hips into Shane’s, his dick hard and perfectly pressing into the crease at the top of Shane’s thigh, the roughness of his pubic hair, the heat growing. Shane’s helpless against it, and Ilya’s lips find his, and Shane licks into his mouth, because Boxing Day can fucking wait.

Ilya pushes himself up to grin down into Shane’s face. “Good morning,” he says, his accent thick, his voice like honey, and he slides his big hand between them, calloused and strong, and he presses his nose into Shane’s jaw to move Shane’s head where he wants, so he can lick and suck along Shane’s neck, and Shane lets Ilya take everything over, sighing his name because it’s the only word his mouth wants to say. “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.” He never learned how to pray, but he thinks it might be like a prayer.

…

Ilya orders room service and asks him to shower with him while they wait for it to arrive, so of course Shane joins him in the shower. Ilya moves him how he wants, presses him against the wall, and whispers secret things in Russian, and Shane lets everything be drifting pleasure, which is something he’s never been able to do before Ilya.

After, they go out on the lanai and eat fresh fruit and perfect tart yogurt and the better part of three omelets with a stack of toast, because Ilya eats a remarkable amount of food, which Shane finds more sexy than it probably is, because Shane is fully fucking gone, isn’t he.

So Shane is sipping coffee and watching the waves trace along the beach when his phone buzzes, so he pulls it out to read the screen. “Text from my mom,” he says to Ilya. His phone buzzes half a dozen more times.

Ilya says, “Ah, it is Merry Christmas today, yes?”

Shane smiles lazily over at him and raises his coffee cup in a toast and says, “Yep. Merry fucking Christmas.”

“Tell Mama and Papa Hollander to enjoy their marshmallows.”

Shane laughs and starts skimming the series of texts. “Most of these are about work, actually.” They’re actually mostly about Ilya, specifically.

“What does Mama Hollander think you are doing today?”

Shane shrugs because they hadn’t gotten into any specifics. “Enjoying the beach, I guess.”

“And what did she think you were doing when you were in my hotel room in Ottawa?”

He is still skimming the series of messages from his mother, apparently she’s been busy, “Oh, that I was meeting Jeremy.”

“Who is Jeremy?”

“Guy from trivia night,” Shane says absently, and scrolls through to the end of her missive.

“She thinks you were with Jeremy ‌the whole night?”

Shane looks up. “I mean, I guess. I didn’t go into that much detail. She didn’t ask.”

“You spend a lot of nights with Jeremy?” Ilya says the name like it’s something terrible.

Well now Shane wishes he had, so he’d have a more compelling answer, but of course the answer is, “No, I just needed a random reason, and they don’t know him, so it was convenient.”

“You go to trivia night?” is the next question.

Shane blushes, “Yeah, it’s, it’s fun. Nice way to meet people; most of the people there are swimmers from McGill.” Pathetic compared to Ilya’s life, obviously. “I’ve been going most Friday nights for a few months now.”

Ilya hums. “McGill is where you went to university?”

Shane nods.

“Very fancy, all of your university friends, getting together to take more exams together on Friday nights, prove how smart you are.”

Shane frowns, because he doesn’t need Ilya rubbing in how much cooler his life is than Shane’s. “I mean, it’s trivia. The questions are about stupid stuff, usually.”

“I would not know,” Ilya says, and it’s quiet a minute. Shane’s thinking over the trivia night exchange and trying to figure out what he missed, because he’s pretty sure he missed something, when Ilya gestures to Shane’s phone. “What work things are so important your mother texts you on Christmas morning?”

Ahh, even more evidence of how embarrassingly boring Shane’s life is. Shane offers a rueful smile. “She has a lot of opinions on how you should start a trust, or a couple, actually. One for your own long-term assets, so all your salary goes into the trust, and you ideally just live off your endorsements, and a second trust for any family support requests, so you have a third party to manage and track how much is going to Russia and where exactly it’s going. That way it’s all above board, and you don’t have to deal with it.”

“That is many opinions about finance for a PR person.”

“Sorry. Apparently she’s been talking to your agent and doing some research, and now she’s asking me to have a lunch meeting with you today, before we leave the island, so I can tell you what she’s found.”

“Tell her to stop looking. I will not pay someone to manage my family.” Ilya’s voice is flat.

Shane considers that, scratches the side of his face and eventually says, slowly, “Sounds like you might be happier if you did.”

“Family is family,” Ilya says back, sharp and immediate. “Happiness is not part of it. I do not expect you to understand.”

“I mean, I understand that family is important,” Shane says, still slow, because he doesn’t want this to be a conflict. He’s just sharing information. “My mom is saying that they should have set this up years ago, when you first signed. She’s kind of pissed they didn’t. It’s not just about having someone manage the relationship for you, but making sure the wealth is protected long-term for you and your family, or whatever you want it for.” He pulls open the text thread and reads from it, “A revocable living trust for you, and then either a Spendthrift Trust or a Friends and Family Trust for any beneficiaries you might want to financially support.”

Ilya taps his fingers on the table and looks out at the beach. “I am not paying her to worry about this; she does not need to bother.”

Shane laughs, “Well, good luck with that. My mom is kind of a force when she decides there’s something that needs done that’s not being done. I mean, she’s texting me on Christmas morning.”

“I do not need your mother’s pity,” Ilya says.

“It’s not pity, it’s just—” Shane tosses his hands up helplessly. “It’s not pity. She doesn’t pity you, I can tell you that.”

Ilya looks over at him, sharp and pointed. “No, she just thinks I am idiot. I do not expect you to understand Russia, but in Russia, family is not as simple as paperwork.”

“Fine, that’s fine. My mom,” Shane sighs. “She doesn’t think you’re an idiot. It’s more her way of showing respect. She’s taking you seriously. This is her way of taking you seriously. You don’t have to like it, but it’s not pity, and it’s not condescension.”

“Okay. Fine. We have talked about it, you did your job, and now we move on. I have gift for you,” Ilya says abruptly, and springs up and moves back into the hotel room.

Shane freezes. Maybe he heard Ilya wrong? But a moment later, Ilya appears in the doorway holding a gift.

“I don’t have a gift for you,” he says. That idea had occurred to him, actually, many times, and every time he squashed the idea in embarrassment.

“Why would you? I don’t celebrate Western Christmas,” Ilya says carelessly, and then tosses Shane a beautifully gift-wrapped box, small, about the length of his hand.

The paper is golden with textured silver swirls. It’s heavy, expensive-looking paper, with a small, intricate bow, which is a little flattened from, Shane assumes, traveling in a suitcase from Boston to the Virgin Islands. Shane runs his fingers over the ridges of the design, and Ilya says, “They wrap it at the store, of course.”

Shane feels a pathway past whatever tension the talk about financial trusts created. He makes himself smile. “No, don’t ruin the illusion for me. I was all set to get you a gift wrap sponsorship so you could capitalize on your secret gift wrapping mastery. Scotch tape would pay big money for that, I bet.”

“That would be very embarrassing for me. I would probably cut myself on the scissors, tape my hair.”

“Hmm, maybe the spin is, ‘Scotch tape makes gift wrapping so easy, even a hockey player can do it!’” Shane tries. He can tell it doesn’t land.

“Yes, nothing funnier than dumb hockey players.” Ilya intones and then gestures regally at the gift. “Open, it is not just an empty box.”

Shane opens the gift, carefully, he’s always been careful with gift wrap. The gold peels back and reveals a black box, which Shane opens, and inside is a watch. A Garmin swim watch, but not a normal one, it’s some kind of elegant, matte black metal, which Shane recognizes, actually, because he’s seen it in magazines and looked up the price, and then laughed and thought only an idiot would pay three thousand dollars for a swim watch when you can get a perfectly fine one for three hundred dollars. And then he read over all the specs and felt really jealous of people who can afford such a nice watch.

He blinks up at Ilya.

Ilya rubs his nose. “It is made from carbon fiber, which is good for hockey sticks, I don’t know if it’s good for watches. Has many boring features I would never use, but I think you will like them. Tracking running, swimming, heartbeat, GPS, maps, how high is the mountain, how deep is the water, all of that.”

“You didn’t need to get me anything,” Shane says, and really, Ilya absolutely should not have.

“You get me watch,” Ilya gestures to make the gold Rolex flash in the morning light, “I get you watch. Reasonable. If you don’t like it, you return it, get what you like. Spend the money on beer, I do not care.”

Shane feels kind of numb, because he can’t tell if this gift is Ilya giving an extravagant tip to someone who provided him a useful professional service, or if Ilya is giving him the watch because he thinks about Shane as much as Shane thinks about Ilya.

“This is a really expensive watch.”

“Not really, not to me. You are going to make me my millions of advertising dollars. I have money.” Ilya huffs something like a laugh, but it’s bitter. “Since I have not been smart enough to start all these trusts, I can spend all my money on watches.”

Shane can’t do this anymore, so he puts both hands over his face for a second. He just needs a second.

“Shane?”

“Just need a second,” Shane says.

“You can return watch. Is just watch.”

“I like the watch,” Shane grinds out. He does like the watch. He really wants to wear it, as soon as he has control over his face and arms again. “It’s not just a watch.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

“Then what is it?”

art by britbrit99

I’m so in love with you and it’s killing me, Shane wants to say, but that’s not true, Shane’s not really dying. Or maybe he is. He feels the hot tears back in his eyes again, and he hates them. He hates that he's holding his hands over his face like a child, but he can’t look at Ilya. He can’t be looked at, and he can’t run away, because despite everything, he really wants to be right next to Ilya, right now, and probably forever. He leans his head forward till it’s resting on the glass tabletop.

Without his permission, he asks, “What are we?”

He hears Ilya shift. “Not sure what you mean.”

“I mean to each other. What would you call it? If you had to pick a word.”

“You are the one who went to university; you tell me the fancy word you would want to use.” Ilya’s voice is the flattest Shane has ever heard it, and he now realizes why so many people think Ilya’s an asshole.

“Ilya–” Shane pulls his hands off his face and frowns over at him.

“Say it in French or English, you have access to so many words, many languages,” Ilya says.

Shane sits back up to really look at him. “You also speak multiple languages?”

Ilya is sitting stiffly, staring out over the railing of the lanai. He shrugs one shoulder. “Fine. I play your riddle. What are we? Simple.” Ilya looks at Shane, his gaze hard. “You are smart, beautiful businessman, and I am dumb Russian hockey player you fuck on vacation.”

“That is the most inaccurate thing I've ever heard,” Shane says.

“Fine. You are right. We are not on vacation together. I am dumb Russian hockey player you fuck on business trips.”

“I don't think that’s true at all,” Shane manages.

art by britbrit99

“Well, maybe I am not the only dumb one,” Ilya counters.

“Bullshit.” Shane says.

Ilya stands up. “I must pack. I leave tonight. Game tomorrow.”

“You can’t just end this conversation. You don’t leave for like, eight hours.”

“I can do many things without your guidance, Hollander,” Ilya says.

“Obviously. I know that,” Shane says.

“Okay, you know this. So go. Enjoy the rest of your Christmas.” Ilya walks inside the hotel room.

Shane stands; he’s holding the watch. He’s not sure if he should leave the watch, but he wants the watch, so he holds onto it. He follows after Ilya, who’s now standing by the hotel room door.

“Please reach out about next steps for our work when they are ready,” Ilya says, suddenly formal, perfectly polite.

“Okay,” Shane says, though he wants to throw a lamp at the wall.

“Thank you. Have a nice afternoon and a safe flight.”

There’s probably nothing Ilya could have said to make Shane angrier at that moment, and now he’s too mad to think of anything to say. Okay, so Ilya wants him out of his hotel room, out of his life.

Fine. Fucking fine.

Shane leaves. The next thing Shane knows, Shane’s in his room, sitting on the bed. Alone. Holding the watch. He’s not mad anymore. He’s just kind of empty.

He could cry, but he doesn’t like how tears feel on his face.

It’s fine. He’s survived worse.

Chapter End Notes

I had to add two more chapters. I think I'm done adding them. I also added a tag for "emotional numbskullery" and another for "happy ending" to the fic. So.

Who needs a playlist?

Ilya pretending bicycles don't exist in is Russia is something that happens in ARustySpork's fic called Is this thing on? (12.6k words) which is based on the tumblr post about Shane and Svetlana starting a hockey podcast after Shane retires.

Thanks to Books and a Beer and QueerIntentions for the beta on this chapter. Go ahead and blame them for how sad it is. Just kidding. That's my fault. You can yell at me about it in the comments or on tumblr

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Chapter note: I am translating the French in-line because Shane speaks French, so he knows what it means in the moment. I don’t translate the Russian in the text, because Shane doesn’t speak Russian. These POV rules make sense in my head, anyway. For the record, I absolutely do not speak French, so corrections to the French are welcome. We all know Shane would use proper grammar.

…

The thing about flying home from St. Thomas on the evening of Christmas day after he sort-of-broke-up with his not-at-all boyfriend is that he's flown places on planes plenty of times and it's not a big deal. The only reason ‌this plane flight is any different from any other flight Shane has ever taken is that if things weren’t completely fucked with Rozanov, Shane would be wearing the new watch on his wrist.

Instead, he has the watch in his pocket and keeps sliding his thumb into his pocket and running it along the edge of the watch face, feeling over the buttons and reminding himself of the fact that if you aren't dating someone it's not a breakup, and this is the best-case scenario and what he was planning on making a plan about anyway, as not not-breaking-up was not an option for the long term.

So it’s better this way if you think about it.

Shane is trying really hard not to think about anything.

…

He gets home so late on Saturday that it’s almost Sunday, which is Boxing Day, the day he was going to make a plan about the Ilya situation, but Ilya took care of that for him by kicking him out of his hotel room so he has the day free to do other things. He wakes up late and spends most of the day lying in bed and watching 1-2 minute long videos on social media. Resting his knee, is what he tells Jackie and Hayden when they invite him over to watch the game.

Boxing Day is also the day that Ilya has a home game against Buffalo.

Watching Ilya's game would not have been part of his original Boxing Day plan which was about being focused on making a plan, but since Shane cancelled his plans to make a plan today, he can’t think of anything better to do, and he should really get out of bed before bedtime. Also, his brain hurts from watching approximately 30-60 videos per hour for the last eight hours.

He gets up, and all of his food is terrible, and the idea of ordering food and someone bringing food to his house makes him emotional and fragile in a way he doesn’t want to investigate. Eventually, he finds a bag of tortilla chips he had bought to bring to a dinner-thing Alyssa hosted last month that he didn't end up going to. He flops down on the couch to eat chips for dinner and watch Ilya’s game.

He immediately gets back up to grab his comforter off his bed and finds the watch where he left it in his underwear drawer when he was unpacking last night. He puts the watch in his pajama pants pocket, wraps the blanket around himself, lies back down on the couch, and finds the channel the game will be on.

That guy is not my boyfriend, he thinks morosely when they play a montage of Ilya looking beautiful and scoring goal after goal during the pre-game hype-up coverage. Ilya ripping off his helmet and roaring into the audience, Ilya beaming and raising his stick above his head, Ilya skidding across the ice on his knees, Ilya looking enormous in all his gear, leaning down and giving a teeny-tiny fist bump to a teeny-tiny Timbits-age kid in teeny-tiny Boston Raiders hockey kit. The montage ends with the camera zooming in on Ilya posing in a studio, inexplicably wearing just a sleeveless undershirt up top, but with his gloves and all his lower pads and kit on, lazily leaning on a hockey stick and staring down the camera. Ilya winks when the camera gets close.

Shane covers his face with a throw pillow.

That last shot was shamelessly set up to show off how fucking hot Ilya's upper body is. He knows from his endorsement files that Ilya always wears long-sleeved base layers. Shane would be mad about ‌how gratuitous it is to feature him in a tank top base layer when Ilya never wears one, except, fuck, fuck, Ilya looks so good, and also it's spot on for his brand.

Anyway, nothing about Ilya has anything to do with Shane. It's not like he ever dated Ilya Rozanov. He just fucked him while on some business trips.

Shane pulls the pillow off his face and throws it across the room. Fuck that guy.

When the pre-game hype about Ilya being the sexiest, most charismatic, most talented and most adorable-around-small-children player in the whole league is finally over, Shane wiggles out of his blanket burrito, goes to get his pillow, and sets it neatly on the couch, because he knows it’s going to bother him if he has to look at it over on the floor.

He wraps himself back up in his blanket and settles in to suffer his way through this stupid fucking game.

The stupid fucking game sucks. Or, more specifically, Boston sucks. Buffalo is solid this year, but Boston should be a good match. Boston is not a good match; Buffalo scores twice in the first five minutes.

Ilya seems slower than usual, with none of his usually almost preternatural understanding of where the puck is going. Instead, he loses the puck in the neutral zone more than once, and when he finally gets control, overskates and loses it again. He loses three face-offs in a row, and after Buffalo scores again off the third, Ilya breaks his stick over his knee and throws the pieces into the glass. They bounce off and almost hit another player.

Shane pauses with a tortilla chip halfway to his mouth as Ilya shouts at a ref, picks up the broken pieces of his stick and skates to the penalty box. In the penalty box, he breaks the half-stick in half again by slamming it against the bench.

His phone buzzes.

 

Hayden Pike: Holy fuck what did you do to Rozanov did he sunburn his ass or something?

Hayden Pike: please tell me he sunburned his ass

Hayden Pike: silence means I am assuming he sunburned his ass like fully 3rd degree. I will believe this in my heart until informed otherwise

His phone buzzes again.

Mom (Yuna Hollander): This style of play is very unusual for Ilya. Is something wrong that you know of?

And again.

Jackie Pike: Hayd tells me Roz sunburned his ass but I told him you would definitely have made sure he sunscreened his ass. No way anyone is getting a sunburned ass with Shane Hollander on the case.

Jackie Pike: Then again, I suppose you did have to let the ass out of your sight when he wasn’t on set…

Jackie Pike: pleeeeeease tell me if there is good gossip cause the wag chat is on fucking fire with people talking about Roz and I will be the queen if I can provide some real gossip and not some stuff Hayd made up about ass sunburn

Jackie Pike: obviously if the Roz goss is sad etc and not hilarious i take everything back about wanting to become the wag queen by spreading the gossip etc

And again.

JJ Dagenais: j'étais furieux que tu fasses faire de l'argent à Roz, mais peut-être l'as-tu maudit ? Bien joué, l'ami*

*I was mad that you were helping Rozanov make money, but perhaps you cursed him? Well played, my friend.

…

Shane sets the bag of chips down.

To answer his mother’s question, there are two possible somethings wrong that Shane can think of. First, the situation with Ilya’s dad, maybe it got worse. Shane hopes not.

The second option is that Ilya is bothered that he and Shane had a…whatever they had. It wasn’t a fight, really, and it wasn’t a breakup.

Ilya is so skilled with people that Shane had assumed he knew what he was doing. By all rights, there is no reason that Ilya should have to be upset about whatever happened re: him and Shane’s whatever.

Despite his attempt to fully anesthetize his brain with short-form video content, Shane has been doing some reflecting on the whole arc of his relationship with Ilya.

From the very start, Ilya has been sending Shane some mixed signals. If he didn’t want Shane to fall in love with him, is the thing Shane’s brain keeps being pissed about when Shane forgets he’s not thinking about it.

Ilya should know better than to be that charming, and so a natural conclusion is that Ilya is a selfish dick who doesn’t care how his actions affect others. He’ll flirt with Shane and listen attentively to his stories during dinner, and stare into his eyes and whisper his name while they fuck, and call him pretty, and then order him to leave his hotel room when Shane asks Ilya for a single fucking hint as to what his intentions are.

Cool. Great. Fine. So in that scenario, Ilya’s a selfish dick and Shane’s a sucker, whatever, fuck him.

But if that’s what this is, then what the fuck does Ilya have to be upset about?

Ilya gets out of the penalty box, races onto the ice, grabs possession of the puck, and immediately loses it. The center for the other team whips it through a series of quick passes that Ilya chases after but can’t catch, which is ridiculous; Ilya is the faster skater. The Buffalo center takes a shot on goal, which the Raiders’ goalie saves, but it never should have gotten to the goalie in the first place. Ilya gets called back to the bench for a break.

The camera zooms in on Ilya, glaring and chewing on his mouthguard. Marly says something to him and gently nudges their shoulders together, and Ilya shoves his shoulder back into Marly’s, way harder than a friendly nudge.

The announcers speculate through each break why Ilya is playing so badly. Maybe an injury over the holiday, maybe a personal issue, maybe it's just a little rust. Every player has an off day, one of the talking heads offers, a player as spectacularly good on the ice as Rozanov could also be spectacularly bad sometimes.

Shane thinks about it all for a long time, running his thumb gently over the edge of the watch in his pocket. He's pretty sure that a completely neutral, unbiased observer would say that, statistically speaking, ‌Ilya’s day was shitty for more or less the same reason that Shane’s day was shitty.

He has absolutely no idea what to do with that information.

…

Monday’s alarm comes like a slap in the face. Shane really, really doesn't want to swim, but he's taken two days off in a row now, and he doesn't want to be the kind of person who stops their physical therapist-recommended exercise regimen just because a hot guy didn't break up with them because they weren't even dating.

So he gets out of bed, and his body pulls him through the routine: brushing teeth, gym bag, elevator, outside, inside, locker room, swim cap, goggles, and finally sliding into the water. The water is warm and smooth, and with his first few strokes he feels sharp twinges in his shoulders and neck because he's been holding himself so rigidly.

The annoying thing about pain is that some pain is the kind you have to push through, and some pain is the kind that you have to rest for it to get better, and it is hard sometimes to decipher which is which.

The pain in his neck right now, though, that’s nothing new, that one he knows he has to keep moving to loosen it up; ignoring it will only make it worse.

His mind flicks to Ilya, to whether he should let it rest, or push through. Fuck. Fuck Ilya and how every fucking thing makes him come back to Ilya fucking Rozanov.

His mind goes back to the mystery of Ilya’s crappy game.

If Ilya had one of the shittiest games of his career because something happened with his dad or his brother, then Shane wants to send him a nice note and see if there’s a way to help.

If Ilya played a shitty game because he is sad that he kicked Shane out of his hotel room like a fucking goddamn asshole motherfucker coward piece of shit who can’t have the world’s most simple single fucking conversation with a guy he’s been fucking around with for LITERAL MONTHS then...then…then Shane still kind of wants to send him a nice note and see if there’s a way to help.

“Fuck!” Shane stands up and yells and slaps the top of the water, sending a spray across the pool. The elderly lady walking laps in the next lane looks over at him in surprise, pulls out one of her earbuds with her eyebrows raised.

“Sorry,” Shane says quickly, “I um, J'ai oublié de mettre de l'argent dans l'horodateur*. Sorry.”

*i forgot to put money in the parking meter

She nods and puts her earbud in and goes back to her water walking.

Shane dives forward into the water, focusing on regulating his breath in time with his strokes.

Here’s the thing. Sure, Shane isn’t the best at feelings, but he’s not fully fucking stupid. Ilya likes him, genuinely; Shane’s sure of it. Ilya has sought Shane’s company because he enjoys his company.

Right?

He holds that thought in his mind for a full lap. He flip-turns, and it still feels true.

What if Ilya is upset because he likes Shane and wants them to be more than just people who fuck while on business trips, but it’s too complicated for them to be together?

That idea settles through Shane like a nerve block; his body still looks the same, but it’s all numb.

If that’s what it is, then that’s not fair, and he has no idea what to do about it. If that’s what it is, that Ilya wants to be with him, then Shane also wants to be with Ilya, so much. So fucking much.

Goddamit. So fucking much.

In the shower, Shane leans his head against the white tile, closes his eyes, and cries.

…

The thing about crying is you can’t cry forever, so after a while, Shane takes a deep breath and finishes his shower and makes a smoothie and a cup of coffee and takes stock.

It’s the day after Boxing Day. He completed all his family holiday obligations before his trip, and his mom has closed the office for the week for official meetings, so Shane has nothing in particular going on today. Ilya doesn’t have a game today, which is obviously irrelevant to Shane’s plans, anyway.

Shane didn’t make a plan on Boxing Day, but December 27th is not too late to make a plan.

He pulls the watch out of his pocket and fidgets with it as he paces back and forth across his open floor plan kitchen/living room.

His mom says the foundation of every strategy is laying out what you know, and what assets you have.

The first place his mind goes is hockey. Shane doesn't have hockey anymore, but he knows a lot about it.

He knows that no matter how much he wanted it; it wasn't enough. He gave it everything, absolutely everything; he gave up school and normal friends and sleep, and he played through pain, and it wasn't enough.

And he did it again with swimming; he gave it his all, and his all wasn’t enough.

Which is how it goes for the vast majority of people who dream of a banner with their number hanging in the rafters of an arena.

But.

He doesn't feel foolish for trying so hard; it’s not embarrassing.

He’s known since he was eight-years-old that he has to make a conscious decision if he wants to win, and if he decides he wants to win, then he needs to fucking act like it.

The odds are dumb. They are absolutely dumb. But they're zero if you don’t fucking commit.

They are also not very high if you don’t have a coach. He texts Jackie.

…

Shane: is Hayden out of town?

Jackie: !!

Jackie: I am busy and you are capable of checking a schedule !!

…

Shane checks the Metros’ schedule. They are on their way to LA for an afternoon game tomorrow.

…

Shane: can I come over tonight to hang out?

Jackie: duh

Shane: is everything okay

Jackie: my fucking mom got the girls slime for Xmas even though I fuckin told her not to and lo and be fucking hold there is slime on every fucking surface of this fucking house and inknow we can afford to have someone clean it but I hate having strangers in mu house and hayden is in fucking California with fucking palm trees.I'm so fucking pissed at fucking everything but mainly the fucker who invented slime and my fucking mom and also snow

Shane: sorry

Jackie: 😎

Jackie: the sunglasses are to cover my crazy eyes I actually look like this 😵‍💫

Shane: I accept that as the new meaning of that emoji

Jackie: I assume you no longer want to be anywhere near my hot mess but fais comme chez toi* etc

*make yourself at home

Shane: 😎

Jackie: oh fuck do you also have crazy eyes to hide?

Shane: kind of i don’t want to be a drag if you are already stressed

Jackie: as long as you reward me with gossip about Rozanov you are always welcome

Jackie: Also bring rubbing alcohol that’s the only thing that works to get slime out of the couch and I'm out

Shane can definitely make good on both of those.

…

Shane isn’t sure he has the energy to process sensory input from multiple small humans, but the thing about the little Pike monsters is that they are really cute and they like him so much. He knows he’s dragging because Jackie keeps casting him worried glances, but he is pretty sure he has his under-three-year-old audience fooled.

At bedtime, Jacinthe the night nanny appears, and Jackie slips upstairs with her and the three children. When she comes back downstairs alone, she grabs their glasses of wine from dinner and the remaining bottle, and perches on the arm of the couch expectantly.

“Tell me everything, or I’ll stab you.”

“If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone or make fun of me?” Shane asks.

“Absolutely not,” Jackie says immediately.

“You can make fun of me, but you can't tell anyone. Not even Hayden, yet.”

Jackie’s eyes widen. “Oh. Okay. Shane, what's wrong?”

Shane stands up from the couch so he can pace. “Hypothetically speaking, what if the guy from Boston I hooked up with was Ilya Rozanov?”

Jackie gasps. “No!” Her mouth is dropped open and her eyes are wide and she’s leaning towards him so far she might fall off the couch arm, and geez, it’s not that shocking, Jackie. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Shane just looks at her.

“Oh my god, you slept with Ilya fucking Rozanov. Shane. Shane. Shane. Wait. You don’t actually like him do you?”

Shane tosses a hand up. Jackie puts both hands over her mouth. “Shaaaane,” she moans and flops down onto the couch. “Shane.”

He's getting annoyed with the dramatics, so he moves the conversation forward. “Okay, so hypothetically speaking, what if I’m pretty sure he likes me back?”

Jackie sits back up. “He is a slutty slut, Shane, you know I only hate him because he plays for Boston and he’s a dick to Hayden and not because of the slutty part, but he is definitely, and once again, good for him, but also, he is very publicly a slutty slut.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t like me,” Shane says.

“But why do you like him? That’s not your thing?” Jackie says. And then she rubs her hands over her eyes and drops her head back and moans, “Oh my god, that’s your thing. This is why you wanted to make sure Hayden was out of town before you came over. He would die.” She pulls her hands off her eyes and glares and then throws a pillow at him, which hits him square in the face. Shane catches it in surprise; sometimes he forgets how athletic Jackie is. “I’m going to have to deal with him now, you know that right? I mean, okay, it's a secret for now and thank God, honestly. I have enough emotional labor to do around here, and now I’ll have to fucking midwife my husband through the realization that one of his best friends is, what—” She narrows her eyes. And then puts her hands over her mouth.

“What?” Shane asks.

“Nothing. It’s homophobic to make assumptions about how people have sex,” Jackie says.

“I mean, you’re my best friend; I think it’s mainly just nosy when you do it,” Shane offers.

“Just because I’m your best friend doesn’t mean I can’t be a homophobic asshole,” Jackie counters.

“Sure, obviously,” Shane starts pacing again. “But right now, you are not the asshole that I need to talk about.”

“Sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

“I’m the one that’s nervous, you sit down,” Shane pushes back.

Jackie waves her arms around wildly because, yeah, okay, she’s already sitting down.

They stare at each other for a minute.

Shane takes a deep breath and tries again, “Okay, so, I’m asking you because you’re queen of the WAGs.” Jackie opens her mouth to protest, because the hierarchical structure of the WAGs is ever-shifting, but Shane waves her quiet, her ongoing power is undisputed regardless of where she currently stands. “Hypothetically still, do you think there is a world where Ilya Rozanov and I can be in a relationship and keep it a secret so we don’t torpedo his career?”

“What about your career?” Jackie says pointedly. “Rozanov is not the only one with stakes here.”

“Yeah, but if Rozanov gets outed and loses his position with the Raiders, and then loses his visa and has to go back to Russia, they’ll stick him in a Siberian work camp or something.”

“Fuuuuck.” Jackie whispers.

He gestures at her in response. He had spent a large chunk of his morning reading about Russia’s attitudes towards homosexuality and whispering the same word to himself. He picks up his wine glass off the coffee table just to have something to do with his hands.

Jackie also takes a drink of wine, considering. “Okay. So, I mean, assuming you are okay being in the closet, I think that’s feasible. JJ kissed Hayden full on the mouth after that goal in Columbus a few weeks ago, and nobody thinks they’re gay. And you’re here, in my house, with my husband out of town on the regular, and we get drunk together and snuggle, and no one thinks we’re fucking.”

“But we’re actually just friends,” Shane says, but of course Jackie knows that. “And also we’re not famous, and neither are JJ and Hayd, not like Ilya is.”

“Ilya,” Jackie mouths, and makes a face like she does when Jade is sad and Ruby offers up her favorite toy and a hug to try to make Jade feel better. Like she thinks Shane calling Ilya by his first name is so cute her heart might explode. “Shaney-buddy, you really like him? Is it really serious between you two?”

“Don’t call me that,” Shane says. “And no, we kind of,” Shane’s breath hitches in his chest for a minute, he pushes it down. “I don’t know. We weren’t anything, but we might have become less nothing, during the trip, I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out if we can be something.”

“Hypothetically,” Jackie adds softly.

“Yeah, hypothetically.”

“Why don’t you sit on the couch and start at the beginning?”

…

Jackie asks a lot of questions about what Ilya said specifically, “Not what you thought he said, what he actually said. You're even worse at knowing people are flirting with you than Hayden.”

Shane ends up lying across a pillow that's settled in Jackie's lap. He's exhausted, but also, having someone to walk through all this is a relief after trying to carry this by himself for the last few months.

In the end, Jackie's verdict is, “I have a hard time seeing Rozanov, the world's biggest pest, as a real human who has actual feelings. But if Rozanov was capable of having a crush on someone, it would probably be this big of a mess, so I do actually think he likes you back.”

Shane sighs. “You promise you’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

Jackie gently scritches her nails along his scalp. “Shaney-buddy, listen. Listen. No. In what universe am I choosing ‘You should maybe try and lock down Ilya Rozanov in a secret gay relationship’ as advice to make your life easier?”

“He's not gay,” Shane corrects.

“Yeah, well. I told you best friends can be homophobic.”

Shane huffs a laugh. “Biphobic.”

“Biphobic,” Jackie repeats obediently. “But seriously. I don't think I've ever seen you cry about a guy before. This feels like a big deal.”

“I didn't cry,” Shane says. He doesn't think he cried.

Jackie sighs heavily. “No, of course, boys don't cry. Fine: I have never seen your eyes have excess moisture in combination with a slightly quivering chin about a guy before.”

Shane decides to ignore that. “If this gets out, it would tank his career.”

Jackie takes a sip of wine. “But will it get out? Sometimes I think the league is homophobic enough that JJ and Hayden could fuck at center ice and everyone would say it's just bros being bros, pulling a prank.”

“But both of them have publicly dated women,” Shane points out.

“Literally, who has publicly dated more women than Rozanov?”

Which is something Shane kind of forgot for a minute, because he tries not to think about that.

“It's not worth it,” Shane sighs. “I need to quit while I'm ahead. Sorry to waste your time. I need to call this and just get over it.”

“Seems like a dick move to make that call without consulting Ilya.”

Shane tenses. “Pretty sure he already made that call when he kicked me out of his hotel room?”

Jackie's hand stills in his hair. “Right. And he deserves to die for that. But also. Are you mad enough to kill him? Because everyone does stupid shit. Long-term relationships are about deciding which bullshit you can tolerate. I mean, I know Hayden is an idiot sometimes, but he has such a good heart that I find most of the idiot things he does adorable, even though sometimes it also makes me want to murder him. Falling in love is basically contracting a brain sickness.”

Jackie pauses to let that sit. Shane has no feedback on that, so she starts up again. “Rozanov is famous for being a charming asshole. I'm pretty sure most Russian men are somewhat emotionally constipated and I know for a fact that all hockey players are. You're not going to surprise a single WAG by saying your guy has some pent-up, manfully repressed emotions that came out as dickish behavior.”

“Huh,” Shane says, 'cause that was a lot. He should take notes, maybe record this.

“But what person isn't an idiot sometimes? So you just have to decide if Ilya’s brand of idiot is the kind of idiot that you can build something good with.”

“You're not an idiot,” Shane says loyally.

“Shane, I know how birth control works, and yet, I have three kids under three on purpose and I want to have a fourth.”

“Really?” Shane asks. He hopes he kept the horror out of voice.

“Shh…now we're both keeping secrets from Hayden,” Jackie says, her voice softer. “He's not ready to have the “fourth” talk yet.”

“I don't think I am either,” Shane says.

Jackie snorts. “Also, I waited so long to get a night nanny that I was practically hallucinating while home alone with the children. That was stupid and dangerous.”

“I was worried about you,” Shane says.

“Hayden was so worried about me he cried.”

“Hayden cried?”

Jackie sighs. “Hayden was so worried he had excess moisture in his eyes and a slightly quivery chin.”

Shane huffs a laugh.

“I wanted to prove I could do it myself,” Jackie says softly. “The whole mom thing.”

“To who? Why?” Shane asks. Jackie is clearly an excellent parent. She has nothing to prove to anyone.

“My mom, probably.”

“You hate your mom,” Shane says.

“I told you, everyone is an idiot sometimes. Lucky for me, Hayden is willing to put up with my brand of idiot.”

Shane thinks about that for a long time. Jackie's hand is still moving through his hair, and she's humming softly, probably unconsciously because she's so used to soothing her kids, but Shane likes it. It is soothing.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he does wake up to Jackie groaning, “Fuck me for falling asleep on the couch. I am going to need a fucking neck and leg transplant, get your sweaty, giant body off me so I can go sleep in my actual bed,” and then he’s being shoved so he flops onto the floor and gets jammed under the coffee table with a plastic horse poking him in the back.

So he probably did fall asleep.

“You're an idiot and a jerk,” he says sourly as he pulls himself back onto the couch. The inside of his head feels weird and dry.

“If you didn't know that by now, you're a bigger idiot,” she hits back immediately.

“And I’m not sweaty,” Shane grouses. “I don’t like you.”

“Yes you do; I solved your problem while I was sleeping,” Jackie says sleepily, rubbing at her face.

“How?” Given that Shane's problem involves a century-old multinational institution with deeply entrenched homophobia, he is pretty sure Jackie did not solve anything.

“Just start texting Ilya back like nothing happened. I bet he's embarrassed he overreacted and kicked you out. He's probably in a shame spiral. When Ruby gets like that, she crawls under the bed. The easiest thing to get her out is to just move on from the bad behavior and pretend everything is fine.”

“Doesn't that encourage the bad behavior?”

“I don't know. Pretty sure the public humiliation from that game Rozanov played last night is worse punishment than anything I could think of.”

Shane makes a face. “Fair enough.”

“Obviously, you need to have a talk at some point, but not yet, I think. Start off with something casual. See if you can get him to crawl out from under the bed. But, for the record, I’m rooting against this thing with you and Rozanov.”

Shane frowns over at her. “Against?”

She offers him a small smile. “What am I going to do if you get your happy-ever-after and don’t have time for me anymore?”

Shane feels his eyes get hot with tears and yes, okay, his chin is probably quivering. It’s been an emotional roller coaster lately. “Never.”

…

Shane wakes up, swims. He doesn’t accidentally yell obscenities at the old lady walking in the lane next to him. He drinks his smoothie, pacing back and forth across his apartment.

Okay. Okay. He thinks Jackie is right. He doesn’t have to solve every single misunderstanding between him and Ilya at once. He just needs to try. Start small.

Maybe he'll get crushed—not literally this time—but he's been literally crushed before and he fucking dealt with it then, so Jesus Christ, why is he so fucking scared of getting his feelings hurt?

He takes off his old watch, sets it on the counter. He pulls the new watch he got from Ilya out of his pocket and buckles it onto his wrist.

It’s a really nice watch. It looks good on his wrist. So he holds up his phone and takes a picture of it. He opens their text thread and attaches the image and starts typing before he can think. If he thinks about it, he’ll mess it up.

Shane: Hey, I hope your flight back was okay. I know you are busy, but I wanted to say thanks again for the watch. I really like it a lot. I am genuinely excited to read the manual and learn about all its functions.

Shane: that probably sounded like sarcasm but I really am excited about the watch manual there’s so many statistics tracking options it looks so cool

Shane: I feel like that also sounded like sarcasm. Look you just have to trust me

Shane stares in horror at his screen. He really should have thought about those texts before he sent them.

It’s done now. He pulls out the watch manual and starts reading.

…

He’s installed the app on his phone, set up his profile on the new watch, indicated what statistics he wants to track, entered the length of the pool at his gym so it can more accurately calculate distance and laps, and now he’s flipping through the manual to see if there’s any other settings he can configure.

Based on the time, he’s pretty sure that Ilya is in the locker room getting ready for his game against Philadelphia, which means at this point Shane won’t possibly hear from Ilya for hours, if then. If ever. He’s trying to think of a new activity to distract himself with when the phone makes its little chime.

Ilya: Do not worry I believe that you are truly excited about your new watch manual. Do you even need watch? I could have given you just manual

Shane: I mean that’s kind of like giving someone drum sticks without a drum

Ilya: No it is like giving someone a drum manual without a drum

Shane laughs; it’s funny, but then he feels tears press at the corners of his eyes. Fuck. Ilya is talking to him.

Shane is about to type, who needs a manual to play a drum? But Ilya’s response pops up first.

Ilya: I must go

Ilya does need to go.

Shane: Good luck against Gritty

Ilya: I am not afraid of the orange demon

Shane: That’s right. The orange demon is afraid of you!

Ilya: Now I think you are being sarcastic

Shane: I am being sarcastic. Gritty is not capable of fear

Ilya: Neither are Russians

Shane: Yeah Russians definitely aren’t afraid of sharks

Ilya: respect for sharks like reasonable person is not fear

Shane feels a lightness in his chest.

…

Ilya plays much, much better than he did the other night against Buffalo. The announcers can’t stop commenting on his miraculous improvement and speculating what his secret is. Shane turns the sound off.

Shane tries not to make any assumptions as to whether or not his texts to Ilya made any kind of difference.

After the game, Shane sits on his couch and reads through case studies about how Magic Johnson's sponsorship deals tanked in 1991 when he announced he was HIV positive and retired from professional basketball. And how he slowly built his public persona and business relationships back up, investing in charities and development in low-income urban neighborhoods that might otherwise have been left behind. Magic Johnson has created a hell of a legacy, one of the most impressive in sports. He’s now seen as an extremely trustworthy source in focus groups and highly reliable and sought after by sponsors.

It's not the same, of course, but it's…interesting. He finds himself wanting to write a summary of his reading and send it over to his mom. He’s not sure what his goal with that would be, yet.

His phone starts its soothing little chime, and for a moment he thinks it might be Ilya, even though he knows it's not Ilya.

It isn't. It's Alyssa calling for a “Liminal Week Between Xmas and NYE Trivia Reunion.” She’s even made a cheesy little animated invitation for it she texts to the group. Shane decides he should go.

…

Reunion is a strong word for it, because the people who come are all people Shane knows from either trivia or Alyssa's spontaneous brunches, so he sees them all fairly regularly at this point. Which is a fact worth noting: Shane has a friend group he sees regularly.

There is no part of Shane's brain that will ever understand Alyssa's apparent need to be around people so badly she is willing to organize 1-3 events per week, but he is incredibly grateful for whatever is wrong with her, and more so, that she sees Shane as worthy of inviting.

He thinks about Jackie and how no one is perfect, but you have to find people whose bullshit suits you.

He wishes Ilya were here.

At some point, everyone is up from their table, either playing pool or waiting in line at the bar, leaving Shane alone, which is when Jeremy sits down next to him and looks at him meaningfully.

Shane fidgets with the label on his beer bottle. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Jeremy smiles, and he’s handsome; he really is. But he’s looking at Shane meaningfully still, which is awkward. Shane wishes, not for the first time, that it was socially acceptable to crawl under the table. Jeremy clears his throat. “I just need to clarify, because I'll be mad at myself if I don't, but I can't tell if you seem like you’re not interested in me because you're shy or if you're just not interested?”

“Oh,” Shane feels his cheeks flush hot. He takes a deep breath. “I have a…thing.”

Art by Britbrit99

“A thing?” Jeremy asks.

“A long-distance thing,” Shane clarifies. “I’m not sure what it is yet, but it’s,” Shane runs his hand through his hair, trying to find the words. “It’s been going on for a while. I think I might want it to be a thing, anyway.”

It's incredibly overwhelming to admit that out loud.

Jeremy nods and lifts his glass in a toast, “To your thing, then.”

Shane obediently lifts his beer to chime it against Jeremy’s. “Santé.”

“What are we tchin-tchin-ing?” Alyssa asks, dropping into one of the empty seats.

“Shane has a long-distance situationship,” Jeremy informs her. “He’s trying to decide if it’s serious or not.”

Alyssa winces. “That’s the shitshow about long-distance. You fuck twice or whatever and then you have like fifteen minutes to decide if you want to get married or never see them again.”

Shane feels the tears come back into his eyes again, damn them.

“Oh, Shane,” Alyssa says.

KyungSun appears and says in alarm, “What did you do to Shane?”

Shane would really, really like to hide under the table. “I’m fine,” he manages.

“Situationship,” Alyssa summarizes.

“Long-distance,” Jeremy adds.

KyungSun sets a warm hand on his shoulder. “Would getting really, really fucking drunk help?”

“Probably not?” Shane says. And then reconsiders. “Maybe worth a try?”

“Scientific method,” Alyssa confirms.

“Better safe than sorry,” Jeremy says solemnly.

…

Jeremy and Shane share a car home, again, and this time Jeremy walks Shane up to his apartment.

“Now don’t get fresh with me, young man,” Jeremy warns as he helps Shane unlock his front door. “I will not have my virtue compromised.”

“Of course not,” Shane assures him earnestly. “I would never.”

Jeremy looks over his face and laughs and says, “How are you real?”

Shane isn’t totally sure that he is real. He flops onto his bed and hears a rustling at his nightstand and looks over in surprise to see Jeremy holding a glass of water. He’d forgotten Jeremy was there. “Oh! Jeremy! Thanks!” Shane says, and drinks all the water. “This water is really good,” Shane says. It is good water. It’s great water. He’s so thirsty.

“I’ll get you another glass, and then I’m going to head home, because you seem drunk but not scary drunk, but text me if you start barfing because Alyssa made me promise I wouldn’t let you die in your own vomit.”

“Mm,” Shane hums. Ilya knows so many words for barf, such a funny quirk of learning English amongst professional hockey players. Ilya is so smart.

“Can you promise you will text me if you are dead or dying?” Jeremy asks.

“I can promise,” Shane says, trying to sound solemn. He pulls his shirt and pants off because he’s in bed and he doesn’t like wearing outside clothes in bed. It’s gross. “Outside pants,” he explains to Jeremy as he wiggles under his blankets.

“I thought I told you not to compromise my virtue,” Jeremy sighs, and then Jeremy leaves, probably.

Shane is holding his phone and thinking about texting Ilya.

…

Shane: hello

Ilya: good evening Shane Hollander Swims

Shane: what's the hottest planet?

Ilya: any planet I am on

Shane: thata silly it's Venus though I thought I twasmeecury

Shane: Venus has an atmosphere that .makes it hotter and mercury doesn't have air which seems dad

Shane: sad. Anyway i got that question wrong at trivia

Ilya: Ah. You are drunk?

Shane: maybe

Ilya: Where are you?

Shane: I don't bave to tell you that

Ilya: tell me anyway

Shane: bed

Ilya: good. You should drink some water

Shane: Jeremy brought me aater and I drank both cups so now I have too much water but it's okay

Ilya: Jeremy brought you water. to your bed?

Shane: yes which is hy i drank so much water 

Ilya: where is Jeremy now?

Shane: I think he keft

Ilya: I hope he respected you

Shane: indid not compromise his virtue he's a nice friend from trivua

Ilya: he is in love with you

Shane: no one is in love with me

Ilya: okay. Good night. If you have drank water it is time you sleep

Shane: what are you doing for news years

Ilya: there are many parties always

Shane: russian new year parties? With christmas trees?

Ilya: Russians New Years does not have christmas trees, this is racist against russian trees, we have Новогодняя ёлка - New years tree

Shane: and you had Ded Moroz for Santa

Ilya: Morozco is cooler than Santa and better do not compare them, this is racist against the spirits of russian snow

Shane: oh sorry

Ilya: you are laying in bed drunk and reading about russian fairy tales?

Shane: no

Shane: i’m not that durnk

Shane: sorry if I offended you

Ilya: I am being asshole it is fine i do not care about father frost

Ilya: but if I did care he is better than Santa

Shane: you’re nice

Ilya: Shane Hollander Swims. I am not nice. You know this

Shane: youw anted me to drink water

Ilya: and I want you to get sleep it is late and you are drunk

Shane: is it mandarins or gangterines you eat for new years? I am reading toth but they aren’t the sam

Ilya: stop researching russia and go to sleep

Ilya: it is neither it is абхазские мандарины i do not think there is word in english

Shane: translate says Abkhazian tangerines

Ilya: but it is not like american tangerines. Go to sleep

Shane: it says youc an’t get them outside of russia?

Ilya: welcome to sorrow of every russian immigrant. Is okay. Suffering makes us stronger.

Shane: I don’t want to go to sleep

Ilya: do you need me to scare you with lullabies about the gray wolf who will eat you if you do not sleep?

Shane: 🐺cute

Ilya: wolves eat you. They are not cute

Shane: wolves and sharks 🦈🐺🦈🐺🦈🐺🦈🐺cute

Ilya: how are you alive? You have no survival skills

Ilya: did you finally take my advice and sleep? Or are you dead from being eaten by wolf and shark combination?

Ilya: good night Shane Hollander Swims. Sleep well.

Chapter End Notes

Okay, now that I'm pretty sure I'm actually posting the penultimate chapter, I'm sad about it. This fic has been my thought partner for months now!

The real "what if" of this AU is "What if Shane Hollander had close friends that weren't hockey players?"

Also a note: re: comments: I used to, for years, reply to every comment and sometime last year it started to give me a lot of anxiety. I was assured that replies are fun but no one wants me to have anxiety about it which makes sense. So I am trusting my friends (certainly I am not bothered when other authors don't reply but of course when I do it it's unforgivable). But I am kind of random in who I reply to. I thought it might be worth mentioning that I read all of the comments, but since I no longer pressure myself to reply, I only reply if I am feeling whimsical and have a free moment combined with some ADHD hyperfocus to make it fun. If I don't reply it's because whatever magic brain energy that I have no control over has vacated and nothing at all to do with you or the quality of your thoughts. In sum: Your comments are all my favorite children, I just ignored some of you purely on accident. Jackie would understand. :)

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Wednesday morning (3 days after Boxing Day)

Shane hits snooze at five am - what was he thinking? He hits snooze again at six am—Jesus his brain is made of sand. He hits snooze again at seven am and then lies there feeling guilty he's not up yet.

He gets a warm feeling about texting with Ilya last night before he fell asleep, followed by a wave of panic, because fuck, what did he say?

He reads over the text thread between them, reads it again, and then finally gets up to pee and drink several glasses of water before lying back down to read it one more time. He screenshots the texts and sends them to Jackie, which violates privacy or whatever, but this is life or death. It's probably okay to violate privacy when it comes to life or death.

Shane: tell me what this means and then delete the images immediately

Jackie: it means you were either drunk or being controlled by aliens last night because that is way too many typos and wolf emojis for Shaney-buddy

Shane: yes I know I was drunk !! I am asking for analysis

Jackie: why are you awake already? These were sent super late

Shane: level three crazy eyes Jackie 😎😎😎

There’s a long pause. Shane tries to be patient, because it’s seven in the morning, but he is not patient at all.

Shane: Jackie? Please.

Jackie: Sorry Arthur is teething and [redacting because you can’t handle details but nipples+teeth are involved] anyway, we’re back in action

Shane: Thank you for redacting. that sounds worse than what I am dealing with

Jackie: you know what I say, anything one baby does is not as bad as twins

Jackie: anyway. He's head over heels in love with you. Ilya, not Arthur. Arthur also loves you, of course.

Shane: Be serious. I am hungover and vulnerable

Jackie: you are also denser than a bag of hammers. That boy is ga-ga for Shane Hollander Swims. God that's such a cute little nickname

Shane: It's just my Instagram handle

Jackie: ugh your insta handle is so boring

Shane: it was created to market my swimming career it's not supposed to be artistic or something

Jackie: he likes you. If he didn't want to engage with you there are a million points in the exchange he could have moved on. He keeps saying he's done talking and then re-engaging. And then he tells you good night.

Jackie: crisse if I sent this to a tabloid no one would believe me it's so cute? He's worried Jeremy didn't respect you? Also Jeremy was in your house? Jeremy trivia guy? I didn't know you are “in my house” level friends with him and you didn't tell me???

Shane: focus. Do I need to delete my phone number and move to Alberta and start a new life or is this progress towards something

Jackie: if those are my options you know I pick you moving to Alberta. You'd look adorable in a cowboy hat. Lil Shaney-Buddy Buckaroo

Shane: not everyone in Alberta wears a cowboy hat

Jackie: and yet so many more than in Quebec

Shane: 😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎

Jackie: okay sorry. Yes, Shane. He likes you. Like, LIKE likes you

Shane: you're making fun of me

Jackie: yes but I am not lying

Jackie: my official recommendation is that you go to Boston and get your man ! but if not let me know if you want a ticket in the WAGs section for tomorrow

…

Shane frowns. It's not that simple. There’s no way this is easy. Jackie has this way of making things sound easy that are not easy.

He thinks of a few weeks ago, when Ruby was melting down and crying that she couldn’t possibly put her own shoes on, and Jackie said, so patient, “Yes, you can. First you put on one shoe, and then the other shoe, and then you have two shoes on.”

Maybe it is that simple.

Shane knows how to drive, and he knows how to book a plane ticket, and he has nothing in particular scheduled that he needs to be doing.

He does some breathing exercises. He feels nauseous, but that's probably the hangover.

He decides to go swimming before he commits to anything.

…

Cutting the familiar path back and forth across the water is not as soothing as it should be. He feels a restless buzzing under his skin. He knows his strokes are smooth and steady, but it feels like the wake he leaves in the lane behind him won't settle. Like it’s churning behind him.

It's going to be like this, he suspects, till he figures it out. If there is some kind of maybe there with Rozanov, he needs to know. He won't solve this by moping on Jackie and Hayden's couch, or by getting drunk at trivia, and the idea of going back to his empty apartment feels impossible right now.

He needs to get out of this pool and drive straight to Boston.

Or not. He will definitely have to go back to the apartment. He doesn't even have his car keys with him right now. Also he is soaking wet.

Also he would need to break protocol and steal Ilya’s address from their client files.

So.

It's not totally as simple as just putting on the left shoe and then the right shoe.

But he can break it down into steps. Play out the options in his mind. Mental rehearsal. Visualization exercises; he’s been doing them since he was eight.

He makes a list of possible scenarios:

Option 1, Shane shows up in Boston. He and Ilya have sex. Shane says he might want to try to be Ilya's boyfriend if Ilya wants that. Ilya gives him a sad, sympathetic look and says he's sorry that somehow Shane was so dumb as to think that was an option, and then Shane leaves his house and (ideally) gets sucked into a black hole and is never heard from again…

Option 2, Shane shows up in Boston and they have sex, and Shane doesn't mention the “I desperately want to be your boyfriend” thing, and it's just good sex. Nothing is resolved, but nothing is ruined either, but Shane will still have this itchy buzzy feeling all under his skin. Eventually, Ilya gets sick of him and kicks him out, and then Shane gets swallowed up by a Boston molasses flood incident 2.0…

Option 3, Shane shows up in Boston and they have sex, and he asks Ilya if he wants to be something and Ilya maybe does, but then Shane has to talk about his feelings, but he is shit at talking about feelings, so he ruins it, and then Shane gets stung by a million bees and goes into a coma…

Option 4, Shane shows up in Boston and every kid who was ever a dick to him for being too Asian, too awkward, and too good at hockey is lined up and laughing and laughing and laughing at him for thinking he, Shane Hollander, with his fucked-up knee and failed NHL dreams and failed Olympic attempts and an absolute nothing of a life, has a chance with Ilya as anything more than an occasional convenient fuck, and then Shane gets run over by a Zamboni…

Okay, okay. The scenario visioning exercise is not helping.

He pulls out his phone and starts typing.

…

…

…

…

Two months earlier

Friday, October 17th — Montreal v. Boston game

(The game depicted in Chapter 1)

…

…

Ilya Rozanov is 75% orphan and 100% greedy. The percentage of orphan has been steadily growing over the past few years, but the percentage of greedy has been unchanged since he was a child.

His mother used to laugh about it. At parties, when she still went to parties, before she was too tired for parties, she would introduce Alexei as her serious boy, and Ilya as her charming little hedonist, one hand resting proudly in the curls she liked to let him grow a little too long.

Always another pastila, another minute on the ice, another page of the story, another cuddle from mama in the morning before they had to push out of the blankets and into the busyness of mornings and school.

“Another? Another? You are lucky you are so kind and so handsome, Ilyushenka,” she would say fondly, though he knew that had nothing to do with anything. He knew he would have been his mother's favorite no matter who he had been born as. It was simply true.

His early childhood wasn't all sunshine flickering through gauzy curtains while his beautiful mother laughed, but there was enough that he could maybe be forgiven for how soft he was then. As a boy, he was greedy, but greedy like a bunny in a field of clover: there was enough, so why not?

The hungers changed over the years, shifted darker, the hunger for his mother, to be better at hockey, to be good enough to go away, for women, for men, for cigarettes, for the smoothing effect of vodka.

Growing older did not change his fundamental traits: he has not become less greedy, but he has become more disciplined in what he lets himself devour. Strategic. Sometimes he even thinks, maybe ethical.

His hunger for wins in hockey helps his whole team, the whole city of Boston. His appetite for beautiful people and music and good drink might, in another century, have left a path of ruin behind him, but he was born into the perfect time to move easily among the loveliest bodies many cities have to offer, and leave behind only luxurious sighs and warm sense memories.

His restlessness makes him annoying as fuck, he knows this, but it also makes him fun at parties. More importantly, it makes him better at hockey.

So it's a mix.

The hungers always change, but the worst ones are the ones that he can’t identify. When he wants, but doesn’t know what he wants. This is his current problem: his most recent need has taken the form of a relentless, endless buzz that stays in his chest no matter how fast he skates, or how many minutes he gets on the ice, or pucks in the net, or how many beautiful people he moves his body with.

He hates that fucking buzz.

…

This buzz is Zofia’s fault, really.

Ilya had bought a drink for Zofia, a nice Polish girl getting her MBA in Boston, after seeing her alone at a club. She had taken the drink and danced with him, and then told him she didn't kiss on the first date, and he had laughed, because there were always other women to kiss. But what was he to do when he had seen her again at the same club the next week? He had told her it was their second date, surely, so he must kiss her, yes? He did not want to go against her rules? He was very well-behaved, yes? And she’d laughed, and they’d danced again, and kissed in the alley until her ride arrived, and she had not invited him into the backseat, but she had given him her number.

Zofia had the sort of white-blonde hair that is common in children but that most outgrow, matched with high, sculpted cheekbones, and skin pale as snow. She’d made her pale blonde eyelashes and pale blonde eyebrows darker for the club. Beautiful, of course, beautiful in a way that had a rookie nudging his shoulder to point her out on the first night.

Ilya has never been able to resist a challenge, and also too many team members had known that he now had her phone number, so he had texted Zofia for a third date. Zofia had said he should come to her house, that she would make him dinner, which Marly had read over his shoulder and shouted out for the whole locker room to catcall their opinions about it.

If Zofia had known about the things that were said in that locker room, he suspects she would never have let Ilya through her front door.

But Ilya had made it through the entryway of her apartment to find that she had made a big traditional dinner. She was missing home, she said, and thought Ilya might be too? It is good, she said with a coy smile, to have a hungry man to cook for. The food had thrown him off, but the coy smile he had known how to answer.

Polish food is the same general sorts of dishes of his childhood, just with the flavoring and the names and ingredients all completely wrong. But he liked it. In fact, the overall effect of the warm kitchen and the full dining table had been so different from his life in Boston, and so much like a future home he had once imagined he might have, that for a moment he had lost his head. He had lost his head and imagined Zofia's long, pale hair twisted into braids like a wife in a storybook. He had thought that maybe this was a girl his mother would be proud to see him with.

And then Zofia had taken him to bed, and it had been boring, frankly, but maybe that was his fault for eating so many potato-based foods before the sex.

The next day she’d texted him to say she was looking for something serious, to settle down, and that she didn't think Ilya was that sort of person.

He could have told her that to begin with. She didn't have to cook all those thick, chewy Polish dumplings to learn that.

…

But fuck everything, because that was the first time Ilya had noticed that buzzy pressure grow in his chest, something aching where there had been nothing before.

Sveta had laughed at him when he had told her that Zofia’s rejection had left him unsettled. She’d said he just wasn't used to rejection, that his ego was clearly out of control. You are too used to being the fastest on the ice, she had teased, you are jealous that she broke it off with you before you could break it off with her. Anyway, wasn't she doing him a favor by cutting him loose from her domestic plans for babies? What if he had smelled the marriage-potential on her and gnawed off his own arm in panic at the thought?

And then, because Sveta was always loyal and not afraid to be catty, she had assured him that Zofia was not smart enough for him anyway, or maybe she was smart, but smart in the wrong way for Ilya: not funny, not interesting enough. And also, Sveta had shrugged, the disdain clear in her voice as she had casually delivered the final nail in the coffin: the Polish make their dumpling casings too thick.

Which is true. Pelmeni are better.

He didn't miss Zofia; how could he? They had barely known each other.

So why did he feel like a car driven over an unexpected pothole that had formed during a hard winter? Everything had been going along fine; he had lost focus for only a moment, and now something was rattling loose.

…

Like a mechanic, he’d sorted through the known noises to isolate the source of the problem.

He had never imagined a future filled with heavily buttered cabbage and potatoes. If he had, he had access to restaurants; not to mention an internet full of recipes. He didn't need a partner to cook for him. He had never wanted a partner to cook for him.

Plenty of hockey players dream of small, beautiful wives and large, beautiful babies and holiday tables groaning with the weight of whatever they consider traditional dishes, but Ilya was certain he had not picked up any such tendencies via osmosis.

Fuck, he hoped not.

Most hockey players are married by the time they're twenty-four, Ilya’s age, which is their loss; how sad for them.

But also, there is this fact: no matter where they travel, when the game is done, there is someone who loves them, waiting in their homes.

Ilya groaned at his own moroseness. He was 75% orphan and 100% greedy and so fucking over-dramatic he could not take the thoughts in his own head seriously.

He stared up at the ceiling of his Montreal hotel room. Marly was out drinking, but Ilya didn’t have it in him. He decided he didn’t have sleeping in him either.

He pulled out his phone to scroll social media.

He had a lot of new Instagram messages from some random account. He clicked the profile and rubbed his hand along the side of his face, considering. If @shanehollanderswims was an enraged stalker, he was hot, anyway.

He clicked the checkmarks next to the messages so he could delete them, but then, what the fuck ever, he decided to read them first. He read them once, then sat up in bed to read them again more closely.

@ShaneHollanderSwims: your conversion rates must be terrible

the product fit isn't good who is leading your sponcon what

Why are half your videos so warm and handsome then you are like an angry block fo wood on the other half of you hate the product tont do a video

Someone needs to think about perspective when framing these shots. your hands are huge which is an asset but those burgers look tiny and pathetic when you hold them. Yes you look hot but The product looks like shit. why is no one taking this into consideration.

Your leaving so much money on the table this is causing me pain no one who can play hockey like that with hands like that and looks like micahanfelos David should be in that crappy burger sponcon

i this is such a waste

Whoever the fuck is running your PR owes uou millions of dollars

Ilya searched up the terms “sponcon” and “conversion rates” to make sure he understood them correctly. He looked up Michelangelo’s David, which of course he’d seen pictures of, but never spent all that much time thinking about.

He started typing.

He was still typing a minute later when Marly tumbled into the room and said, “Holy shit, Roz, what's got you grinning like that? Your Polish girl finally text you back?”

Ilya blinked in surprise. He realized that the restless, buzzing feeling had stopped.

…

…

…

…

Two months later

Tuesday, December 28th — Boston v. Philadelphia game

…

…

Two nights ago was Boxing Day, which is, in fact, not a holiday about boxing. Ilya refuses to learn what it is a holiday about, because Connors is Canadian and it makes him so irritated when Ilya asks him if he has any fights planned for his culture's sacred holiday celebrating punching with gloves on. It is a stupid joke that Ilya didn't even get to tell this year because everything was a shit show.

Except everything was not a shit show on Boxing Day. Everything in his life was the exact same as it had been before the trip to the Virgin Islands, except for one slight difference, which is that the day before Boxing Day, Ilya had kicked Shane out of his hotel room. Which was a reasonable decision. Zofia was right, all those months ago, when she said that Ilya is not made for serious.

Shane is made for serious. Shane is made for better things than Ilya.

Which is why he needed to end things with Shane, so Ilya can stop spending so much time imagining what serious could look like with Shane.

Ilya was the sum total of the shit show at the Boxing Day game against Buffalo. He fucked everything up with Shane because he had to, but then he fucked things up with his team because Ilya cannot keep a handle on things, because he is greedy, and messy, and undisciplined.

Ilya sighs. This feels very unfair to him.

Yes, he fucked up the game in Buffalo, yes, he can not be with Shane. Yes, Shane is a good person who is not to blame here.

Yes, okay, all of that is true, of course. But it isn’t as simple as that either. How else was he to respond to Shane Hollander Swims? Showing up in his DMs, smart, bitchy, funny, a little mean, and so earnest it made Ilya's teeth hurt. And his pictures, fuck. Sexy, beautiful, strong.

Shane Hollander is entirely too interesting. Compelling in the way that a loose thread is; maybe most people could ignore it, but Ilya has always been too fidgety to leave a string unpulled.

Shane showed up in New York both bold and shy, and Ilya made a joke about the Virgin Islands because he thought it might make Shane blush, and the next thing Ilya knew, he had a $40,000 watch on his wrist and a trip to the Virgin Islands being planned on his behalf. And then, an invitation into Shane's hotel room, and Shane on his knees with all of Manhattan behind him. Ilya pulled that string as hard as he could, careless, until he was tangled up in yarn like an idiot kitten.

It is all very unfair and in no way Ilya's fault, is what Ilya would lie and say if there was anyone out there who cared enough to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

The problem is that Shane has very beautiful eyes and also he is very disciplined in how he holds his face. If you want to know what he is thinking, you have to closely watch his eyes.

This, Ilya has learned, is a trap. You look closer to see if the kindness is manipulation or if he is really that kind, and the next thing you know, he has your fingers in his mouth and he is looking up at you like he will die if you don't fuck him, like you are the only one who has ever touched him in a way that matters, and it's so achingly sincere that it rips your chest wide open, which solves the issue of the buzzing in your chest, but now your internal organs are partially in New York City, in St. Thomas, in fucking Ottawa.

And the next thing you know, you're on an exercise bike and instead of clearing your mind and preparing for the game, instead of visualizing success like you have been trained to do since you were eight-years-old, you are daydreaming about emailing the man's mother about setting up a series of trusts, because it does actually sound incredibly helpful to have a family trust set up to manage the hemorrhage that is his family, but that would involve letting perfect Yuna Hollander know just how much of a clusterfuck he is, just how much her precious only son should stay far away from Ilya, because Ilya Rozanov is a black hole, a destructive, world-ending want of more, and more, and more–

“Blyat!” Ilya says, slapping the console of his exercise bike to end his interval. He needs to stop these fucking thoughts.

Everyone around him tenses, which does not help. It makes Ilya angrier that he has become the man in the room who makes his team go still with fear.

Marly says, carefully casual, “You good, Roz?”

Ilya makes some kind of noise and stalks off to the showers.

…

The second he is out of the shower, he grabs his phone from his locker and checks it, because why, he doesn't know. Fuck his phone. Fuck everything. It's not like there will be a text from Shane.

There is a text from Shane.

Shane: Hey, I hope your flight back was okay. I know you are busy, but I wanted to say thanks again for the watch. I really like it a lot. I am genuinely excited to read the manual and learn about all its functions.

Shane: that probably sounded like sarcasm but I really am excited about the watch manual there’s so many statistics tracking options it looks so cool

Shane: I feel like that also sounded like sarcasm. Look you just have to trust me

Tears spring into Ilya’s eyes, hot and stupid and wet. Fuck. He looks, and no one is looking at him. He swipes at the tears, once, and then again, because more fucking come. He tries to mask it by making it look like he's just tidying his hair into place. Classic, vain peacock Roz, worrying over his hair.

The thing about Ilya's life is that it prepared him well to be slammed into the boards, it prepared him to absorb the jeers of an entire stadium and laugh. It prepared him for slurs and insults from his brother and the disappointment of his father, and to skate like he's weightless while carrying the pressure of the entire city of Boston and a not-insignificant amount of Russia on his shoulders.

It did nothing to prepare him for a beautiful man with beautiful freckles, a man he treated like shit only three days ago, sending him an earnest, heartfelt text about watch manuals.

Ilya leans his forehead against the wall of the locker room and takes deep, slow breaths. He can hear the din of his team quieting around him. Feel all of them nervously glancing over. He knows without looking that Marly and Connors are probably doing rock paper scissors to see who will be the one to approach him, so he can yell at them when they ask what is wrong.

He is possibly doing irreparable harm to the poor rookies; they are soft, not made to handle this kind of tension. He has tried to keep them that way; there is no reason locker rooms have to be as hard as they were when he was younger.

He rubs his hand roughly over his face and clears his throat.

He should make a joke, laugh it off. He can't think of a single word. Speechless.

He thinks of Shane at the beach, waist-deep, the water ink-black and swirling around him. His smile, loose and easy and just for Ilya. More beautiful than any dream Ilya could ever imagine. He had accused Shane of ensorcelling him, of scheming to steal his tongue. He remembers Shane's quick and easy chirp that anyone who could shut Ilya Rozanov up would be a millionaire.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. Louder, he says, “None of you needs to sacrifice your lives to be the one to ask me what is wrong. I am fucking fine. Mind your own business.”

Marly coughs something that sounds like, “Bullshit.”

Ilya doesn't turn as he says, “Marly is fined $5,000 for disrespecting his captain. I am going home to rest before game. Rookies, you are now in charge. Make sure he does hours of bag skates as punishment.”

The rookies laugh nervously. The rest of the room moves on.

He gets dressed. Marly makes eye contact with him when he turns to leave, but Ilya shakes his head just enough to let him know that he doesn't want to be followed.

…

He gets home from morning warmups, and there is another chime on his phone. He feels a tornado of emotions, afraid and hopeful and embarrassed at the size of the feelings he has at the hope that Shane is texting him again, but it's just Sveta.

He imagines her glare if she had heard him say “just Sveta.”

Sveta: Cliff Marleau told me you are scaring the rookies again and still no one knows why

Sveta: are you going to tell me why you suddenly forgot how to be Ilya Rozanov?

Ilya: I am fine

Sveta: you are not even you. How can you be fine? There is an angry bag of potatoes where your body used to be. And no brain anymore or you would know better than to lie to me

Ilya thinks of several cutting responses to that, but none are worth the apologies he would have to make to Sveta.

Ilya: thank you this is very helpful feedback

Sveta: do you need me to come home early from Russia?

Ilya: no because I am fine

Sveta: you are not fine

Ilya: I will be fine

Sveta: you can not toxic masculinity yourself into playing good hockey. Case in point: two nights ago. If you play against fucking Philly like you did against Buffalo I am coming home early for an intervention

Ilya: you do not have to fix me

Sveta: don't be stupid of course I do

Ilya: I must rest before game

…

Ilya is not weak enough to re-read the watch manual texts from Shane, but he has them memorized anyway. So they run through his head as he lies down for a game-day nap, and as he drives back to the arena for the game.

He won’t reply. Shane Hollander is an addiction. It is like cigarettes, and he has quit cigarettes several times in his life. The first few days after are the worst, but the two-week point has always been the marker of when he starts to feel relief.

He will take two weeks off from Shane. And if he can make it two weeks, he can make it longer.

The problem is, cigarettes don't text him adorable, sincere notes about watch manuals. Cigarettes don’t make him laugh. Cigarettes don’t leave the hot imprints of hands on his hips.

As he undresses in the locker room to prepare for the game against Philly, he thinks that it would be a lot easier to ignore Shane if he was a small nicotine-filled stick trapped in a tiny paper carton.

And then he thinks, fuck, I am losing my fucking mind.

And then he texts Shane back.

Ilya: Do not worry I believe that you are truly excited about your new watch manual. Do you even need watch? I could have given you just manual

Shane texts him back immediately.

Shane: I mean that’s kind of like giving someone drum sticks without a drum

Ilya grins.

Ilya: No it is like giving someone a drum manual without a drum

And then, because he is sitting in his stall shirtless and grinning at his phone, he types:

Ilya: I must go

Shane: Good luck against Gritty

Ilya: I am not afraid of the orange demon

Shane: That’s right. The orange demon is afraid of you!

Ilya: Now I think you are being sarcastic

Shane: I am being sarcastic. Gritty is not capable of fear

Ilya: Neither are Russians

Shane: Yeah Russians definitely aren’t afraid of sharks

Ilya barks out a laugh.

Ilya: respect for sharks like reasonable person is not fear

He feels a lightness in his chest.

Marly nudges his knee into Ilya’s and says, “Cap, you planning on playing naked? Cause I’m here for it man, let’s give it a try.”

Ilya blinks. Right. Fuck. The game.

Marly speaks his next statement in a low hum, “I take it you’re not pissed at me for tattling on you to your scary Russian bodyguard.”

“I am not scared of Svetlana,” Ilya says. He reaches for his undershirt, feeling the familiar pattern of layering on his gear take over. His hands know what to do. His hands feel confident.

“Braver man than me,” Marly mutters.

Ilya feels the good restlessness fill him, and bounces on his feet. “Assholes!” he announces, and the locker room goes quiet. “Listen up! I am hungry! For a special Russian dish, very rare, but I think you can help me. The ingredient I need is one hideous orange demon fucker, roasted on a turning stick over fire. I hear there is one at the arena tonight! Who is ready to go hunting with me?”

There’s a round of cheers in the room, and Connors shouts, “Gritty-Stroganoff, boys, that’s what’s on the menu!”

…

Ilya has played better games, but he's played worse. The game is not an inexorably growing flame inside of him, like it is on the best days, but his mind is sharp, and his body knows where to go before he tells it.

It's enough to pull him through—through jokes in the locker room, through saying nothing of interest to the media. Through shrugging off an invite to go out. The Shane-detox plan would go better if he was keeping his hands busy moving along the warm soft curves of a beautiful woman, but he doesn't want curves right now. He hasn’t really wanted that for some time. He wants hard planes, abs, jawline, shoulders. Freckles, and brown eyes that tell stories if you pay close attention.

Which is why he needs the two-week detox. No sex, no flirting—with anyone. Starting today. He will reset his brain, and then it will no longer reject everything that is not Shane Hollander for sexual purposes.

Probably.

…

He's asleep when his phone goes off. He jerks awake and answers after one ring, because it is probably his father having a crisis.

“привет, папа,” he greets his father with the phone to his ear before he realizes it was a text message, not a call.

A text message from Shane.

Shane: hello

Ilya sighs deeply. Well. He has already spoken to Shane today. His plan to fast for two weeks by abstaining from Shane Hollander is broken again. So he may as well reply.

Ilya: good evening Shane Hollander Swims

Shane: what's the hottest planet?

Ilya: any planet I am on

Shane: thata silly it's Venus though I thought I twasmeecury

Shane: Venus has an atmosphere that .makes it hotter and mercury doesn't have air which seems dad

Shane: sad. Anyway i got that question wrong at trivia

Ilya blinks at this string of texts. He smiles fondly. His Shane would never have so many typos sober. He licks his lips, and catches his lower lip between his teeth.

Ilya: Ah. You are drunk?

Shane: maybe

Ilya: Where are you?

Shane: I don't bave to tell you that

Ilya: tell me anyway

Shane: bed

Ilya: good. You should drink some water

Ilya opens a tab to a search so that he will remember to learn about the lack of atmosphere on Mercury later, because one of his favorite things about texting with Shane is the challenge of it, of how many things Ilya, yes, mostly understands, but he doesn't want to just hear what Shane is saying; he wants to understand and to know what Shane is saying.

He puts a pin in that, though, because Shane is tipsy and in bed. Ilya thinks maybe he will call him, tell him to touch himself. Ilya breathes in a long, shallow breath. Fuck, he wants to hear the sounds Shane will make.

Fuck, his two-week Shane-detox is not going well at all.

Shane: Jeremy brought me aater and I drank both cups so now I have too much water but it's okay

Ilya stands up and paces the floor. Who the fuck is Jeremy and why the fuck is he in Shane’s bedroom?

Ilya: Jeremy brought you water. where is Jeremy now?

There is a long pause with no response from Shane. Ilya's first thought is that Shane is trying to make him jealous with how easy it was for him to replace Ilya. Which is both true and not true. Ilya knows Shane could find a hundred men in a minute; he's one of the most beautiful people Ilya's ever met.

But, Ilya thinks darkly, no way Shane could find someone who can read his body as well as Ilya can, who can make Shane melt so prettily into his touch, make Shane lose himself so much he leaves scratches down his back and then apologizes for it later.

Or maybe this Jeremy also has Shane's marks on his back?

Fuck. Ilya grabs a handful of his hair and pulls hard, trying to make himself focus.

Does he need to go to Montreal right now? Or maybe he gets Jackie Pike's number, and she goes over there to interrupt this Jeremy from whatever he is doing to Shane. Shane is drunk, he is vulnerable.

Shane: I think he keft

Ilya: I hope he respected you

Shane: indid not compromise his virtue he's a nice friend from trivua

Ilya remembers now, Shane did mention a trivia friend named Jeremy back in St. Thomas. He opens another browser tab and searches for “Jeremy swimmer Montreal,” because it seems like most of Shane’s trivia friends are from his swimming career. There are, apparently, many swimmers named Jeremy in Montreal.

At a quick glance, none of them are nearly good enough for Shane Hollander.

Ilya: he is in love with you

Shane: no one is in love with me

Ilya sits down hard on the bed. Everyone Shane knows is an idiot if they are not in love with him. He hates them, for being so close, for having Shane so near and not wanting to claim him. He would hate them more if they touched him, of course.

This is not tenable. He knows this. He does. Ilya is being greedy and unfair to everyone. He knows this about himself. He does not know how to change it. Which is why he thought of the Shane-detox. Perhaps he should have told Shane more clearly about the Shane-detox, so Shane wouldn’t have texted him so much today.

But then again. If he told Shane to stop texting him, Shane might stop texting him.

This is not tenable.

Ilya: okay. Good night. If you have drank water it is time you sleep

Shane: what are you doing for news years

Ilya: there are many parties always

Shane: russian new year parties? With christmas trees?

Ilya flops back on the pillow, helpless. He smiles. Has Shane been researching Russian holiday traditions? He replies, his smile so wide he covers it with his hand, even though there is no one in his home to see.

Shane Hollander went out with his friends, got drunk, had fun, had a man in his bedroom, kicked that man out, and now he is texting with Ilya about Father Frost and the tangerines you can only get in Russia.

Ilya rubs his thumb along his mother’s necklace.

It is strange how a person can feel so good and so bad at the same time and have absolutely no fucking idea what to do about it.

…

One might hope that one would fall asleep and during the night have revelations that solve all of one's problems so that in the morning, one wakes up and everything is simple.

Ilya is a lucky man, he knows, but unfortunately he has not gotten lucky in that particular way this morning.

Tomorrow is a round trip to New Jersey, there and back in a day. Today, there is an optional morning skate, which maybe he should go to, to show that he can behave without losing his temper or sulking. Or maybe he should skip, to give his team a break from his temper and sulking.

Or maybe he should go, to give himself a break from his own fucking brain.

That is the correct answer.

He pulls himself out of bed and begins throwing things in a frying pan to make into an omelette.

His phone vibrates against the counter. He rolls his head back on his neck.

Here is what he knows: there is no way Ilya is willing to do the Shane-detox if Shane is willing to talk to him.

He might wish that he was better, or smarter, but it is a simple fact that he is not.

He takes a deep breath, holds it, blows it out. He stirs peppers and onions with his spatula.

He turns the phone over and reads the text.

Shane: hey you have a game in NJ tomorrow right? I mean, I looked at your schedule, so I know the answer. I guess I was wondering when you are traveling for the NJ game?

Ilya's eyes widen. What the fuck, Hollander. This man is going to kill him.

Ilya: we leave at 9 am tomorrow and return home by 10 pm

Shane: cool. Are you home today? I was thinking about scheduling a video call with you?

Ilya clenches his jaw. He loosens it.

Ilya: for business or pleasure?

Shane: well, not for business. So. By process of elimination, pleasure?

The fuck does that mean? Ilya wonders if he can screenshot these fucking messages and send them to someone for interpretation. Marly? Sveta? They would ask too many questions. There should be an anonymous service for this. Ilya would pay good money.

Ilya: yes okay. Optional skate is over by noon

Shane: Okay. Is 2:30 pm ET okay?

Ilya: yes

What the fuck is going to be happening at 2:30 pm ET? Why is Shane specifying the time zone when he knows they live in the same time zone? Ilya needs a valium or something, fuck. It was a joke, a joke in his own head, but he winces. He hates pills.

Okay. At 2:30 pm ET something is going to happen. Ilya suddenly remembers the pan in front of him, the vegetables at risk of burning. He feels that if he lets them burn, everything will be ruined. He blinks until he is certain he can see what is in front of him. He grabs a handful of chopped tomatoes and tosses them into the pan. He carefully cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks them with a fork.

He doesn’t burn the omelette. He forgot to add the ham to it, but that is fine, he can’t really taste it anyway.

…

Skate, shower, get cornered by an assistant coach who asks if Ilya needs help refining his mental game strategy, and Ilya is back in his car and headed home by 11:30 am ET. He doesn’t know if Shane is going to want to, what, he doesn’t know, whatever, anything, on the phone, but it seems reasonable to tidy up. Ilya has an expensive, sexy home that he is proud of. He does not like his home to look like a smelly locker room, so there is not much to do before he is sure that Shane will have good views from any camera angle. The basement gym could be cleaner, but he won’t be taking the call down there, so this is fine.

At 12:30 pm ET, Ilya is strongly considering texting Shane to say that he hates him. Why is he like this with his 2:30 pm ET? Who does this?

Approximately one hundred hours later, it is somehow only 1:05 pm ET. Ilya decides to take a nap.

Another one hundred hours, and it is 1:15 pm ET. Ilya gives up on the nap.

At 2:15 pm ET, Ilya takes his shirt off, decides it’s too much, maybe Shane is mad at him and doesn’t want to have phone sex, so he puts the shirt back on. He checks his hair in the mirror for damage from the shirt. It’s still okay.

At 2:35 pm ET, Ilya’s phone chimes.

He picks up the phone. “You are late,” he says, his tone indifferent, not even looking at the screen. He can see Shane’s image from the corner of his eye though. Fuck, he looks pretty, even in this little box at an angle. It looks like he’s sitting in his car.

“Um, yeah, sorry, got delayed, um,” Shane says. “Um, so, okay, about six hours ago I did something really spur of the moment.”

Shane stops talking. Ilya blinks into the silence, processing, and then gives up. “I do not know what this word means.”

“Spur of the moment? Oh, um, it’s four words, like spontaneous, or, like, a sudden decision, um, impulsive? Unplanned? Like doing something without thinking it through, I guess—”

“Okay, yes, thank you, I am familiar with this concept,” Ilya interrupts.

“Right, so like, okay, I called my apple guy,” Shane continues.

“Did you say apple guy?” Ilya clarifies. Does Shane mean “apple” + “guy” or is this some long, maybe Greek-origin word like “myoppligy” that Ilya also does not know.

“Um, yeah, my, um, well, there’s this guy who sells apples at the farmer’s market, um, the Jean-Talon Market, it’s a huge market, I go there a lot, most Saturdays, I mean, there’s plenty of places that sell apples there, but he has the absolute best product, and he’s really friendly, so we always talk. His name is actually Ben, and his daughter graduated from McGill last year, she also studied sports journalism, and I helped her get an interview with the social media team at the Metros, so, he’s always saying he owes me a favor, for getting her a job in her field where she could stay close to home, which I don’t really owe him a favor for that, because of course she got the job on her own merits, and she’s been there for a year now, and she’s doing just fine, so honestly, it’s not anything at all I usually think about. And also a couple times I’ve gotten him free tickets to Metros games, before his daughter worked there, of course. Not even good seats.”

Ilya stares at Shane’s little picture in his phone. He is certain he is translating these words correctly, but he has never been more confused in his entire life. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay, so. Anyway, he owes me a favor, and I thought of a favor that he could help me with.”

God help him, if Shane is about to say he’s in love with the elderly vendor who sells him apples, Ilya is going to run his phone over with a car. “What favor?”

“Um, I asked him if he could get Abkhazian mandarins, or tangerines, I know they aren’t really either, but the Russian Christmas citrus fruit you mentioned?”

“Not Christmas, Novy God, New Year’s,” Ilya corrects automatically. Then processes. “Did your apple man have these tangerines? абхазские мандарины?”

“No, but he has a friend who works at the Milano Fruiterie, which is pretty close by, they have all kinds of exotic fruits from all over, so he called them, and they didn’t either,” Shane pauses, “But they told him to call this, like Slavic market? So he called them, and they told Ben, that’s my apple guy, Ben, that it's illegal to sell the Abkhazian mandarins in Canada.”

“Shane. What is happening? Why are you telling me this?”

“Okay, so then Ben told me to stop by in-person, because he had a hunch. So it turns out they open at 9, so I was waiting right there at the door when they opened, and they asked me why I wanted them, and I said, well, it doesn’t matter what I told them, but it turned out they have a black market kinda thing going on, and they had two bags left unclaimed, so I bought them, and they had some other stuff too, that they said you would like.”

Ilya frowns, his head cocked to the side. “That I would like? You told them about me?”

“I mean, not you specifically, I didn’t say you were Ilya Rozanov, I didn’t want to get you involved in like, black market stuff.” Shane sounds offended, like this should be so obvious. “Though I did say I could get them player’s seats for the next Montreal/Boston game, but I can get those from Hayden, of course.”

“Of course,” Ilya echoes.

“They might be kind of stale,” Shane says apologetically. “They told me they taste better in Russia.”

“Shane. When did you call Ben the apple man?” Ilya says slowly.

“This morning, at like 8, but he gets up early,” Shane says.

Ilya rubs his thumb across his mother’s cross, considering. “And where are you now?”

“I’m sitting in my car. Parked. I wouldn’t do a video call while driving,” Shane says. He sounds very nervous.

“No, you would never,” Ilya agrees. He rolls his shoulders, stretches his neck. “Shane. Where is your car parked?”

“Um, Boston,” Shane says, quietly.

“Boston,” Ilya repeats.

Shane slants a smile at him through the phone screen, “There’s no way I could sneak citrus through customs at the airport, so I had to drive, the checkpoints in Vermont are really lax.”

Ilya gets off his couch and starts moving toward the door, almost tripping on his slides, he’s going too fast, but fuck it, “You fucking asshole,” he breathes. “Where are you?”

He steps out of his house, runs to the end of his driveway, and there is fucking Shane in his boring fucking SUV, three houses down. On his fucking street. Where he lives. In fucking Boston.

Shane lifts up his hand in an awkward wave. Ilya has no idea what his own face looks like. He gestures to his driveway, and Shane creeps his car forward, and then Shane Hollander’s car is in Ilya’s driveway, and he has a box of black market citrus fruit buckled into his passenger seat that Ilya hasn’t tasted in eight years, since he was sixteen, the last time he was in Russia for Novy God.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, and his voice cracks on the single word.

Shane gets out of his car and stands there, hands in his pockets, shoulders square, face blank.

Ilya stares at him. Shane winces, and tosses a hand up. “I’m sorry this is so weird,” he says. “I don’t know what—”

Ilya steps forward, and he’s going to kiss Shane, but they’re outside, and he doesn’t have permission for that, so instead he says, “I am sorry I asked you to leave the hotel room. I was an asshole. I have been,” Ilya waves a hand. “Messy in my head about it.”

“I know,” Shane says immediately, and earnest. “I figured. I figured. I mean.” Shane rubs his hand over his face and Ilya sees Shane is wearing the watch. Shane smiles at him, and it’s fond. “You can apologize inside, it’s zero degrees and you aren’t wearing shoes.”

“We should be boyfriends,” Ilya says, the words out of his mouth before he knows what he is saying. But if Shane is coming into his home, he wants it to happen honestly, he wants it to be real. He wants this to matter. He’s been thinking about this the wrong way: it feels impossible, yes, but Ilya’s specialty is making impossible things happen. In this moment the same intuition is telling him that this can be a snipe, a laser of a goal, because he knows exactly where he wants the puck to go, so he just says it. “I want to be your boyfriend. Or partner. I don’t want to quit you. I want to be with you. In a,” and fuck, Ilya knows a thousand ways to pick up, but he’s never needed the words for this, “In a serious way.”

Shane smiles, and his dark eyes are shining and full of stories that Ilya wants to learn everything about, and for a moment everything is easy and beautiful, like sunshine flickering through gauzy curtains, as Shane says, his voice tight and soft, “I would really like that. In a serious way.”

…

…

…

…

Epilogue-ish:

Hi, okay, I know everyone is gonna be like, “but I want more, please,” with your big Shane Hollander eyes, but it's incredibly unlikely I will write more in this world. 

But I can’t resist your big Shane Hollander eyes, so here is some leftover stuff that didn’t make it in, roughly in the order that it happens:

Step one: Obviously kissing and eating citrus and citrus-flavored kissing.

Shane hangs out at Ilya’s house the next day while Ilya is at the game in New Jersey. Svetlana turns up because she was so worried about Ilya being alone and depressed for New Year’s she flew home early and skipped her own family’s Novy God party. She walks into Ilya’s house like she owns the place and catches Shane doing yoga in his tiny little short shorts in the living room. She is delighted, because Ilya has been texting someone just labeled as “S” in his phone, and now she knows who the mysterious “S” is.

Shane is extremely afraid of her and extremely jealous of her and how pretty she is and how comfortable she is in Ilya’s home. Svetlana wants to eat Shane up in one bite, which Ilya is aware of and so Ilya is extremely jealous that Svetlana was alone with Shane for hours in his home and what if Shane is in love with Sveta now instead of him? (He is not).

Also while Shane is visiting Ilya, Jackie calls because she can’t find a tiny toy plastic penguin that Ruby is crying and tantruming over, and Jade swears Shane knows where it is. He does, it’s in the magnet blocks bin, because last time he was over they built a skyscraper out of magnet blocks for the penguin to live in. Ilya is eavesdropping so hard on all of this, and he hears Jade say, “Thanks Shaney-buddy!,” after Shane solves the penguin crisis on the phone, Shane grins and says, “You’re welcome, Jadey-buddy.”

Ilya experiences a profoundly debilitating mix of cuteness-aggression and jealousy of a 3-year-old child because that child made Shane smile so sweet and also that’s such a good nickname Ilya wishes he had thought of it. He desperately wants to be Ilya-buddy.

Shane comes clean to Yuna the day he gets home from the Boston trip, and she’s a little concerned, but not really all that surprised. Ilya works with her and David (because he knows about finance and because David likes to be involved) to sketch out a concept for the trusts, and within an hour she’s not only all-in on Ilya dating her son, but also running through hypothetical wedding venues they might like in the back of her head. She suggests maybe Ilya might also want to start another trust that could be a charity? Anyway, they figure it all out and it’s great.

Ilya gets an exercise pool installed in the basement for Shane for Valentine's day. "Is no big deal, many important hockey players have them." 

They make long-distance work, though Shane spends more time in Boston than in Canada until Ilya retires, he’s in Montreal enough that he still gets to visit Ben the apple guy and hold down the hockey trivia in support of Alyssa’s plan for world domination via trivia and of course, gossip with Jackie on her couch and build towers with the twins and eventually Arthur and Amber on the regular, and Ilya visits with the Pikes enough that he does, indeed, become Ilya-buddy.

When Scott Hunter comes out (which is 1.5 years-ish after this fic is set) Ilya lasts about 15 seconds before he wants to come out too. Ilya is seething with jealousy, but Yuna makes him make a plan that is classier than jumping up on the stage when Scott is getting his player of the year award and shouting, “I also am in love with a man and mine is better!!” which was the rough, rough early draft plan that Ilya had initially considered for at least a full second.

Shane is very happy to use Ilya’s money to build a giant fucking cottage on the lake by his parents place. Then again, it’s mostly the money that Shane helped him earn with all the ad deals, so maybe that’s why he feels so comfortable spending it. My lovely, lovely, lovely beta, BooksandaBeer, deemed this cottage: “Shane’s Conversion Rate Cottage.” This is, coincidentally, also what Ilya calls it.

Ilya calls him Shane Hollander Swims forever and ever.

Chapter End Notes

...
...

Y’all, I am truly the luckiest possum at the compost pile, I can not even tell you.

Where do I start? Well, obviously with BooksandaBeer (J) who started this whole situation in discord when [redacted] and then [redacted] and then someone said, “What if Shane was a PR agent and Ilya was Ilya and he did a really bad ad and Shane saw it and sent him a really bitchy dm on social media about it?” Dharmasharks was there too.

This really turned out poorly for poor J, because somehow fun ideas nearly always end up creating arduous chores. We all need to do infinity standing ovations for J’s heroic tense-wrangling of which I can only take credit for falling down and making it worse and also making ruder-than-I-intend sarcastic comments. This fic is SO MUCH BETTER and also probably would not be done without J's help.

Thanks to other folks who provided beta/feedback along the way, especially QueerIntentions!

AND THE ART. 9 million standing ovations for BritBrit99 for the embroidery and the facts about sharks! And 9 million standing ovations to one of my favorite raccoons, AaliyahSparrow, for the sexy beach images.

And I love you commenters and I love you people who are too shy to comment. You can yell at me or about this fic on tumblr - here is the link to the sexy beach art - sexy beach art by Aaliyah Sparrow and here is the link to the chapter updates with the embroidery art

And WAIT there is MORE ART. I did not use all the quotes that BritBrit99 created - the last chapter just did not want to behave in that way. So here they are!




And here is the Spotify playlist with the song Untouchable Face

What did I miss? Probably a lot! In summary, I love everyone in this bar, and thanks for pasta!

Works inspired by this one

Cover for Untouchable Face by TatteLatte

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