Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Jackie Pike

Additional Tags:

Love, Pain, Slow Burn, Hockeyless Hollander, Career Ending Injuries, Depression, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Pseudo Medical, Dr.Hollander, Burnt Out Ilya, Angst with a Happy Ending, Men Who Can't Communicate- So Just a Men, Sex, Inner Dialogue

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-26 Completed: 2026-05-24 Words: 164,612 Chapters: 25/25

Surgical Precision

Summary

Shane Hollander suffers a career ending injury in Metros training camp derailing his pro hockey dreams before they even start. He is forced to come to terms with who he is without his sport and find a new direction. Ilya Rozanov with nobody around to push him has lost his love for the game. More than a decade later, the new team doctor brings up old feelings that never had the space to grow all those years ago, but are now growing out of control.

Notes

Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: Meetings

Chapter Notes

Well hello- I have no pre written chapters, just an idea and a disgusting amount of love for this damn TV show. This first chapter is very true to the first bit of episode one but will get us pointing in the right direction.

TBH... I didn't love the books but I do love the characters so cool i guess.

 

This first chapter is very true to the show and chapter 2 will be very different.
 

*I edit my own stuff, mostly poorly so there are going to be mistakes*

December 2008
Saskatchewan, CA
International Prospect Cup

Sadness, dark and deep like the winter. He’d always known it. He felt it inside of his body. It was always taking up so much space inside him like an organ. No, maybe a tumor. Yes it was like a tumor because it grew and sometimes it spread. Sometimes it shrunk too he supposed but not as much as it grew. You couldn’t see it if you looked at him it was an internal sickness and a secret one. He looked hard and solid, all Slavic men did. He actually was hard though, he was a human callous. He was made of thick skin grown over time to protect an area that had taken one too many beatings.

He had things to distract from the sadness. Sometimes the distractions were for others but mostly they were for him. Sarcasm, drinking, snide jokes, sex. A lot of sex. Hockey was not one of them. Ilya Rozanov was the son of his parents- a too tough police lieutenant who believed emotion was weakness and a too kind and loving mother who was swallowed up by her own emotional depths. Ilya inherited both, anyone could see the problems it caused. The two couldn’t coexist and neither could his parents. Ilya felt too much and was ashamed to feel anything at all.

He was responsible for so much, all the time. He had never succeeded in the eyes of his family, not since she died. His father hated him. He was too much like his mother for him, and his brother was jealous of his success. No matter how much they hated him they were counting on him and expecting him to be perfect. It wasn’t requested, it was demanded. He had to make the family proud, Russia proud. They needed to look good, not foolish. Nobody was actually proud of him.

In one of the training camps he’d attended in the USA, a sports psychologist had lectured the camp about the benefits of deep breathing. He remembered looking at his translator at the time and raising an eyebrow. He was Russian too and Ilya blinked at him and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. Stupid Americans need to be taught how to breathe? The psychologist made them all take deep breaths, four seconds in, to hold for another four seconds, and four seconds of released breath. It physiologically reset your body under stress so they said. He wasn’t sure why he thought of it now, was he stressed? He was at the most important event of his life so far. His performance actually wasn't all that important, it was the prospect cup. A tournament full of scouts for professional American and Canadian teams waiting to find their next rookies.

He’d made a name for himself that one shitty week of play wouldn’t erase, but it wouldn't be a shit week. Hockey was his only love, and his only possible escape. He had no doubt he would be in America by next year. He hissed a hot breath into the cold air. He knew he could perform, it’s what he did.

Ilya twitched his lips, he’d do the stupid American breathing but he'd do it on his terms. He reached into the deep pocket of his wool coat and his hand came up empty. It was cold in the Canadian winter, almost cold enough that if he closed his eyes the cold winds lashing at his cheeks felt like he was at home. He patted his other pockets until he found the one with a flattened soft paper box inside. He never understood why someone wouldn’t smoke. Smoking was a joy in life even if he was smoking strange Canadian cigarettes. He rolled his thumb over the sharp metal wheel of the lighter, the flame disappeared in the biting wind. He cursed to himself and turned to block the wind with his body until the cigarette finally lit. He took in a triumphant drag, four long seconds. He knew that every puff was probably taking years off his life, putting tar in his lungs.

Whatever.

He held the smoke in his chest and counted to four, he blew the smoke out slowly over four seconds and leaned his head back against the side of the arena. He smirked. He’d have to go back inside soon and get dressed but right now he just had this cigarette. They had an hour of ice time before their game tonight. He’d have hours to spend at the hotel between the practice and the game. He didn’t want to, he’d rather sit and watch the other prospects and teams practice. If he couldn’t be on the ice himself, he could at least watch his competitors on it.

The only time Ilya felt safe, centered, as if he was in control of the world around him, was when he was gliding on ice on 4mm wide metal blades. Or when he was throwing his body into the boards, and when the horn blew loud enough it cancelled all the noise between his ears. Hockey was a sport of anger, the only one where fighting was encouraged, and shit talking was part of the sport. It brought out the worst in him and he was the best at being the worst. It was a drug, no, it was the drug. Ilya had tried everything short of heroin in terms of drugs, every thrill and high, nothing was like hockey.

He could bare his teeth, he could show the darkness he inherited from his father and he could push himself to the point of failure. Ilya could always win. Well, maybe that wasn’t true, it was a team sport and sometimes teams fucking sucked and he couldn’t always control that. He could always be the best on the ice, that was true mostly. Except for maybe one other player.

“Ilya Rozanov?” a voice called in English, Ilya turned his head. He flicked his eyes to the speaker. He’d appeared right when he’d been thinking of him. The only other person who may be better than him, but he wouldn’t let be better than him. Shane Hollander.

Ilya was tall, pale, with sharp features, and blondish curly hair. He was built more like a swimmer than a hockey player with his wide muscular stature. Ilya’s body and mind were shaped by beating after beating and life stealing things from him. Maybe a little by making bad decisions for fun as well.

Shane Hollander stood a few feet away, it’s the closest Ilya had been to him aside from game film on a TV. He'd followed his statistics and seen highlight clips, he was the only other center of his caliber in their age group. He was shorter, he had olive skin and dark hair, and he was not broad or physically imposing in the same way as Ilya. Someone who didn’t know Shane may pick a fight with him based on how he looked if they didn’t know he was more than capable of hurting someone. He was athletic in an unassuming way. He was anything but unassuming on the ice. Hollander’s high and childlike cheeks were red as he squinted through a gust of wind, his hands jammed in his pockets. He had a smile on his face that looked too natural, like it was always there. It was kind and inviting, it was a smile that would make people think he was a friend. Ilya couldn’t remember a time he smiled at a stranger outside of trying to sleep with them.

”Shane Hollander” he said, yanking one of his hands out of his pockets and extending it forward as he walked closer to Ilya, as if he didn’t already know his name.

By the time Hollander stopped moving forward and their hands clasped in a firm handshake, Ilya’s eyes became stuck on those red cheeks again. He’d missed at a distance how blended into his flush were a thousand brown freckles that climbed across the bridge of his nose. Hollander was boyish, beautiful, and a little too warm as a competitor. Ilya glanced down at his body once, they were wearing nearly the same thing, sweatsuits with a black jacket and beanie.

“I wanted to introduce myself” he continued in a friendly voice. Ilya didn’t want to look at him or his freckles anymore. He had his back against the exterior rink wall. His cigarette had died in the wind and the momentary distraction of Hollander. He flicked his lighter again to light the cigarette and it took.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here” Hollander said, miming a cigarette to his mouth as if he wasn’t sure he’d understand him. Ilya wondered if Hollander would start saying English words slower and louder to him like that would help him understand better. He knew all the words he’d said so far, he was just waiting for something interesting to happen before he spoke.

Ilya blinked and blew out the smoke to show him he didn’t quite care. Ilya enjoyed ignoring social norms, authority, and any rules. He knew anyone else in his place would be engaging in conversation. He didn’t want to. He wanted to study Hollander and see how uncomfortable he could make him. How easily he could control him or get under his skin. He’d need to say something to let Hollander know he knew English so it'd mess with his head a bit more, if he didn’t he’d probably just leave and chalk their interaction up to being lost in translation.

A few beats of silence passed and Ilya breathed out a puff of smoke, he couldn’t help his eyes glancing up and down Hollander’s body again. He wondered if those freckles were on his shoulders, back, or anywhere else he’d need to be in a shower with him to see. Ilya knew if he ever was he’d be looking. The freckles were beautiful, so was Hollander. Perfect boy Hollander. He probably had a perfect girlfriend at home, a perfect house, a perfect dog, perfect perfect perfect. He was the darling of whatever league he was playing in while Ilya was always the talented but bad apple.

“Okay” Ilya replied, his tone bored. What would such a perfect boy do with that?

Hollander nodded, and smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth, great. Nobody in hockey had perfect teeth. It was part of the game losing teeth. Ilya had three fake ones from taking a puck to the mouth. They looked pretty realistic but the color never matched his other teeth, of course Mr.Perfect Hollander never lost a tooth. Ilya felt a desperate need to corrupt Mr. Perfect and put him on his knees in front of him as see if he could ruin that perfection. Trouble, Ilya thought, his favorite thing was causing trouble. Corrupting the sweet angel of the hockey world would be trouble.

“You’re an awesome player to watch” Hollander continued, still smiling and not privy to the things running through his mind. Ilya was used to being admired, mostly for his hockey and a lot for his looks. He was also used to being degraded. Admiration from others often came at a price. people admired him because they wanted something from him, it might be admiration in return they desired or to feel important because they were near him and his successes. Maybe the promise of money or future fame was the reason, there was always something in the subtext. Ilya knew every compliment he received was charged with something someone wanted in return.

Hollander’s stupid perfect smile was open, his words full of admiration, and with not a trace of wanting to hear Ilya say the same in return. Hollander was a great player to watch unfortunately, he was intelligent, efficient, and scrappy. Ilya would never tell Hollander this. Ilya was good at reading people and immediately deemed Hollander was incapable of deception. But he wanted to know how he’d react to dismissal, rejection, maybe some other things too. Ilya couldn’t help but to reply.

“Yes” he heard his own voice and wanted to shudder, it was one word and he sounded so stupid. Like a James Bond villain with a thick accent that made pronouncing certain letters and words in English like solving a puzzle only with his tongue. He didn’t like feeling stupid, and he didn’t want to feel stupid in front of Mr. Perfect.

Hollander let out a chuckle. Was he laughing at his accent? Ilya jammed his hand back into his pocket and curled his fingers into a fist. Ilya was stupid, he shouldn’t have said anything. He should practice his English more. Hollander bounced his head once before pivoting, his body moved before his head did and he faced away from Ilya just barely. Hollander didn’t seem to enjoy conversation any more than Ilya did, so why was he trying so hard? He turned so his back was to Ilya.

Never turn your back on your enemy, the words from his father’s sharp mouth ran through his mind. Hollander wasn’t expecting to be stabbed in the back outside of a hockey rink and Ilya wasn’t going to stab him. Hollander instead of walking away, moved a bit further away and leaned his back against the arena walls for a few quiet moments before he spoke again.

“Anyways, I should go, they're waiting for me but um. Good luck in the tournament” Hollander said, the friendly smile back on his face, those freckles still there, dark eyes connecting with his.

He extended his hand again towards Ilya, he only shook hands at the end of hockey games or when forced by his father. He put his cigarette between his lips and reached forward and shook Hollander’s hand twice in the matter of two minutes. He didn’t hate it, in fact he was curious and felt his lips lift into a smirk around his cigarette. He was curious about the man who sought him out, shook his hand two more times than he needed to, and despite Ilya’s coolness was nothing but warm. If Ilya’s reception was winter Hollander’s was summer. He wanted him to stay around a little longer just so he had something to observe. Hollander turned, and was halfway to the rink entrance when Ilya decided he had to say something to him. He was never one to miss an opportunity to remind others he was going to beat them, and he hadn't ever been close enough to Hollander to allow for shit talking. He was now and he wanted to see his reaction.

“You will not be so nice when we beat you” he said to his back, Ilya hated how his voice sounded and how no matter how he tried words with the letter W sounded like he was saying the letter V. Hollander would never do such a thing, his pretty mouth would say all the letters correctly. A different smile came over Hollander’s face that was more of a smirk than the friendliness from a moment ago.

“That’s not happening” he said with confidence, he said it almost like a laugh.

Ilya just raised an eyebrow and tilted his head as if to say, we’ll see. They would. It would come down to Russia vs Canada, and if either team had any sense Ilya and Hollander would be on the same shifts on the ice. Both teams would win their brackets and they’d surely be in the finals. Hollander was probably the only other player in the tournament aside from him who would go to sleep tonight knowing that regardless of what happened that he would be drafted.

“See you in final” Ilya said as Hollander continued towards the rink door and threw it open. The door closed behind him with a metallic groan and Ilya took a few more puffs before stomping the cigarette on the floor and jamming its cold corpse in his pocket. Ilya walked through the rink, the air was just warmer than it was outside. The smell was familiar, rubber. The Czech team was on the ice, running some kind of drill, their players had sloppy stick skills for the high levels of play that were supposed to be here.

Ilya headed for his locker room, he changed wordlessly, slipping his pads on and lacing his skates. His team wasn’t total shit, he’d grown up playing against or with most of them but they weren’t his caliber. He’d have to work hard to beat Canada, he’d have to score many goals, and he would. He didn’t bother wasting his breath on talking to anyone on his team unless they were on the ice, and when it was time, he jumped over the boards and let his skates glide him to center ice. The first few pushes always loosened the tension in his shoulders. He could breathe easy here, he controlled things here, the stick in his hand, how hard he hit someone, and the puck on the ice.

Practice was short, it wasn’t particularly hard. Well it wasn’t supposed to be. A walk through practice was typical for days with games. Ilya couldn’t help but hit his teammates anyway, and put in more effort than usual especially when during one of his coaches’ tirades he looked up into the plastic seats behind the goal and saw Hollander watching. An older woman who he assumed was his mother based on the family resemblance was talking to him passionately about something. Hollander wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at the ice Ilya was on, presumably watching him since he was the best on it. He felt the need to show off a bit. So he did.

Ilya’s coach yelled at him in Russian during a particularly long play explanation as his eyes wandered off to Hollander. He ran the stupid plays, and he flicked the puck under the top crossbar, the bottom corner, and in every other gap their shitty goalie left open. He chirped his own teammates because who else was there to say something to? They won their game that night easily.

*

One Week Later

Prospect Cup Finals

 

The finals hadn’t come quick enough. He was sick of his team, and he’d scored his way through the entire bracket to get to this game he could finally play against Hollander, perfect Hollander. Hollander scored more points in the tournament than he had, he had more goals and more assists. It was unacceptable and meant Ilya needed to win. Ilya hardly listened to whatever shit the coaches were saying, he didn’t need to listen to them he just needed to play. He knew more about hockey than they did.

He skated into center ice and stood lazily, leaning on his stick until Hollander met him at the dot. He was much wider in his pads, he oozed confidence but not arrogance. Hollander chewed on a mouth guard and skated in a small circle until the official met them in the center. Hollander crouched low into an athletic position, and his dark eyes met Ilya’s through their visors for a second before refocusing downwards. Hollander’s friendly smile was nowhere to be found, his face was only of focus and competition. The puck dropped, and Hollander skated away with it.

The game was good, it was their game. The others on the ice were mere supporting characters, it was a game of centers. Hollander ran his offence with a precision most professional players lacked, he read defenders before they moved, he saw lanes, and he sent passes where he wanted his teammates even if they didn’t know to be there yet. Hollander was quick, skillful, and he hustled on defense. He was a mature, intelligent player.

Ilya was all muscle, all grit, and pure speed. They were well matched, and for the first time in years of playing hockey, Ilya was challenged. During a shift change, he even had a stupid childish passing thought that he was having fun. Hollander for all his smiles off the ice never smiled once in the game. He celebrated with his team, he yelled and pumped his fist when he scored. He didn’t shy away from eye contact with Ilya. The intensity was intoxicating. They traded face off wins, goals, but by the end of the third period Russia had won. 4-3, all three goals for Canada were Hollander’s, two were Ilya’s with one assist. He was pleased they'd won, but he wanted to outscore Mr.Perfect. Ilya yanked the chin strap from his helmet off and let it dangle and flipped his glove off his hand. They lined up with their teams and he shook hands with average players who’d never make it out of minor leagues or wouldn’t be drafted at all. Hollander moved towards him, nodding and shaking hands, his perfect little mouth set in a firm tight line.

Ilya couldn’t help but grab his hand a little tighter than the others and hold onto it a little longer. “See you at the draft” he goaded and moved on to the next player. Ilya found himself looking forward to seeing him again. If only it was to beat him again and perhaps for other reasons as well.

*

Six Months Later
NHL Draft, Los Angeles

 

“With the first overall selection in the 2008 MHL draft, the Boston Raiders select, Ilya Rozanov”

It was just another thing he’d planned, there was never a doubt in his mind that he would be selected first. He was THE first of first round draft picks. The most talented, the most desirable. Although he planned it and it was always his, Ilya couldn’t help but to have a wide smile creep across his face. Maybe some people were betting on another name being read but it wasn’t another name, it was his.

His father nodded once at him, not in congratulations but in expectation. He’d watched enough drafts to know this was when you were supposed to hug your family after a dream was realized. Sometimes there were tears, love and pride were supposed to be a given. it's what was expected. It wouldn’t be happening for him and he wasted no time pretending it might.

Ilya climbed the stage, shook hands, and lifted the black and yellow jersey in front of his chest. Boston was scrappy and deep defensively with some holes in their offensive line he could fill. They were a team with a chip on their shoulder. He would force himself into the lineup and he wouldn’t leave until he wanted to. He stood on stage for the photos and introductions, and whatever short highlight clip reel they played about him overlaid with announcers evaluating his strengths. Ilya couldn’t help but look out into the audience of people sitting with his eyes scanning and hoping he’d see the look on Hollander’s face. He bet he was pissed off. Pretty perfect Hollander wasn’t number one.

Ilya didn’t have to wait long to see him, Hollander’s name was called next by the Montreal Metros and the camera found him in the audience in the embrace of family. The announcers said nicer things about him than they did about Ilya. He was a class act and comes from a great family. He is the pride of Canada, a potential franchise player who is older than his years overflowing with potential. A future captain. Hollander’s lips twitched into a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes, there was still plenty to look at on his pretty face, his red cheeks, and those beautiful god damned freckles.

Maybe it was the joy of one upping a rival, the only person who could hold a candle to Ilya’s skill, or maybe it was those freckles and eyes. Whatever the reason, Ilya’s pants tightened. He paid little to no attention after Hollander left the stage, returning to sit with his proud parents who were hugging him and smiling. Ilya sat quietly next to his father, and considered how opposite he and Hollander were. Ilya knew better than to wait for his praise as it would never come. His mother would have praised him, she would have kissed his head and twirled his curls around her finger and told him how proud of him she was. But she wasn’t here.

When the show was over, he, Hollander and the big goofy #3 draft pick were brought into the photo and interview room. Ilya grinned in his individual photos, and beamed in the group photo. Hollander was forced to stand next to him knowing Ilya was better. When the photographer asked the men to put up their fingers to show the order they were picked in, Ilya almost laughed with glee. He had a shit eating grin on his face with one finger in the air and glanced down at Hollander. He wasn’t smiling, his mouth was a flat line and he reluctantly raised two fingers. Ilya couldn’t help but look over at him, again and again and again. Maybe it was to taunt him or maybe it was to look at that gorgeous face.

The thing about highs like being drafted to the MHL, there was always a stupid stuffy party to bring back a low. He’d have to speak English much more now and there would be people in important positions, media, teammates, and coaches expecting him to say things correctly and communicate clearly. Hockey wasn’t difficult, but this part of it was, especially with his father here. Ilya would have to walk around like he had a stick under his suit keeping his spine ram rod straight, he’d have to be perfect, say the right thing always. His father preferred he say nothing, and even if he did that there would be corrections. The more public the better for his father for those corrections, he prefered to embarrass his son. Ilya and his father stood at a small table with a champagne glass in his hand as managers, coaches, and other Boston representatives passed through to shake his hand and express their excitement to have him. There were only so many smiles he could give and promises to make their pick worth it to them. This time next year, he’d be ending his last year of development and he’d be going to training camp in Boston.

Between representatives passing though, and his father’s conversation with them, Ilya couldn’t help but let his gaze wander. He was on higher ground on the second level and he was taller than most of the people here. He got to watch people move around, laugh, drink too much, and he watched like it was a zoo. But he didn’t care much about studying a pick that would never make it out of minors. His gaze was fixed downwards on Hollander in his tidy gray suit and perfectly cinched blue tie. It felt like he’d been staring for hours when Hollander looked up and met his eyes, just for a moment or two, his mouth was still in a thin line and his dark bangs rested on his forehead.

Ilya wanted to be in his mind, wanted to know what he was thinking. Did he hate himself? Did he hate him for taking his spot? Did he like Montreal? Did he wish he was sent to Boston? Hollander stood between his mother, a slender Asian woman in a nice dress and a fancy updo who seemed to be doing all of the talking, and a boring looking man in a suit who seemed to watch the conversation going on with a slightly open mouth but didn’t speak. Hollander looked bored, like he’d rather go skate suicides than be at this stupid party. A laugh from the representative from Boston pulled Ilya’s eyes away from Hollander and back to the conversation.

He said nice things about him, how strong Ilya was, how talented he was, the comments were all directed to his father. Ilya always hoped if others complimented him around his father, maybe his Dad would believe he was worth complimenting, it never happened. Ilya had a small smile on his lips, he didn’t need the validation, but it was nice to hear anyway.

“He is strong, but he needs discipline. He can be, how you say, lazy” his father’s words dropped the smile from his face.

His father saw compliments and achievements as a way to humble him and embarrass him in front of the organization that selected him. Ilya’s eyes narrowed, and disdain crept across his face. He wanted to lash out, to say all the things he thought and would embarrass his father like he’d embarrassed him. He wouldn’t, but the idea that someday he could let him stand quietly. He looked at the representative, he didn’t even remember his name. He gave Ilya reassuring smile, eyes pacing between Ilya and his father as if trying to understand the dynamic. Good luck, he thought.

“I find that hard to believe given the way he plays,” the man said with levity.

Ilya was required to defend himself, “I promise to work very hard for you” he told the man, who agreed with a pleased nod.

His father wasted no time admonishing him in Russian and telling him to stop speaking. He looked forward to the day that his father was thousands of miles away, being miserable somewhere else where it wasn’t Ilya’s problem.

After the stupid party, they went to a dinner with the Boston reps that went late, he spoke very little, he listened. He ached to go back to the hotel and find some kind of release and to avoid his father at all costs. He considered walking through the hotel lobby and going to the bar and finding some much older woman and fucking her until he felt better. But it wasn’t a woman he wanted to fuck until he felt better. No, his mind was on a #2 draft pick in a fancy suit.

Ilya decided to do bike sprints and maybe a quick lift, it would relieve some tension. He yanked off his tie and glanced at the clock on the bedside table, 11:03 at night. He hated wearing suits all day, he looked good in a suit though. He threw his clothes into a pile on the chair in the corner of the room and pulled on his workout clothes. The hotel had a small gym, nothing too impressive. It had free weights and a pair of exercise bikes that were empty last night around the same time. Ilya pushed open the gym door and stopped in the doorway, Hollander was there on a bike. He had headphones in and the wire swung in the space between his face and the bike.

He was in a tight undershirt that hugged his muscular arms and was tight on his stomach. His physique was good, great even, but that wasn’t what made Ilya suck in a breath. Hollander was leaning over his bike chin to his chest with his ass firmly planted in the seat, his back was flat like a table, and his forearms extended in front of him and rested on the bike handles. It was a pose of submission, and it was a fucking turn on. With a small roll of his hips from Ilya's hand, Hollander would be on all fours for him, and Ilya could be behind him plunging into him. His face was scrunched up from effort and he was breathing heavy.

Perfect Hollander, bent over for him, now that was something worthy of release. He wanted it badly. Ilya always liked trouble. He felt the most alive when he knew he was about to do something stupid, he didn’t feel so empty. Doing something risky was arousing, and it made his blood pump. What was more exciting and risky than fucking the only person who could compete with you at the MHL draft?

Ilya wanted to best Hollander in every way, especially in this way, he wanted to make those perfect lips whine, cry even. He wanted Hollander on his knees in front of him as Ilya played him like a marionette doll, and he wanted those lips on him and eyes on his as he swallowed around him. He adjusted himself in his shorts and strode towards the empty bike no less than two feet from Hollander. Ilya climbed on the bike and started spinning. Hollander glanced up at him for a moment and improved his posture. Ilya peddled at a speed just ever so quicker than Hollander’s, he adjusted the resistance and peddled faster. He didn’t miss Hollander’s glance over to his face and then down to the resistance knob, he twisted the knob on his own bike and pedaled faster.

They continued this dance, small glances at the other, faster pedaling, the bike turned to max resistance. Hollander’s breath was coming fast in tired pants at the exertion, and if Ilya closed his eyes it could have been sounds of sex. He wished it was. Ilya’s legs ached and his own breaths came fast, his mother’s pendant smacked against his chest and bounced as he rocked on the bike. Ilya couldn’t help the smile on his face as Hollander glanced at him again, clearly as tired as he was. They both went into a rest position, Ilya lifted his arms above his head for maximum recovery as Hollander’s found his own hips. He found the brief workout did just what he was hoping, relieved some tension and got his mind off things. He’d gotten his mind stuck totally on something else, the panting man next to him. Hollander pushed himself off of the bike and let himself collapse to the floor while he breathed hard.

Ilya followed, and grabbed his water bottle. Hollander’s face was flushed all over, his usually neat hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and his well defined chest rose and fell from the exertion. Ilya sat on the floor across from him. He was tired of being next to Hollander, near Hollander. He wanted to be across from him, so they’d have to look at each other. Ilya’s focus was laser, he barely felt himself blink. He didn’t want to blink, he didn’t want to miss it if a flash of interest passed over Hollander’s face or if anything was there to encourage him to do something very stupid and reckless. Hollander’s legs were pulled up towards his chest and Ilya extended his legs out into his personal space, crowding him. Ilya had tested others before, other players, trying to decipher if they were willing to fool around with him if they also quietly liked men. Nobody liked having their space crowded unless they wanted more. It was a delicate and risky game. Hollander made no move. Ilya let out a loud whoop that echoed in the small room at their exertion. He hadn’t pedaled that fast at that high resistance maybe ever, he imagined how much harder he could work if Hollander was always at the bike or squat rack next to him.

“What a fucking day ha?” Ilya asked through a huff of a breath, too Russian sounding, not refined enough.

“Yes totally” was Hollander’s reply, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was too agreeable, his eyes were glazed over. Ilya took a squeeze of water from his bottle.

“Is everything you dreamed of?” he asked with a smirk on his face. He knew the answer of course. No, it wasn’t, nobody who was like them dreamed of being number 2.

“Almost” Hollander said, a drip of sweat from his hairline went down his nose and over all of those god damned freckles. He had the desire to lick the drop with his tongue.
He couldn’t help the jab.

“I’m sorry” Ilya told him in the least sincere way possible and couldn’t help but smirk. To his credit, Hollander did not get angry, he chuckled a breath more than a laugh and showed his perfect teeth. Ilya noticed Hollander never fully laughed, it was always a half breath out.

“No you’re not” Hollander said, Ilya took a long draw of his water bottle as his eyes assessed Hollander.

“Montreal is, is nice yes?” he asked. He didn't want Hollander to suffer in some city that was horrible.

“Yea, it’s awesome” Hollander replied, Ilya wondered if he’d be honest with him if it wasn’t or if he wasn’t pleased to go there. Ilya didn’t know much about north american cities aside from the ones he’d trained in or attended camps at. Even then, Ilya was never a tourist, he saw the inside of gyms and rinks.

“Boston is nice too?”, Ilya’s question was the most sincere he’d been with Hollander. He didn’t know much about the city he'd be living in for years.

“Think so, people like it there” Hollander said. Ilya looked at the white form fitting shirt that hugged Hollander’s neck and the ring of wet sweat that bled into the fabric. His throat swallowed hard. A few beats of silence passed between them.

“We will uh, we will be seeing each other a lot” Ilya thought about it as soon as Hollander’s name was called by the Metros. They were in the same conference, they would see each other at least twice a season, and likely in playoffs.

“Yeah, Boston and Montreal play against each other often” Hollander said, Ilya took a long drink of water and didn’t miss as Hollander’s eyes skated down his body, his neck, to his chest, to his spread legs. Ilya didn’t look away, he watched the concentration and interest in Hollander’s dark eyes. He felt a flash of excitement. Was the perfect pretty boy interested in a little trouble too?

He extended his hand out holding the bottle, he selfishly wanted to see Hollander’s lips close around the top and suck water from where his mouth just was. Hollander waved him off to decline it, but Ilya shook the bottle. Ilya smiled, a rare smile of encouragement and from smelling blood in the water. A small twitch of his lips from Hollander was followed by his hand reaching for the bottle. He liked that Hollander was easily convinced, easy to control. He wondered where that good temperament would end or if he’d keep it elsewhere.

He placed the bottle in his hand, intentionally and slowly dragging his fingers across his and watched his reaction carefully. He didn’t jump, he didn’t make a face, he didn’t try to leave or fill the silence. Ilya dragged his hands back to his center over his legs, letting them come to rest on his own inner thighs where his shorts rode up. Hollander took a squeeze of water and held eye contact before his eyes seemed to skim his body again. To Ilya’s disappointment, he only squirted the water in his mouth.

All the usual charge of sexual tension was zipping between them. If there was one thing Ilya knew aside from hockey, it was sex. Ilya should be celebrating somewhere with friends or family tonight, but he didn’t have either of any significance. His life felt like it was owned by everyone else, but not this. Sex and the pursuit of it was something that was his to control. Ilya wanted to control Hollander, he wanted it bad. So he kept testing.

“More” he mouthed to Hollander, and was pleased when he listened, drinking more water before passing the bottle back. Ilya made a point again to let his fingers drag over his hot skin. He took a long sip from the bottle and maintained eye contact with Hollander, winking at him which seemed to be the only thing that got under his skin. Hollander smiled, just a small upwards twitch of his lips before he got up and left the gym saying goodnight. The smile was small, but enough that it was the last thing Ilya thought of later that night before he finished down the shower drain. Nothing happened that night between them but Ilya knew it would, it was just a matter of time and he liked the chase.

*

Six Months Later
Ottawa, Ontario
International Prospect’s Cup
January 2010

Ottawa was cold, it was boring, and his hotel room was shitty. It was some crappy chain with stained carpeted floors and a musty smell that seemed to be in everything. He didn’t care, he was barely spending any time there except to sleep and shower. He’d thought about leaving and finding a better room now that he could pay for one, but he wasn’t allowed to leave the team hotel. The other players didn’t have a signing bonus like he had. Ilya should have been happy. The freedom he’d been aching for was in arms reach. Distance from his family was nearly there, money so he could be self reliant was waiting in his account, and women loved hearing he was going to be a professional athlete and threw themselves at him. They were all nice things, yes, but he didn’t want to be alone really. He wanted to be in a room with people who actually cared about him, not his money, clothes, talent, potential or body. Him.

It was his last prospect cup. He’d be in Boston in a matter of months, maybe he’d feel better then.

He was alone, it was comfortable. The TV in the hotel room was showing New York City crowds dancing to music and celebrating the new year. This would be the year he scored his first goals as a professional athlete, and would win rookie of the year. His cellphone vibrated on the bedside table, nearly jumping off the table. There were only a few people who even had his cellphone number, and only two people ever really called him. He lifted the screen and read the name in Cyrillic with a sigh, his father was calling him endlessly. Surely wanting a report of statistics and to criticize Ilya’s game earlier that day. His father loved to critique him. He’d never been a star hockey player, what the fuck did he know?

He declined the call, the third that day and before he could even put his phone down his brother’s name flashed as the next caller. While Ilya was the son of his mother Irina, his brother Alexei was the son of his father. Alexei followed his father’s every order and wish, he was a carbon copy of him. He followed his father’s career choices. He was abusive, loud, believed in authority and rules, and believed those rules never applied to him. Alexei married a woman much too nice for him, and Ilya had a pit in his stomach on her behalf. It was like watching a film he’d seen before when he saw Alexei’s kind wife fade into the background like his mother had before she died.

He understood why his brother acted like he did and to an extent couldn't fault him for it. If you were perfect or as close to it- you missed the beatings, and the diminishing words. Alexei was older, he had to find a way to survive growing up, but he never grew out of his impression of their father. Alexei was just as demanding and critical of his younger brother as their Dad. Especially now. Jealousy was always something that was obvious in Alexei’s treatment of Ilya. Ilya was a natural talent, he was attractive, and he was getting out of Russia. For all of Alexei’s schemes and parroting their father, it gave him his approval but it didn’t make him happy.

The phone only ever rang when they needed something from him, money, or someone to take their anger out on. Ilya accepted the call with a sigh, wondering which one it would be today. He didn’t have to wait long to find out it was both. He sighed, and asked his brother what was going on and why their Dad was calling him repeatedly. Alexei started with pleasantries, he always did when he was about to ask for something. It was more insulting that way, he thought Ilya was that stupid to be manipulated so easily. Ilya repeated his question when his brother ignored it, loud pounding music was behind his brother’s voice. No doubt he was at some party, getting drunk, snorting cocaine, and probably cheating on his wife and gambling away Ilya’s money.

“Cause you lost a fucking hockey game, idiot” his brother reminded him. They had, they’d lost to an inferior Czech team, they shouldn’t have lost. Ilya played well but their defenders sucked. It was why he was screening his father’s calls to begin with. Ilya let out a breath as laughter in the background of his brother’s call taunted him. So fucking what? He lost one game. What was Alexei doing with his life that made him so much better?

“What the fuck do you want from me Alexei?” he asked in Russian, enough of the small talk. His brother wasted no time asking for money, he had no shame. No care, just expectation. He didn’t care that this was money Ilya earned from blood and sweat and years of making his body into a machine made to play hockey. He didn’t care that Ilya had already blown through tens of thousands of dollars of his signing bonus that was meant to give him padding to start his life in America. Instead it went to his father, his useless stepmother, and his shithead brother. He told him it was gone, his brother responded by calling him a faggot.

Ilya felt his blood pressure jump, it was such a common snipe in the hockey world. He’d heard it all his life, and he accepted it and he never took it to heart. Ilya liked women and he liked men. The word didn’t offend him, but it was like a knife from his brother. He knew that his father and brother didn’t know of his sexual relationships with men. If they had, Ilya could very well be dead or jailed somewhere. Only he and the men he’d slept with knew that side of him. The suggestion from Alexei was to get under his skin, and it did, but not for the reason his brother wanted it to. His own family would sell him out in a second if they knew.

“Go fuck yourself” Ilya responded and ended the call. No sooner than his hand hitting the bed did his phone start ringing again. His father, again. He huffed a breath of annoyance and answered. They were his only living family and as much as they hated him, he couldn’t help the desire for connection. His father said all the things he expected, he criticized, demanded, told Ilya all the things he needed to do that he knew already.

*

One Week Later

The Gold Medal rematch of Russia and Canada was something Ilya could hardly contain himself for. It was another opportunity to see Hollander, play against him, and see how hard he could push himself on the ice. Ilya found himself thinking more than he cared to admit about Hollander and that night in the hotel gym. He thought about it while he was jerking off, when he was inches deep into his coaches son, or when a woman’s lips closed around him. They had barely touched that night, and it was somehow more devastating than if they had. His memory didn’t do him justice. Hollander was pretty. Not in a feminine way, in a delicate masculine way. Hollander was appealing to Ilya in more than one way, which nearly never happened. He wanted to play against him every day, and he wanted to fuck him the rest of it. Hollander met his eyes at the first face off with a hardened stare. There were no lingering looks through panted breaths or charged sexual humming between them here, only competition.

It became very clear in the second period whose game it was, and it wasn’t Russia’s. He and Hollander were trading faceoff wins, with Hollander winning more. He moved with such professional ease and composure. Ilya got some massive hits in his own rite, but his goaltender couldn’t stop Hollander and his defense couldn’t keep up. When the final horn sounded he was left with disappointment. He’d lost, again, and it hurt more as he watched Hollander skate into the handshake line with a small smile on his face. That smile broadened until it flashed teeth when he saw Ilya.

“See you in October” he said, that friendly smile and voice back. If he wasn’t so pissed, he might have smirked, clearly Hollander had remembered Ilya said something similar that last time he’d beaten him. Being in proximity to Hollander only made his competition with him flare and his interest. Ilya skated off the ice with the realization he didn’t want to wait for their first professional game in October.

*

August
Boston Hockey Complex
Training Camp

The October that he expected never came. Ilya was in the middle of Boston’s training camp in the summer on the bench during a short break when at least ten cellphones all chirped loudly with an ESPN update.

“No fucking way” one of the guys said, Ilya looked over at him while he adjusted the tape around his stick. He was a younger guy, the one with horrible stick handling but he was fast. Ilya knew he wouldn’t make it out of training camp.

“What?” one of the other guys asked.

“Shane Hollander” the guy holding the phone gasped, his eyes wide.

“Hollander what?” Ilya heard himself demand, moving to his feet. The idiot looked up at him with his mouth open and said nothing.

“Oh shit” one of the other players said.

“Montreal Metros have released Shane Hollander after Hollander suffered serious injuries during training camp” one of the players read off of the phone. Ilya felt like he’d swallowed lead.

Chapter 2: We Meet (Again?)

Chapter Notes

Please suspend your disbelief. I'm not gonna do a million hours of doctor research sorry queens. I'm also not gonna make Shane 45 so he can be a doctor and the timeline makes sense. This is about vibes people. Enjoy the vibes, or don't.

Twelve Years Later
Boston, MA
June

Shane Hollander was used to waking up feeling stiff, he was used to searing his skin with a heating pad so he could sleep. It was part of the game, it was part of chronic back pain. He was getting old. He was about to turn thirty two, and he felt like he’d spent every minute of his life from six years old to today throwing himself into things.

At six, he met his first love, hockey. Hockey was fast, it was fun, it was risky. It demanded speed, energy, balance, and strategy. Even for a six year old child, Hockey organized his disrupted brain like no other hobbies did. He stayed up watching games at night, he nearly went hypothermic in the winters from being outside all day skating on the pond and pushing a puck around. Shane Hollander didn’t do things half assed. By the time he was twelve he was on Olympic development teams and traveling around Canada and the USA for tournaments. He was home schooled because his schedule wouldn’t allow for public school. At fourteen he had his first American college scholarship offer. He declined of course, he was going straight to the league after juniors.

Shane’s internal dialogue was loud, too loud all the time. It told him everything needed to be clean, perfect, in line. The only time it shut off was on the ice. As he got older what was initially a strong preference for something being done one way became a requirement. He couldn’t sleep if his clothes were sitting in the dryer wrinkling, his shoes had an order they needed to be in one inch away from the other pair alternating heel toe, he had to eat the exact amount of calories for his height and weight daily, if he didn’t do the same thing before every practice or game something bad would happen. Tape wrapped the end of his stick exactly four times, and it should overlap the width of his fingernail. If it didn't, he'd rip it off and do it again.

He loved hockey, he was exceptional at it, and he loved practicing and working out, he didn’t mind sacrificing “normal” things like dating and normal friends. They were all obstacles for hockey. He was fast, smart, talented, and he worked his ass off. The tiny and possibly cray rituals that made people look at him speculatively worked.

It’s hard to realize certain behaviors are bad for you when they work, and your life is perfect. Back then, with a fat contract waiting for him and his professional dreams in reach everything in Shane’s life was working for him. He was drafted and it was the best day of his life, even as the second pick. He was going to be in Canada, he was going to be near his parents, he was going to live his life doing what he loved.

It’s funny, even when you’re doing everything right, taking all precautions and following all the little rituals your head tells you to do or something bad will happen, bad shit still happens. It was a lesson he wished he learned elsewhere in life, but it was a reminder that the control he believed he had over every single thing in his life was a farce. It was week two of training camp in Montreal, Shane had signed his contract the night before with a smile and with a signature he'd practiced a few hundred times the night before. Training camp cuts were being made that day, he’d already made the team and signed on the dotted line. Now it was about proving his worth and battling for ice time.

Shane was chasing a puck behind the cage, a simple thing he'd done a thousand times. Only this time a player who was due to get cut in hours and would never play a minute of major league time leveled him from behind. He never saw it coming. His back was to the net, he was facing the boards and barely knew what hit him. Shane woke up in a Montreal hospital sometime later with his mother sobbing next to him and his Dad with tears in his eyes. Shane’s back was broken, well, fractured in four places, he’d suffered a severe concussion and lost consciousness. He can’t remember much about his hospital stay, only how he was still blinking the medicated sleep from his eyes when the Montreal Metros released him. He found out the same time everyone else did, from a fucking tweet. They knew before he did that his career was over.

He tried, he really tried to come back. He did all the physical therapy he could. He went in for surgery, he got injections, he tried traditional Chinese medicine. He got his fucking energy cleansed- whatever that meant. He'd even went to Church. Someone had to help him, hockey was what he was meant to do. He’d do anything to get him back to what he loved, the only thing that quieted him. The answer was always no. The answer was always that if he took one more hit that it could be the one that paralyzed him or killed him. Without hockey in his life, his life was too loud. His ears rang, his body felt wrong. The plan that was so clear, dissipated like burnt paper after a camp fire.

He was a disaster that whole year. Every time he thinks about it he sends a text to his parents to apologize. He refused for a year to accept what all the doctors said, every single one. From first opinion to the twelfth. He was in excruciating pain, he couldn’t sit for more than five minutes, couldn’t stand up without help, even with the endless cycle of drugs he was suffering.

Shane was tired of hurting, and trying and hoping, and being disappointed. Shane mourned hockey like it was the love of his life who’d died. After thirteen months of trying, Shane went in for the surgery that would make it so that he could never play hockey at a high level again and would alleviate some of his pain. His spine was fused in his lower back in more places than it wasn’t, his body wasn’t the well oiled machine he’d built anymore. He kept his athleticism and some of his muscle tone, but it was different now. He was athletic, he wasn’t an athlete.

Shane slowly was forced to realize that he had nothing aside from his family left in his life. Any friends he had were made by proximity to the sport and were gone now. He wasn’t dating, he didn’t have a job. He had nothing of substance to offer. He was just a normal guy now, but worse than normal he was just empty. Shane in a lot of ways was very very lucky, if Montreal had waited even 24 hours to have Shane sign his contract, he would have been flipping burgers for money while he figured his life out. But Shane had signed, and he was given millions by the Metros with an injury clause that let him keep it all. It felt like robbing a store and leaving your ID behind so they know who did it. He felt guilty over it.

He mulled around his parents house for the first time in his life unsure what to do. He started small, he paid his parent’s mortgage. They’d suffered through so much for him, and they deserved something. Next, he bought a used Toyota Corolla, it was normal and reliable. Like him. Then he started applying for colleges. Shane was always smart, school came easy to him, but school wasn’t necessary for what he was planning on doing. He’d taken entrance exams at his mother’s insistence, and it was how he ended up in America for college. Shane attended UCLA, a prestigious school that didn’t have a men’s ice hockey team in America. He was moving on, but it wasn’t like he needed more reminders of what could have been. He was good in school, he was slow to make friends and to relate to people, he worked hard over the summer and took enough classes to graduate in three years. He was able to run slowly, do low impact exercise, and train weights. It wasn’t how it used to be, but it afforded him a few hours of normalcy. Shane went to his first party ever his sophomore year after making some friends. He drank alcohol until he threw up and took a hit off of a joint like people did in the movies. He passed out drunk in the wrong dorm and he woke up feeling like he didn’t know himself, and he didn’t. All the things he was putting on the back burner to hockey boiled over. He was forced to be normal, to be average instead of elite.

Shane learned things about himself that may otherwise have taken twenty years for him to deal with if he was still playing hockey.

First- Shane was different from people his age. He didn’t get nuances. Some jokes went over his head. He didn’t make friends as easily and it took him time to trust people. With a mutual goal of winning and playing together gone, he didn’t relate to people who were normal like he was now. When he did make friends, he’d take a bullet for them. The psychologist he started seeing after his injury said it was part of being on the autism spectrum. It didn’t mean he was wrong or broken or needed to be fixed, just that his brain processed information differently. That would have been news if he was in the league. An autistic Asian hockey player. Shane would have hidden it to be perfect, he didn’t need to now.

Second, Shane really liked being unknown and mostly unnoticed. There were many years he was the center of attention everywhere he went. He was the goal scorer, the Canadian prospect, the future of hockey. There were journalist quotes, brand deals he had to abide by. So so much all the time when he was playing. Shane liked wearing an Under Armour shirt with Nike pants without giving his mother an aneurysm. He liked walking to class and nobody looking twice at him.

Third, Shane was gay, very very very gay. He’d made out with three girls at a party and instead went home with a guy that night. His first time was bumbling. It was messy, but it was hot, and it felt right. Nobody cared. Nobody gave a shit that he wanted to fuck guys. A few months solidified that he wasn't curious or bisexual. He was gay. He told his parents when he went home for thanksgiving break and they hugged him and said they loved him. There was no reason to hide being gay now. If he was playing hockey he would have been the trifecta of chirps- gay, Asian, and autistic.

Fourth, Shane learned that he could love again, and he did. He was too knowledgeable about the human body and athletics to not put it to use somewhere. He took an anatomy class his freshman year and within two classes decided he was going to be a surgeon. It made sense. He was a competitive guy, he wanted perfection. He’d heard medicine was competitive. He thought of the orthopedic surgeon who worked for the Metros and how they’d talked hockey through his surgical consultation and remembered being impressed with his knowledge of the game and his honesty when it came to his questions. Shane didn’t have to hate hockey or forget it existed, he just couldn’t be at the puck drop. He could be around the game and help players who were like him get back to what they loved.

He was reinvigorated, and because he was Shane Hollander, he did everything he could to be the best normal guy ever. Shane applied to medical school. He worked, he interned with a professional football team. He dated, with never anything really serious. He saw his parents and he finally got where he wanted to be. He accepted a job as the one of the team doctors for the Boston Red Sox and had moved to Boston last season.

Baseball was a grueling sport, grueling to watch really. A single game took forever. Nothing happened, sometimes people ran, sometimes they threw. There was no contact and no passion. One game like that every few weeks he could live with, but baseball teams played a ridiculous amount of games. He operated on ten torn labrums, he gave out ice packs. It was routine, he wasn’t happy.

Shane rolled out of bed, trying not to disturb the man sleeping in the bed next to him and went to his feet. He'd seen him a few times, but it wasn't going anywhere. Shane definitely wouldn't have invited him over last night if he wasn't tipsy and teetering towards drunk. He tried not to audibly sigh, he didn't like having people over. He'd have to clean the rest of the day to feel normal again.

His clock’s blocky letters read 02:04 in the morning. Shane’s sleep was all messed up all the time now, road games and travel made a normal night’s sleep impossible. Shane stretched and heard more than felt a loud pop in his back. He sighed and padded out of the bedroom and down the hall into the gym. He went to the mat on the floor and stretched before falling into various yoga poses for a few minutes until he felt looser and his body wasn’t protesting movement anymore.

Shane flicked on the TV he’d mounted on the wall and hopped onto the rowing machine, he put on ESPN and watched some highlights. Shane was divorced from hockey, but he still loved it.

He kept up with the games, players, and people he played with when he was young. Some of them got better, some disappeared like he did. Shane always kept tabs on Ilya Rozanov. Maybe it was because he was the only person to ever really beat him, or maybe it was that moment in the hotel gym that was his homosexual awakening where he was finally noticing how much he really did like guys. Or maybe it was the fact that he had everything Shane wanted, and yet he played the game like he didn’t care about it.

Ilya Rozanov dominated the league, nobody could hold a candle to him. He’d won nearly every award, he was plastered in sponsorship all over Boston. Yet that spark, that something that made it so Shane couldn’t look away from him those times they met on the ice and leaned down to fight for the puck was missing. Not missing- it was gone. Nobody else commented on it, no announcers, there were no think pieces. Maybe it was all in Shane’s head or maybe he just saw something other people didn't.

Shane knew what he was capable of, so when he saw him half-assing it in games it pissed him off. Shane had to tell himself to calm down and that it wasn’t a personal attack on him. Ilya Rozanov wouldn’t remember him, didn’t care about him, and wasn’t attacking him through his laziness. Shane was just taking things personally.

Shane worked out and then headed back to his room. He slid in his room quietly and jumped in the shower in preparation for another long day, and long it was. That evening it was cold in the dugout, but the jacket he liked to wear needed to air dry longer. He’d rather die than wear a damp jacket and the cleaning instructions said not to tumble dry. He hated that, so he was cold instead. He stared vacantly out onto the field.

“Hey Doc” Shane looked up from the end of the dug out and blinked tiredly at one of the athletic trainers who’d become a friend. Another reason he fucking hated baseball, the games were so slow on rough days he could fall asleep standing up. Shane blinked a few times until Hayden’s face came into view.

“Yeah” he said weakly.

“I heard about something you might be interested in” he said, walking down the line. Shane blinked, Shane had mentioned one time to a trainer last year that he liked taping ankles and thought it was fun. He’d probably taped three thousand ankles now because of that comment, and hated it now. They all thought it was funny to make him do it and pitch it to him like it was a special treat.

“If you say there’s another ankle to tape I will beat myself over the head with one of those bats” he replied.

Hayden laughed and it lit up his whole face, he was a good guy. He’d been to his and his wife’s house a few times, they were good people. Hayden was considered a friend. He was a genuinely happy guy, supportive, funny.

“Nah dude” he laughed, “You do it to yourself. You’re too nice. You’re the only MD in the country that won’t pull the doctor card and make us do something you’re over qualified for” Hayden told him.

It was true. Shane had worked around a lot of those guys, the ones who you could only refer to as doctor and refused to do anything they saw as beneath them. Shane hated taping ankles, but if that’s what he could do to contribute to the team while he was waiting for someone to tear a rotator cuff so be it. The team mindset and sacrificial self never quite left Shane.

“Surgeon, that’s the best kind of doctor” he corrected, a smirk on his face, joking.

“Finally, some fucking confidence from you” Hayden said slapping his shoulder. They both glanced out to the field as another foul ball was hit. Shane quietly muttered a curse under his breath.

“I’ll never understand this game” Shane said quietly so none of the team overheard him.

“It’s because you’re Canadian, you don’t get America. Baseball is in our DNA” Hayden replied, grabbing Shane’s shoulder and shaking it. Shane swatted his hand away.

“So do you want to know what I have to say or what?” Hayden ribbed. Shane just nodded. “My friend is a trainer for the Raiders, they’re adding another team doctor. I guess their other one is old and isn’t traveling with the team. They want to take on a young new hire that wants to hang around for a while” Hayden said.

Shane snapped his head towards his friend, he grinned at Shane. “He said one of the staff heard you were working with the Sox, had a good rep and wanted to know if you’d apply. They’re interested in your background” Hayden said in a sing songy way.

Shane’s brain was not always skilled at processing new information. It was like a computer that was thinking too hard but you clicked and jammed keys anyway and demanded it to execute its task. He looked towards the bench and saw one of the players packing his lip full of tobacco.

“Jones spit that shit out, now” Shane called to the rookie. Jones looked up at Shane and his eyes got wide.

“It’s bad for you. Cancer. Death” he called out, the kid spit it out and gave a weak wave. Shane rolled his eyes, he never understood smoking and chewing tobacco. It was fucking stupid.

“Shane, did you even hear what I said?” Hayden asked. He looked out onto the field and the bright overhead lights, the players standing around motionless waiting for something to happen.

“Yeah, I heard” Shane wanted to ask more, he wanted to be excited but there were too many roadblocks.

He was very young and compared to most surgeons inexperienced, it was a miracle he was even with the Sox. He didn’t know if he was stable enough to be around it all again and not steal someone’s skates and helmet and try to go play. The last thing that stuck in his brain wasn’t so much of a hurdle as it was something that made his pulse jump, Ilya Rozanov played for Boston.

Shane spent longer than he cared to admit analyzing their interactions a decade ago and trying to answer the question- was Ilya Rozanov gay or just really European with poor boundaries? Was he imagining all that sexual tension back then?

“So?” Hayden asked.

“Send me whatever info you have” Shane said with a sigh.

“You make it sound like you’re being held at gun point buddy, its your dream job. Be positive” Hayden said shaking his head.

“I don’t do positive” he replied, crossing his arms over his zip up sweater with the team logo embroidered over the chest.

“Jackie wants to know if you want to come over for the game on Sunday, Pats are playing the Saints. You can bring that guy you’re seeing” Hayden offered, tossing a squeeze bottle to one of the players who had just run off the field.

“Which one” Shane asked, he didn’t mean it to sound as it did. Shane was playing the field, like the dumb game in front of him. His schedule wasn’t conducive to having a boyfriend, and he hadn’t found anyone that stuck.

“You whore” Hayden fake gasped. “I thought you’d seen that one guy a couple times, like dating not just grindr shit” Hayden said quietly. Shane raised an amused eyebrow at his friend and rolled his eyes and focused on their pitcher. The pitcher was wincing a little too hard. Baseball was so dumb, pitchers basically dislocated their arms every time they threw and then came up to him after asking why it hurt.

“Garcia is wincing again” Hollander said under his breath.

“I can get him in for some cupping, and fascia scraping. Can you swing some cortisone before the road trip?” Hayden asked.

“No can do, he’s already had eight shots this season. I’m not gonna keep shooting him up when he needs surgical intervention” Hollander said simply. “At least not until the GM yells at me” he said under his breath. It was something Shane knew about elite level sports. There was doctor’s orders and then what the doctor was ordered to do by the team he was employed by. Shane pushed back when he could, he was there to balance helping the player and keeping them healthy long term. He didn’t mind a fight with a manager.

“They should give Johnson a chance anyway, he’s young and healthy and can throw. They need to mix something up this season anyway. Not like it could get much worse” Hayden said quietly.

“How’s school going” Shane asked Hayden.

“Good, I’m just beat dude, between classes all day and then home games I’m dragging” Hayden said with a sigh. Hayden was working on his physical therapy doctorate and working with the Sox for his clinical hours. “Jackie’s getting pretty sick of it too” he said quietly.

“You’re almost done, few more months” Shane said, jabbing him with his elbow.

“I know” Hayden said with a grin, “Jackie said when I graduate we can start trying” Hayden told him.

“Trying for what?” Shane asked, looking out on the field.

“God you’re so gay sometimes, trying for like a kid” Hayden laughed. Shane rolled his eyes good naturedly.

“Ew” Shane joked. “I love you buddy but I don’t want to hear anything about that. I’m going to go get a head start in the training room. Tell Jackie I’ll be there on Sunday” Shane said and slipped back into the underbelly of the stadium.

 

Montreal Metros at Boston Raiders
TD Garden
October

Ilya tossed his skates off and put on slides and bounced his head to the thumping rap music in the locker room. He remembered when a game day was what he lived for. He used to not be able to sleep, and would spend the whole night just waiting. There was something about playing under the lights, the roar of the crowd, the fun of shit talking and besting everyone he could. Ilya fought, climbed, worked his ass off until he was the best. It wasn’t as far of a climb as he thought. He was at the top and there was no doubt about it. He’d just resigned his contract with Boston, and he had the highest NHL contract in the league.

He had the highest points, goals, and assists last year, he won the MVP for the fifth year straight. Ilya was not exactly a planner. He didn’t think about five years from now, he was impulsive and thought about what he wanted today. Today, sitting in the locker room pre-game against Boston’s rival, he should be wanting to get on the ice and destroy. Instead, he found himself really wanting to go home.

Somewhere along the way, this thing that he loved so much became a job. He put on skates like they were loafers, his pads like slacks, and he carried his stick like it was a briefcase. There wasn’t anything new, there was no challenge it was a 9 to 5 job. He could score two goals a night without trying very hard. They won cups, it was expected. It was lonely up top.

Hockey the thing he loved was overtaken by other people in his life, hockey to his brother was a guaranteed pay check, when his father was alive it was a reason to criticize him. Ilya had picked a sport that was tough on his body, punishing even. Ilya wondered if that was intentional, if he chose a sport professionally where he was battered because he thought it was what he deserved. He glanced over his shoulder at his teammates who were laughing and yelling about fucking Montreal up. Maybe if he wasn't so empty and so sad he might laugh with them. He was his mother's son after all. He knew he looked like her, he had her curly hair and smile. He’d stolen enough pictures from Russia before leaving that he knew that for sure and that it wasn't a memory he'd distorted because he wanted to share anything with her. Ilya sad like she was, it went through seasons. Sometimes it was there in the background like a bug bite that needed itching every few minutes, and sometimes it was a freezing blanket keeping him stuck to his bed. Hockey used to be a reprieve from that, it wasn’t anymore. His life was empty, his schedule was full of something that didn’t feed him. Nothing really did anymore.

Alcohol used to be fun but it made him feel worse and invited the depression in and made it stay. Fucking, lots of fucking... used to get his mind off things and give some kind of release. But Ilya was performing, he was saying things he knew people wanted to hear without meaning it, and acting. Ilya left his home country, and lived in America. He had nobody here. Svetlana moved to California for some business a few years back and he felt that distance even if they talked over the phone now and again. Ilya had nobody waiting at home for him, nobody to talk to about how things actually were for him. He wondered if this is how his mother felt, and why he wasn’t enough for her to stay.

He tugged on a compression shirt, ignoring the screaming pain in his ribs and smoothed his mother’s cross over his neck. He pulled on a performative smile and slapped the backs of some of his teammates as he made his way out of the locker room and down the tunnel. This was just another part of the routine, morning skate, rest, evening skate to loosen up, training room if he was hurting, game warm ups, game, score, win, press. Go home to a quiet cold house.

Ilya had bruised some of his ribs on a road trip game a week or so ago and kept irritating the injury. He shuffled into the large room with his head down, “John I come to cook, heat please” he groaned and flung himself onto one of the padded tables and laid flat on his back, his head hitting the table with a thunk.

“Well hi Rozy, nice to see you too” John chirped back from behind him.

“I got it” another voice said. Ilya looked up at the ceiling and blinked at the fluorescent lights.

“Where do you want it” the voice asked quietly. “The heat” the voice added.

Ilya sighed low and deep. The training team knew his injury. Why was he wasting his breath? Ilya lifted his head and turned to the source of the noise and blinked. It wasn’t the training team, it was, no, why would it be? Was that?

Shane Hollander stood in front of him in a deep blue quarter zip sweater with a crisp collared shirt poking out the top, charcoal slacks and leather shoes. He had black rimmed glasses on. He’d grown up since he’d seen him last, they both had of course. Hollander still had those bright eyes that pinned him to the table and those fucking freckles, but he was less boyish and decidedly a man. Ilya blinked again in surprise and a small smile lifted Hollander’s lips.

There were a few beats of silence as Ilya tried to comprehend what was happening. He ran his eyes down his body. He was fit, trim, and he had a Boston lanyard around his neck.

“Well?” Hollander asked, humor in his voice prompting him.

“I did not know Boston was making a wish today John, Hollander’s wish is what? Take my sweaty heating pad home?” Ilya said, his eyes not leaving Hollander’s. He rolled his eyes.

“Easy Roz, Hollander can withhold pain meds on you” John called from another table as he was taping one of his teammates up.

“Where do you want the heat?” Hollander asked again. He'd only become nicer to look at with time and the longer Ilya looked the more the details of his face called to him.

“Ribs” he said, still trying to process.

“Shirt off” Hollander nodded and turned away, “Blanket?” he asked, turning away and heading for the metal machine boiling all the heating pads.

“No” Ilya said, yanking his shirt over his head, his eyes tracking Hollander moving across the training room. He looked good, he looked really good. Ilya looked him over for any sign of the career ending injury, a peg leg, a missing arm, but he didn’t see anything. He pulled a pad out and wrapped it in the soft liner and walked back over to his table.

“On your side” he directed and Ilya rolled over obediently, his back was to Hollander now but he felt his eyes on him.

“That's some pretty good bruising” He assessed, and Ilya felt his eyes raking over his side.

“Mind if I press around?” Hollander asked. It seemed he was here in some kind of training capacity, press wasn’t allowed back here and neither were fans.

“Sure” Ilya mumbled, gentle hands ghosted over his ribs. Hollander’s hand was gentle, but confident. It felt more intimate than clinical but then, when had Ilya been touched last by someone like this? He wasn’t sure. Hollander pressed gently around some of the bruising and Ilya let a hiss out from between his teeth. Hollander made no apologies, just palpated.

Ilya felt the gentle pressure of the heat blanket over his side replace the trail of heat from Hollander’s fingers. “You’d bruise less if you kept your head up more, could have avoided that hit and all this swelling” Hollander said, adjusting the pad over the purple blotches on his skin.

He rounded the table so he was back in Ilya’s view and pulled a laptop on a wheelie table towards him and yanked one of the rolling stools over. Ilya just blinked at him, this was surprising, this was hot. This was like a bad porno.

“Is hockey” Ilya said, his eyes tracking every movement from Hollander. “Hockey players get hit” he said.

Shane typed something onto the computer and looked up at him over his glasses, he laughed softly, “Trust me I remember”.

Ilya squinted again at the badge around his neck trying to read it, trying to put the pieces together on why he was in his training room, touching him. Shane lifted it with his hand so Ilya could read it, clearly catching Ilya’s curiosity.

“It says Doctor, in case they didn’t teach you how to read English” Shane said typing something else and glanced up at him with a smirk.

Doctor, he’d heard they were bringing someone new but it really hadn't mattered to him until two minutes ago. Ilya didn’t like how suddenly it did matter to him that Hollander, the only player to ever hold a candle to him, was sitting across from him typing progress notes. Ilya also couldn’t help but remember the thick tension between them. Hot, charged, young and curious. It was still there for Ilya as he looked at him, but matured. Ilya wasn't used to being caught by surprise, it took a minute for Hollander’s words to process and for his dig to register.

“Oh okay, so you are Doctor asshole now yes?” Ilya asked. Hollander smiled and shrugged.

“All washed up with nothing to do” he shrugged, pushed the computer from his face and lifted his glasses to perch on the top of his head. He crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps were big. He was still strong, and he had a humor about him that Ilya didn’t remember. Hollander didn’t seem so constricted anymore and not so nervous. His hair was longer, dark and pushed back and growing down to the nape of his neck.

Ilya had only known him for a flash of time. Only in a gym cycling, on the ice over a series of games over the years. He didn’t actually know Shane Hollander, he knew the competitor. But this man didn't seem to be him.

“How do I know you don’t come here to kill me because of draft?” Ilya probed. It seemed like it was on the table for him to talk about, and he wanted to know why Hollander left him alone in this circus of a league.

“You got me, I went through ten years of schooling just so I could come to Boston and give you a small pox heating pad” Hollander laughed. Ilya squinted like he did when he didn’t understand someone’s English, it happened less now but it still happened.

“Small pox is what?” he asked.

Hollander’s smile dropped into a more embarrassed one, “Small pox blankets were biological warfare. They infected blankets with diseases to kill people, handed out the blankets. There’s some evidence that it happened in early..” he explained sheepishly and cut himself off. His cheeks were tinted pink. “Sorry, I like infectious diseases” he said with such earnestness Ilya couldn’t help but smile.

Ilya wanted to ask him why he was in Boston. Why he couldn’t play hockey anymore and if he thought he should be the one on the bench getting treated. Instead he just nodded.

“So Montreal tonight, think you’re going to win?” Hollander asked, his eyes sliding back to his computer. His voice was even but a muscle in Shane’s jaw ticked. He would probably always be a little bitter at Montreal, Ilya knew he would be.

“I always win” Ilya said, propping his head up in one of his hands. It didn’t escape Ilya that this should have been one of their games. Hollander should have been rolling out on a foam roller in the visiting team’s locker room getting ready to play.

“You lost nine games last year” Hollander didn’t look up from typing. Ah, so he was keeping up with him.

“Is Shane Hollander Boston Raiders fan? You want me to sign your doctor hammer thing?” Ilya asked. Hollander puffed out a laugh.

“I still love hockey” he said with a shrug, “Just in a way that’s healthier for me now” he said.

It gave Ilya pause. He wanted to ask if he was lying and if it was something he was saying to make himself feel better or if it was actually true. Was his life healthier now without the sport? Ilya felt suddenly like a pile of shit, he didn’t love the game like he used to, he didn’t obsess over it. Some days he hoped he would get injured so he’d have a reason to sit out, sleep, or do something else. Hollander was living that life not exactly by choice.

“Makes sense you come to team with best player then” Ilya said, looking for any bitterness on his face. Hollander had none, he glanced down at his fancy watch on his wrist and then back up to Ilya.

"Marleau's really developed his game, of course I’d want to be around him” Hollander shrugged with a coy look on his face, teasing and unexpected. Ilya laughed loud, a sharp bark of a laugh that made the training room quiet. Hollander wasn’t so boring maybe.

Hollander moved to stand, “I’ll be back in ten to pull that” he said nodded to the pad. “Gotta go infect more of the team” he said and breezed off. Ilya didn’t want him to go, he wanted him to sit on the stupid spinning stool and tell him everything he wanted to know.

Hollander didn’t come back in ten minutes, John did. He pulled the pad and sent Ilya on his way. Hollander was in the corner on his knees in front of one of their defensemen and was doing some kind of test on his ankle. Ilya’s gaze lingered a little too long at the sight of Dr. Hollander on his knees with their old Doc watching over him.

He played the game like he played every other game, well no. That was a lie. He played hard against Montreal. He played very hard, hard like he was showing off. Ilya scored twice in the first period, blocked a nasty shot, and was skating so hard his legs burned. He tried to tell himself it was because he hated Montreal. Not because of the smartly dressed man in glasses leaning against the team bench with his arms crossed over his chest. Between periods and shifts he felt his presence behind him on the bench, quiet, calm, but observant.

Ilya was pushing himself hard, and he was breathing heavier because of it, his ribs ached. Between periods they headed to the locker room. Yhe trainers passed out bottles of water and electrolytes and Hollander stood in the corner with Dr. Brown. Ilya felt his eyes on him, it made him sit straighter, smile through the pain, make cheap comments about Montreal's players. He was playing a role again, performing in a different way than he was used to. Then they were back out onto the ice for the second period. He pushed harder, he leaned into hits, he talked shit, he scored, he assisted. The game felt like a game, not an appointment he had to grit his teeth through. He was fucking spent midway through the third though. They were up 4-1, and lucky for him, the coach sat him for a bit.

Ilya sat straight on the bench and waiting for the time to run out. He was used to performing for people, and he knew he was doing it now. Did he want Hollander to be impressed by him? Show him what he was missing? Show him he was wrong about his earlier comment about not having his head up?

He tried not to grimace as LeMondier shoved him with his glove on his chest in celebration as they were in the tunnel back to the locker room, but he did. The locker room was loud, people were laughing, whooping. It was good and he should join them. He should do a lot of things he didn't have the energy to do anymore.

“Okay shut the fuck up for a second” their coach ordered as the rest of the staff flooded in the room. “Couple notes, good fucking game. Defense dropped a few, need you guys dialed in more on the scouting report for Richards, there’s no excuse for that” coach told them. “Rozanov good work exploiting that split coverage” coach nodded to him once. “Film tomorrow is being moved to 1100”. He looked at his stupid clipboard. “Ah and last thing, we’ve got a new team Doctor training with Dr. Brown. Shane come over” Coach asked. Hollander came out of the corner of the locker room he was leaning against and towards the coach. He stood with his hands together loosely in front of him.

“Is that?” Marleau asked Ilya quietly from the stall next to him.

“This is Dr. Hollander, Shane Hollander. Yes, that one. He’s gonna be taking over Dr.Brown’s spot when he retires in a few months and is training with him now. We stole him away from the Sox and we’re lucky to have someone who understands the game and is here to keep you all healthy. You don’t give him any fucking trouble. He was on our bench tonight nodding every time we scored on Montreal. Be respectful or I’ll kill you” Coach said, eyes skating around the room. “That means you Rozanov, got it?” Coach shot daggers in his direction. Ilya held his hands up in mock self defense.

“Doc” Coach nodded to Hollander, extending his hand out and inviting him to address the team, he nodded back once.

“Hey, happy to be here. My office is always open, feel free to drop in if you need anything. Other than that I’ll stay out of the way. Good game” he said, short professional, serious, and stepped back into the background.

“Good, good. The rest of the coaching staff’s comments will be discussed in film tomorrow, go home” Coach dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The staff and Hollander walked out behind him.

One of the PR guys yelled on his way out, “Roz you got media in 15”. Ilya groaned, he fucking hated media.

“No fucking way dude, Shane Hollander. I guess he didn’t crawl in a hole and die” Jackson said as Ilya stripped off his pads and hung them up with a sigh.

“Dude looks totally okay, he looks like he’s in shape” Jonesy said from behind him.

“Maybe he fucking faked it, couldn’t take the pressure. Mental breakdown or something” Morello said snidely.

“I mean they never went public with anything right? Metros just released him and tweeted out a PR thing about an injury” Jackson asked. “Did Hollander ever say anything about it?". Ilya wanted to defend Hollander, tell everyone in the room the only one who could criticize them was him. None of them were on his level. He remained quiet.

“I don’t think it was a mental thing, I knew a guy from the minors who was at that training camp. He said Hollander got drilled into the boards and was unconscious for a few minutes” another teammate called from behind.

“Does it matter?” Rozanov asked, turning to his team as he stripped off his undershirt. He raised his eyebrows.

“You’re telling me you’re not curious Roz? You guys came up together, it was all anyone fucking talked about for two years. Rozy vs Hollzy, future of the league” Marleau asked him, stripping his gear off.

“I worry about hockey, we won hockey game. What else is there to care about?” Rozanov said simply, coolly. The rest of the players seemed to get their captain was wanting to close the discussion. Ilya needed a pain killer and an ice bath, and he wasn’t going to go to the new Doctor for it.

Chapter End Notes

Let me know what you think. I am a whore (for validation/criticism)

Chapter 3: Deja Vu

Chapter Notes

I'm super interested in the idea of how Shane would have grown into himself if he wasn't so afraid all the time, I feel like so much of that fear came from hockey and from being judged. I think he could have opened up much sooner, felt lighter, not so anxious about his sexuality and all that came with it when there were fewer eyes.

Two Weeks Later
Boston

Shane diligently chopped cucumbers until they were perfect little batons all of the same size. How you do one thing is how you do all things, it was one of those quotes coaches said when you forgot your jersey at home. It was a way to call you a fuck up idiot without saying the words. Shane was going to chop these cucumbers perfectly because it was how he did all things.

“I mean fucking really, is he going to grow the lettuce too” Hayden said to his wife Jackie. “I’d like to eat at some point you know?”

“I’m holding a knife, maybe a little less shit talk Hayd” Shane said with warning. Jackie wrapped her arm around her husband’s shoulder. Shane tried many hobbies over the years, trying to find something that stuck. He was a well balanced man now, well, he was trying to be. Cooking was fun but the cleanup was not.

“This is good for your Hayden. Maybe now you’ll understand that dinner doesn’t just appear on the table every night. Someone actually is cooking it” Jackie said playfully and gently smacked the back of his head.

“Ow!” Hayden said dramatically.

“He’s a mandatory reporter babe, he’s gonna call the cops on us” Hayden said, turning so that he was facing his wife and leaning against the kitchen island. He started kissing her. Shane twisted his face up in disgust. It was enough cucumbers if it made them stop sucking face in his kitchen.

“Stop oh my god, I’m done please stop” Shane begged, sliding the salad bowl across his kitchen island.

“PDA won’t kill you Shane” Jackie said laughing indulgently, ruffling Hayden's hair.

“Yea Shane, I get you don’t have anyone to show affection to but you don’t have to hate on us” Hayden joked.

“My kind of affection requires lube” Shane said teasing, “I’ll let you know next time Hayd since you wanna see it so bad”.

“Ugh god!” Hayden said, swatting the air in front of him as Jackie threw her head back and laughed.

“Ok well sit down before I go get some” Shane said, putting three plates on each of their mats with perfectly cooked steak he’d sliced a minute ago and a bowl of salad and grilled vegetables.

“Thanks for cooking love” Jackie said, rubbing a hand on his back.

“Anything for you” he smiled back. Sometimes he liked Jackie more than Hayden. She was kind, sweet, funny, and was someone you could call about anything and she’d be there through it. Jackie was an emergency room nurse and former college athlete. She could talk sports, work, and keep up with Hayden who changed his mind every five minutes. She was a nice calming presence for both of them.

“You gotta tell me about work, all Hayden does is talk about missing you” Jackie smiled warmly at Shane as he pulled out his chair and sat down.

“Miss you too buddy” Shane smiled at Hayden who looked away as if he was embarrassed.

“So” Hayden prompted, chewing and passing his wife a sparkling water.

“It’s fine” Shane said with a shrug, “It’s only been a few weeks. We had one home game, one away game. I’m still getting used to how they do things” he said, pushing food around on his plate.

“Okay” Hayden prompted, his big blue eyes widening comically, prompting him to continue. Shane didn’t, he chewed.

“How are you doing though, being back in that environment?” Jackie asked kindly.

Shane could tell them that he was fine. He could lie. But why did he have to? This was real life, not the hockey world where truth was weakness and being emotional put a target on your back. He had to remind himself of this all the time. It was okay to talk about how he felt and how things were.

He breathed a heavy sigh out. “It’s been tougher than I thought it would be to be totally honest” he said, looking into Jackie’s kind eyes. “It’s where I should have been, you know? I’m there now. But it’s not for me. Sometimes when I'm watching the games it feels like I might get tapped in for a shift and I have to remind myself it’s not coming” Shane said. It was true, everything was still there in Shane's body. He knew the tempo, he could read plays. He could go out there and do it, but he wouldn't. “They’ve been nice to me though, more welcoming than I thought. They gave me the okay to use the gym when the team isn’t and I can skate there whenever I want. I have my own office” he shrugged.

It was nice, they didn’t have to let him do those things. Boston was more lax than he thought they’d be, the coaching staff especially. There were a few times in practice as Shane and some of the trainers were standing off to the side that Coach would walk over to him and ask what he would have done in a play or a drill. The first time it happened Shane just blinked at him like it was a trap. His job was to stick to return to play protocol, not give his two cents on hockey.

Coach asked him again and waited for an answer and Shane gave an honest response. He nodded his head thoughtfully and they adjusted with Shane’s note and the play worked flawlessly. Coach just turned his head and gave a nod. They ran the same play in their next game and Rozanov scored off of it. Shane wore a small private smile during the celebration, and Coach had slapped him on the shoulder to show him it wasn’t forgotten.

Shane was getting used to watching the player mechanics instead of their on ice performance, well sometimes. It was his job to catch when someone was favoring their right side or over compensating due to an injury. He had to see when someone wasn’t okay. He was trying to be proactive too, watching movements that could cause injuries or were risky so he could correct them with each player. There were a lot of distractions, fans, the game, or a particular player who seemed to be always too close and in his eye line.

Shane still didn’t quite know what to make of Rozanov. He was tough, he knew that. He was playing well, but he wasn’t passionate. He walked the walk, he gave impassioned speeches to his team. He said the right words, played well, but when he got off the ice it was like the mask fell. Shane knew all about that, maybe that’s why he seemed to be the only one to see it in Rozanov. Rozanov was in the training room nearly every day, even though his ribs weren’t bruised anymore. He hung around, slipping in and out of the cold baths and hot tubs, a towel slung too low around his waist and eyes on Shane.

In another context, Shane would be licking the tile he walked on. Rozanov was a god damned good looking man. His body was built, his eyes were gorgeous. Even that fucking accent killed him, everything was perfect. He was the first man he’d ever fantasized about and it hadn't gone away with self discovery and experience with other men. But Shane was a professional. He was respectful and he kept his distance from all the players with the occasional jokes. He didn’t talk about his personal life, he didn’t ask players about theirs. He was there to do his job well and help the team when he was called to do it. It wasn’t appropriate to cross a boundary of any kind at work.

He and Rozanov hadn’t exchanged more than a few words after that first game day. Shane was happy to leave it that way. He did have to bite his tongue sometimes. Especially when he caught errors, laziness, bits and pieces of his game that should be sharper. Some of his movements were so inefficient it made Shane question the coaching staff's visions. If he was asked, he would tell his opinion, but he hasn’t been asked.

“That has to be tough”, Jackie said with sympathy, Shane shrugged.

“It is. It feels good and it feels shitty” Shane explained, “I feel like I want to play, sometimes I want to coach. I hold my breath anytime someone goes behind the cage just in case” he admitted with a chuckle.

“Make any friends?” Jackie asked.

“If you replace me I’ll kill myself” Hayden threatened, pointing his knife at Shane.

“Hayd don’t joke like that” Jackie admonished gently, and pushed his hand down towards the table.

Shane shook his head, “I’m trying to stay professional. I know a couple of the guys on the team just from being around and playing at the same time as them but that’s it. I’m sure as hell not cooking dinner for anyone” he said, nudging Hayden’s leg.

“You on the road this week?” Hayden asked, Shane looked over his shoulder to the team calendar on the fridge.

“Yeah, Philly and then off to Buffalo” he squinted. That was the end of hockey talk, they talked about everything else, Jackie’s work, Hayden’s classes, the Sox continuing to suck. Although life wasn’t perfect, Shane had to admit things were pretty good.

Hayden and Jackie headed home earlier than they usually did at around 8:00 and Shane had an itch to skate. He glanced at the calendar again, there wouldn’t be a chance of him doing it on the road. He was a fifteen minute drive to the rink, and he hadn’t worked out tonight anyway. For old time sake, Shane grabbed an old stick out of his closet. Shane went straight to his office at the complex and pulled the skates he kept under his desk out. As he was coming down the tunnel towards the ice he heard the unmistakable sound of a stick hitting a puck. He slowed for a second as he came out of the tunnel.

Rozanov was in front of one of the goals with maybe thirty pucks littered around the ice as he skated around slowly. Shane walked up to the boards, hanging over one of the benches just watching him. He moved fluidly, with practiced motions his body has cycled through millions of times. Shane remembered when he was like that, when hockey was second nature. Rozanov skated wide around the back of the goal after burying a puck, and moved his eyes over to where Shane was. He abandoned skating pack to the pile of pucks and was headed fast towards Shane. He stopped on the edge of his blade with flourish, spraying the boards with ice particles. Shane raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s a day off you know” he told Rozanov who was looking at him expectantly.

“Yes” he said simply, he nodded his head towards the stick in Shane’s hand. “You come to play? I heard rumor you can’t play” Rozanov said. He knew he’d have to tell someone about it eventually, it might as well be the captain of the team.

“I had the itch. Coach said I could skate and use the facilities when the team isn’t. I needed to blow off steam” he explained. Shane kicked his sneakers off and lined them up on the floor. He pulled his skates up and laced them, a well formed neural pathway.

“We play 1v1?” Rozanov asked, his head tilted and blue eyes focused on Shane’s. Shane who was always looking for a distraction when around Rozanov for the past few weeks looked around and found none.

“No, I can skate and give you some passes” Shane offered, standing up and kicking a leg over the boards. His fused back protested at the height of the boards, but Shane was able to make his way onto the ice with a bit of a push. It wasn’t the first time he’d been back on the ice since injuring himself. He skated workouts still, he shot around in the half court he and his Dad built at their family home. This felt more significant though on MHL ice.

He let all of his training flow right back into him as he pushed off of his left foot, letting himself glide across the ice. He left his stick and gloves at the bench, but took a few laps around the ice to warm up. He was slow at first, and increased speed as he went. Shane felt a smile on his face, a small one, but a smile, he also felt Rozanov’s eyes following him around. After four laps around the rink, he grabbed his stick and went towards the goal. He gathered a mound of pucks off to the side of the goal. He looked up to find Rozanov at center ice. He nodded at him once and flicked a pass up the center lane to him, it was accurate. Shane was always accurate. They did this for a few minutes, and then Rozanov started moving. He was burying them easily in the net. Shane laid out some piles of pucks as faux defenders and had Rozanov pass to him, move, and then receive a pass back. It was fun, it was good. They were wordless except for some quick communication here and there for setting up the next drill, but mostly it was just the sound of carved ice and the stick slapping the puck.

After maybe forty minutes, Rozanov skated to the bench as Shane emptied the net. Rozanov squeezed some water into his mouth and joined Shane in chasing down pucks.

“Now you” Rozanov said once all the pucks were all out and in a neat pile.

“Eh” Shane protested.

“Come on you can shoot, yes? Skate?” Rozanov challenged. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip on his long sleeve, and lifted it up over his head so he only had a tight compression shirt on. It clung to every ridge of muscle on his chest and stomach and made Shane’s brain short circuit for a second.

“I” Shane started and looked away, “It should be fine, I’m pretty rusty” he said, picking up his stick and putting his gloves back on. “Start with stationary” Shane said as they skated back to the goal.

Rozanov passed him a puck so slow by the time it hit Shane’s reach it was moving like a curling stone across the ice. Shane glanced up at Rozanov with raised eyebrows.

“You are hurt, I’m being gentle” he said with a smirk. Shane huffed a breath out of his mouth and lined up a slap shot that he buried into the back of the net. He still had power, but he couldn’t ignore the twinge of pain in his back and the stiffness he had. He wanted to rotate, feel the snap of his hips that always proceeded a goal horn.

“How did you get hurt?” Rozanov asked immediately, clearly picking up on Shane’s irritation.

“Was chasing a puck behind the net, got hit from behind into the boards. Didn’t see him coming” he said. He tapped his stick to the ice in a signal he was ready for a pass. Rozanov sent one right to the tape of his stick. Shane collected it, dangling it in open space and his stick. He dragged it and skated to the side and buried it in the top left corner. The top pipe dinged, he loved that sound.

“And?" Rozanov asked. Shane flicked another just below the top post.

“Four fractured vertebrae, pretty good TBI. They said if I took another hit I could be paralyzed or die so, that was that” he said simply, flicking the puck a bit quicker now. Rozanov nodded in understanding.

“Who hit you?” it was not the natural follow up to the information he shared, and his eyes met Rozanov’s. He was assessing him it seemed, judging if Shane was bitter or angry.

“I don’t even remember his name, he got cut from camp. Never played in the majors” Shane said, flicking another puck with ease, “Just like me” he said.

“You move well” Rozanov said as they started skating more, moving a bit quicker.

“Didn’t for a while” Shane said, “I got my spine fused so my range of motion is much more limited. It’s why I’ve lost a lot of my power shooting, I can’t rotate through my hips like I used to” he said, adding in puck handling skills and smiling gently at the feel of the puck being almost glued to his stick. She pulled it back and shot it into the net.

“Looks good to me” Rozanov said.

Shane shrugged, he stopped skating and just stood there. “Sure it does, you don’t rotate through your hips. I was the better shot” Shane noted, he hated how much ‘used to’ and ‘was’ popped up in the conversation. “It used to be second nature, I have to think about my body now” he said, examining the grip of his gloves on his stick.

“I remember” Rozanov said simply, “I don’t need your hips, I am the best player”. It wasn’t cocky, it was a fact.

Shane huffed a laugh and flicked off one of his gloves and pushed his hair out of his face. “Imagine how good you’d be if someone was around to challenge you” Shane offered. He skated away and dropped his gloves and stick by the bench.

“You want some cardio?” Shane asked as he went in a lazy circle. Rozanov who was still staring at him nodded once and dropped his equipment off at the bench too. Shane skated to the opposite goal line.

“Blue line, half, blue line, full. Twice” Shane called, his voice echoing.

“You make me do bag skate on a day off?” Rozanov asked with raised eyebrows.

“You going to let a civilian outwork a pro athlete?” Shane shouted. Rozanov sighed and skated to the end line to join him.

“Go” Shane said, he pushed forward, enjoying the feel of moving fast. He used to run on ice, he always won a sprint. He was unbeatable on a breakaway, he was fast. Shane still had his athleticism, he was conditioned but not at the pro level. He skated hard, letting his legs burn with every push and his chest heave with exertion. He was right with Rozanov until the second full rink return. But even still, Shane wasn’t far behind him. Shane collapsed against the boards with his chest heaving, he felt sweat running down his face from his hairline and although he was beat he couldn’t help but smile.

“I beat you” Rozanov panted from the other side of the goal which separated them.

“It’d be embarrassing if you didn’t” Shane gasped a reply. Shane pushed himself up and lifted his hands above his head into a recovery position with his arms up. He sucked in the cold air that tasted like rubber and pushed it out of his mouth. This was what his body was built for, a pang of longing went through him and a hand went to his lower back which ached.

“Ok?” Rozanov asked him, eyes dragging down his body to his back. Shane nodded and skated back to the bench, lifting his leg over the side and sitting down. His breaths were still coming fast. He pulled at the laces of his skates until he could yank them off without issue.

Rozanov was still on the ice, but hanging his arm over the side of the bench. His chest was heaving. There were a few minutes of only hard panting between them.

“Why didn’t you make a statement after?” Rozanov asked, his eyebrows furrowed. Shane chuckled.

“And say what? Montreal released me before I was even conscious? I spent a year trying to rehab and do everything before calling it. By then nobody cared” Shane said simply, sliding his sneakers on and stuffing his gloves in his bag. Rozanov squeezed water from his bottle into his mouth.

“I cared” he shrugged, holding out his bottle to Shane in a way so reminiscent of the past. Shane’s eyes flickered to his to see if he remembered it too. Rozanov’s eye contact was heavy as he breathed through his mouth, his lips parted. He had good lips. Shane blinked for a moment and those lips pulled into a smile, he shook the bottle back and forth.

Shane smirked, and reached across the short distance again like he had all those years ago. It was deja vu, Rozanov’s fingers dragged across his, too intentional to be accidental. Shane took a squirt of the bottle and threw it to Rozanov. He wasn’t going to torture himself like this or let him touch his hand again. He was a professional.

“Didn’t realize you cared about me so much” Shane played it off as a joke.

“We were supposed to be rivals. Supposed to be fun like war or miracle on ice guys” Rozanov shrugged.

Shane scoffed, “I’m not American, and that wasn’t fun. It was about fighting communism and the underdog winning, you know that right? You should know that.” Shane complained.

Rozanov shrugged, “Canadian, same thing”, he responded only to that part of Shane’s outburst.

“America won in the end” Shane smirked between pants, “You shouldn't need a rival to push you” Shane said. Shane said. Rozanov raised his eyebrows.

“And you are happy, being doctor of hockey team” Rozanov asked, his blue eyes intense, asking for the truth.

Shane grabbed his bag, he didn’t want to talk about this anymore. He needed to be somewhere else. “I’m gonna go hit the gym, thanks for the feeds” he said over his shoulder. Shane wasted no time, he was warm and as limber as he could be. He flipped through his phone until he found a playlist to lift to and kicked his shoes off. He was in the gym maybe two minutes before Rozanov walked in.

Shane paid him no mind, he went through his workout carefully watching his form in the mirror and ignoring Rozanov who seemed to be trying to make eye contact through the mirror. Shane didn’t know what he was playing at, but it was putting him on edge. Rozanov eventually started lifting himself, but stayed in Shane’s vicinity. They worked out in silence and Shane cooled down with some yoga.

Rozanov sat on his ass a few inches off of the edge of Shane’s mat, a little too close for no apparent reason.

“What?” he asked, frustration seeping into his tone.

“You didn’t answer my question” Rozanov said, “I followed you for answer”.

“That usually means someone doesn’t want to give one” Shane said simply, stretching forward and feeling his muscles stretch in his back.

“Am I bothering you?” Rozanov asked.

Shane didn’t know how to answer that question. He was bothering him. It felt important to not give Rozanov a rise out of him.

“No” Shane replied, grabbing his phone from the floor and throwing the mat back on the pile to be cleaned. Shane headed towards the door and grabbed his gear and felt him following behind. Shane went to his office, and threw the bag of gear into the small storage closet he had and shoved his stick in the back too. It would make his office smell like a locker room but whatever.

Shane yanked off his sweaty shirt and grabbed a hoodie from his closet and tugged it on. Rozanov was standing in the doorway blocking his exit and forcing him to notice.

“You need something?” Shane asked, it occurred to him maybe he needed something medical but didn’t know how to ask. Rozanov pursed his lips and shook his head no. “You’ve got skate at 0800 tomorrow, and it’s eleven” Shane said, nodding to the clock on the wall. “You need a full sleep cycle for recovery” Shane said, grabbing his car keys and jamming his hands in his pockets.

“You dislike me” Rozanov said simply.

Shane glanced up at him. “No” he replied slowly.

“Yes” Rozanov said, pushing off the door to walk closer to where Shane was standing.

“I don’t” Shane said, surveying him as he moved closer. Rozanov moved until he was less than a foot away from Shane. He looked down at him with intense eyes and a smile playing at his lips.

“Why don’t you admit it to me?” Rozanov asked, tilting his head. Rozanov’s hand lifted and he extended a pointer finger out, brushing over the bridge of Shane’s nose. Shane froze. It was a gesture so odd and intimate and he didn’t quite know what to do.

“Admit what?” Shane asked, trying to keep his composure.

“That you are not happy with this, it is not enough” Rozanov’s finger drifted down to Shane’s lips.

Shane was feeling a bit too cornered emotionally and physically. He didn’t have a relationship with Rozanov before now, just weird tension and chirps from him during games and competition. Rozanov had a pattern of using things he knew about people as ammo on the ice. But Shane wasn’t on the ice, not like that. Did his vindictive tendencies stop there?

Shane stepped out of the way fast, the connection between their skin ending.

“Well I’m heading out. See you later” he said, moving around Rozanov and through the door.

“Hollander” Rozanov called from behind him.

Shane drove home in silence, trying to decode the past few hours and how strange it was. What other explanation was there aside from that Ilya Rozanov was trying to fuck with him, or, somehow more concerning, that he wanted him too?

 

*

Two Months Later
Boston

Ilya was suddenly very motivated to be at practice, at games, and at lift. He showed up early. He stayed late. He hung around hoping to catch Hollander alone. Hollander seemed dead set on not letting that happen. Ilya didn’t think he was misreading the situation, he’d never been wrong before. He couldn’t help himself. Ilya hadn’t been interested in anything or anyone for a long time, and he was all too interested in the flush on Hollander’s cheeks.

Ilya walked into the training room, eyes moving around until he spotted him. Hollander was half on top of one of the tables, one foot planted firmly on the ground and his knee on the bench as he manipulated their goalie’s leg which was stuck up into the air. He held Mitch’s leg against his chest and leaned forward so he was nearly hovering over him. Hollander was in khaki pants today, and they were stretched pleasantly over his ass as he leaned over the table. Sexy little Dr. Hollander with his pull overs and tight little pants. It was killing him.

Ilya climbed onto the next table over, “Me next please Doctor”. Hollander tensed up and looked over his shoulder at him, Ilya raised his eyebrow suggestively. It was a compromising position if he wasn’t on a treatment table. Hollander looked away quickly and leaned further on Mitch’s leg.

“Fucking bitch” Mitch said, “You’re killing me Doc” he said.

“Breathe through it or call me a bitch again if you have to but don’t tense up, it will feel better in sec” he said quietly with a smile. “You’ve got to release tension in this hip flexor or you’re going to be skating like you’ve got a stick up your ass” Hollander said pushing further.

“Fucking whore” he cried out and Hollander eased him out of it.

“Why do I feel like I just heard Mitch finish?” Marley said from across the room.

“Hollander made him release” Ilya said in response and the room laughed. Hollander climbed off the table.

“You guys are horrible” Hollander shook his head. “Feel better Mitch?” he asked, a slight blush on his cheeks.

“Fuck” he whined, “I’m spent Doc, but yeah” he smirked, and the room laughed. “You use that move on the ladies Doc? Great foreplay potential” Mitch slapped Hollander on the back as he rolled off of the table. Hollander choked out a laugh and shook his head.

“Can’t say I have. You actually need something Roz or are you just being a pain in the ass?” Hollander asked, some of the guys laughed at that.

“Do you do hand jobs for sports performance not for pleasure?” Ilya asked with a faux earnestness.

“Jesus Christ” Hollander said, shaking his head and throwing a rolled up towel at him and headed away from Ilya’s table.

“Lay off him Roz, Hollander’s good people” Marley said from across the room. Ilya wouldn’t lay off him.

The following day they loaded onto the plane and headed out for Florida. Hollander made his rounds on the plane every few hours, glaring at people who didn’t have water in their hands and having the injured players get up and moving around to stretch. Hollander had only been around with the team for a few months, but he’d been accepted into the fold fast. He got the game, he showed up for them, he did his job. He didn’t offer his opinion on hockey unless asked. Some of the guys pulled him into hockey conversation, some of them asked for advice. He kept his distance but was available too. He was getting onto the ice as much as he could with the injured players, even if it was just skating for light conditioning, or hand eye drills and balance as they fought their way back to fighting form. He was integrating actual hockey with treatments and the guys injured on the roster loved him for it.

Ilya was like a damn hunting dog, he was searching non-stop for him. Ilya spent more time at the rink than at home on his off days, hoping to catch Hollander there for a workout. He did a few times. Shane would only nod to him and head to the other side of the ice, or disappear into the rink somewhere. It seemed that just as intent Ilya was on finding him alone, Hollander was at staying away from him. If he was in his office when Ilya came in, he found a reason to leave it and talk to him anywhere else. Ilya had never been run from before.

It was nice to have something interesting in his life to chase. Ilya was still empty, but it was easier to ignore when he was so fixated. Ilya never wanted someone as bad as he wanted Shane Hollander. He wanted him on his stomach, on his back, his knees, and wrapped around him. So much it was killing him.

Hollander was seated four rows ahead of him on the plane with one of the other trainers in the seat next to him. Ilya walked up and down the aisles a few times. Hollander never looked up at him, his glasses were on and he was reading a book. Hollander didn’t look at him once, on the flight, on the bus to the hotel, and not while waiting for room keys to be handed out. Ilya went upstairs to the room with Marley and dumped his stuff inside. He was a man on a mission, maybe he was a little obsessed.

He went to team dinner. Hollander was absent. They got back to the hotel and Ilya naturally gravitated towards the bar. Ilya saw him, sitting at the bar turned towards some young guy at the neighboring bar stool, a glass of beer loose in his hand. He must have been saying something funny because the man laughed loudly and shook his head. Hollander said something back to the guy and a slow smile stretched across his face. It wasn’t a friendly smile, it was flirty. Ilya was stuck in the lobby watching him. Hollander leaned towards the guy and across the small gap and said something. He must have felt his eyes on him, because he looked over the guy’s shoulder and met Ilya’s gaze for a second. He tilted his head and then refocused on the guy in front of him, leaning closer to him and saying something in his ear before leaning back. His usual button down shirt was unbuttoned a few buttons and his hard chest and corded neck was visible from where he was standing. Hollander slid the man something that looked a lot like a hotel key card on the bar top. The man got to his feet and left the bar, walking by Ilya. He was good looking and he looked like a man who’d just been invited to Hollander’s room, fucking giddy.

Ilya stepped into the bar. Hollander was like him, more than curious then. Bi, gay maybe. It made him all the more frustrated.

“Oh, we hitting the hotel bar?” Marley asked from behind him, walking in with a few of the other guys.

“Maybe just for one drink” Ilya said over his shoulder. He was already walking to the bar where Hollander was still sitting, finishing his beer. Ilya slid into the seat that just emptied, his fingers tapping on the polished dark wood of the bar.

“Pilsner please” Ilya said to the bartender, Marley slid on the bar stool on the other side of Hollander.

“Same for me” Marley said, checking Hollander’s shoulder with the others filtered behind them.

“Boys” he said in greeting to none of them in particular. “Flying makes you dehydrated, alcohol makes you even more dehydrated” he said judgmentally.

“You are so boring Hollander” Ilya complained.

“You down here trying to pick up Hollzy?” Johnson asked Shane. Shane smirked, and raised his eyebrows over his beer glass before draining the rest of it.

“I bet you get some freaks, nice guys always do” Marley said with a chuckle, thanking the bartender for his beer. Shane waved him off when he tried to fill his glass again and asked to close out.

“Already picked up” Shane said, his pointer finger tracing the rim of his glass.

“Bullshit” Marley laughed, “Where is she at then?” he asked. Hollander accepted his receipt with a smile to the bartender.

“Waiting in my room. Who said she?” Shane asked and signed his receipt, moving to stand from his bar stool. “I want two waters for every drink you have or I’ll kill all of you” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the bar and back to the lobby.

“Oh” Marley said, looking at the spot Shane just left. “Was that a joke or is Hollander gay?” Marley asked.

“Who cares” Johnson said around the mouth of his beer bottle, “He’s my hero”. Ilya screamed in his head that he cared.

Chapter 4: Proposition

Chapter Notes

Our boy is about to get REJECTED

One Month Later
Atlanta to Boston

 

They were finally heading home after a grueling two week road trip. Shane was looking forward to washing his clothes and sleeping in his own bed. Shane had just stuffed his bag in the overhead compartment of the plane when he felt someone slip into his row of seats from behind him.They didn’t take night flights unless they absolutely had to, and tonight was one of those times. Shane looked down from where he stood in the aisle, his seatmate Joey who worked in the training room wasn’t there like he usually was. Rozanov grinned from the window seat.

Shane hesitated for a moment, and looked around him for another open seat. There weren’t any, and it would be strange to run away from him now or make a scene. Shane felt like he only worked half the time of his time around the team, the other half of the time he spent running from Rozanov.

Shane sighed, loud, deep and long, letting him know just how he felt about the intrusion. He wasn’t even safe on travel days anymore. Shane sat in his seat, holding onto his paperback book against his chest like it would ward Rozanov off.

“Hollander” Rozanov grinned, and Shane fucking hated when he did that because his bright blue eyes only got brighter and he had this enormous smile that made him blink from its brightness. It was not fair. Rozanov was not shy in this strange cat and mouse game. He was so charismatic. Everyone in Boston loved him. He was loud, he made everyone laugh, he said horrible things but was endearing too. He was spending a lot of time showing Shane attention and trying to get under his skin. Shane still didn’t know the point. Shane was staying on his toes, every comment, every pass made at him he was meeting with a chirp in return.

“Where’s Joey?” he asked with narrowed eyes, his usual seat mate disappeared.

“He’s in back” Rozanov said, “You can cuddle me like teddy bear instead for bedtime” He lifted his eyebrows and his tongue poked out to wet his lips. Fuck.

“I hope the window opens during the flight and you get sucked out” Shane said under his breath but loud enough for him to hear and was rewarded with a loud laugh from Rozanov. Loud enough to turn a few heads in nearby seats. Hollander shushed him.

“Sorry” he said in that way that told Shane he wasn’t sorry. “You know” he said, adjusting in his seat and leaning over towards Shane’s ear, “I’d rather be sucked by something else” he whispered.

Shane coughed and buckled his seat belt, squeezed some hand sanitizer and rubbed it into his hands and flipped open his book. He pulled his glasses out of his jacket pocket and turned on the reading light over his head. He opened his book and heard a faint click and the light above him shut off. Shane clicked it back on, trying not to give the person next to him the attention he desperately wanted. The light went off again, and instead of addressing it, he just kept reading.

Shane hadn’t turned the page since they took off an hour ago. He’d reread the same page a million times, trying to make the information sink in but it wouldn’t. Rozanov was doing everything he could to make sure he was distracted by stretching his arms into Shane’s seat space and spreading his legs wide open so their knees bumped together. Rozanov’s foot tapped against the side of Shane’s shoe. Shane wanted to crawl out of his skin.

He was looking for any distraction and sighed a breath of relief when the drink cart came pushing down the aisle.

“Anything for you?” the sweet older lady asked Shane.

“Yes please, a ginger ale” he said with a small smile. She nodded and gave him one of the flimsy plastic cups and his can.

“And for you dear?” she asked over Shane’s head.

“What is the most unhealthy drink that you have?” he asked her, Shane snapped his head to look at him and saw Ilya was looking at him with a shit eating grin.

“I’m just joking, my Doctor gets mad so easy” he said, putting a hand on one of Shane’s shoulders and shaking it.

“Water please and coke” he said with a grin. His hand dropped to the arm rest between them, and Ilya made a show of leaning over Shane to grab the bottle of water. He tucked it into his lap, and rested a warm hand just above Shane’s knee as he reached forward across him for the cup and can of soda.

Shane didn’t breathe, he couldn’t. He needed to put an end to this, he couldn’t here, not now. All he could do was run. Shane stared ahead until the cart passed him and stood up, leaving the cup and drink behind.

Shane didn’t have many options while the flight attendants were up, he walked to the front of the plane and scooted into the bathroom. He closed the small accordion door behind him and locked it. He despised airplane bathrooms. They were gross, unclean. Shane stood in front of the small mirror and looked at himself. All flushed cheeks, blown pupils, he could still feel the heat of Rozanov’s hand on his thigh and the gentle squeeze he gave him. The path his fingers dragged before he took his hand off all together. Shane closed his eyes, squeezed them shut hard. This was fucking torture, it was hell. He wanted him badly. But it couldn’t happen, it would never happen. But Shane let himself think for a moment what it could be like having Rozanov push him up against a wall, crowding him in this stupid small bathroom. Those large hands pinning Shane where he wanted him. The slide of his stubbled jaw down his stomach as he continued moving south. No.

He couldn’t think about him like that, he was a player. A player he needed to keep a professional boundary with. There would be a day when Rozanov would be hurt and would need Shane, and would need to trust him to do his job well and without distraction. There had to be trust, and mutual respect if he was lucky. That’s it. Shane gave himself another minute of poor air quality and judged the cleanliness of the bathroom before he exited. The carts weren’t blocking the aisles anymore, so Shane took his time pacing up and down the small lane, taking breaks to stretch and check in on some of the players.

Jones had taken a puck to the back of the calf two nights ago and was looking rather miserable when he saw him. He ignored Rozanov who was clearly watching him as he dug through his carry on until he found his roll of sports wrap. Shane headed to the back of the plane in search of some ice.

“Excuse me” he said, interrupting a conversation between some of the flight crew. “May I trouble you for some ice for one of my guys?” he said politely, holding out a couple of plastic bags. Two of the younger women turned around and blinked their long eyelashes at him. Shane recognized it as flirting, and ignored it.

“Of course” the one with a blonde ponytail said.

“Would it be too much trouble for two bags actually?” Shane asked, leaning against the back wall. Marelau had that broken finger and ice wouldn’t hurt.

“No trouble at all” she smiled in a flirty way.

“Thank you” he returned a polite smile and took the unsealed bags. He sucked the air out of them, twisted the bags and tied them into a knot.

“Kick your leg out straight into the aisle Jones” he said as he crouched next to him. Jones listened and extended his long leg. Shane made short work of wrapping the bag securely on him.”Take it off in twenty minutes and then get up and walk around for a few” he directed. Jones smiled a thanks.

Shane went to Marleau’s seat where Ilya usually sat with him, and passed the ice bag to Marleau over a sleeping Joey. “I’m going to kill your roommate. Ice the hand for 20” Shane said. Marleau chuckled quietly and did as he was told. Shane made his way back to his seat and decided Joey had the right idea, it’s not like Ilya could bother him if he was sleeping, or at least pretending to sleep.

 

*

Two Days Later

It was the first day off at home in several weeks. Ilya’s suitcase was open on the floor next to the front door where he left it the night before. He didn’t shower, he didn’t have the energy to after he got home. He didn’t even make it down the hall to his bedroom. It was one of those days where he could finally stop and breathe and when he did it all came crashing in. Loneliness, sadness, emptiness. He had to pee, but couldn’t will himself to get up. Depression, it was a word he’d read about, been asked about in every doctor’s appointment family history questionnaire, and was something he refused to admit he felt.

Weak

Weak

Weak

He woke up on his couch this morning feeling like shit. Ilya Rozanov was an outgoing fool, extroverted and in your face loud. It made people love him and it made people hate him, and he did it all day all the time until the door was closed and it was just him. Ilya should have been an actor, women told him he was hot enough to model, but they didn’t know how well he could fake his way through things.

Ilya could smile, he could flirt, he could give a speech to his team. He could act like the monster some people wanted him to be. But when it was just Ilya Rozanov, alone, in his quiet Boston apartment he was just a motherless boy. A loveless man. He was broken beyond repair. Ilya slid open his cellphone and into his contact list and scrolled through the names. He scrolled by old teammates, old coaches, and more contacts with question marks next to them and short descriptions of what a girl looked like than he cared to admit. When it came down to it there was nobody who totally knew him.

Ilya’s finger hovered over Svetlana’s contact and let the phone ring. It rang, over and over until her voicemail clicked. Sveta was the closest to knowing him. She had the advantage, they’d grown up together and went to the same primary school. Their fathers were friends. Sveta was his first kiss, his first girlfriend, the first person he disappointed outside of his family probably. She was resilient though, and as they got older he saw just how much they had in common. Svetlana was almost as shallow in her relationships as he was. Ilya never understood when people said the word shallow like it was a bad thing. Shallow was intentional, shallow was calculated. When you kept things shallow you dealt the cards and everyone knows the house always wins.

Winning for Ilya meant distraction for a few hours, a warm body to press against and ground him in his own body, an exchange of energy and pleasure. Ilya let the mask down after he was done, he let himself be cool, cold, emotionless and they took themselves out the way they came in. Ilya told himself this is what he wanted, he wanted to be a bachelor. He wanted to be cold like his brother and like his father. He’d grown up watching both cheat on their girlfriends and wives and doing whatever they wanted without concern for who they hurt. At least he wasn’t stringing some long term relationship along and doing it behind their back.

Ilya rolled onto his back on his couch, his fingers went to his mother’s pendant around his neck and he pressed it between his thumb and pointer. He sometimes wondered how many good women he could have loved if he tried but let them go instead.

He was petrified of people knowing him, he was scared to death of loving and being loved. His own family couldn’t love him, how was someone else supposed to?

Ilya when he was a boy pictured himself getting married, having at least three children and living somewhere in the country. He would haved a family that never left him and never demanded impossible things from him. After his mother died, Ilya told himself he would never get married. He would never give over control of himself to someone else. Nobody would want him, why would they? He wouldn’t be a good father, he was angry, cold, and selfish. All things it was unfair to expose children to. Ilya sure wished his father thought twice about children. He wouldn’t let the sins of his father become his own.

He remembered a drunk night a few years ago telling Svetlana something similar, she’d said because he was afraid it meant he wouldn’t be that kind of father. Maybe. But then on days like this where his dirty clothes from weeks of travel were in his bag and he could barely get up, it solidified he wasn't fit to be a parent. A child didn’t deserve a parent who was checked out. Ilya was checked out, and killing himself slowly in many different ways. Ilya lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke into a puff above his head, one of those little ways he was crawling towards death instead of running away like most people did.

He thought about quitting everything in his life, walking out of his apartment with only his wallet and a few pictures. He thought about quitting hockey and calling up his agent, paying back his contact and leaving. He had enough money to live for the rest of his life. He had time to go travel the world, find something that made him happy again and not so apathetic. But Ilya had traveled, he’d seen sights, he’d had the best dinners, had the best alcohol the world had to offer, and it hadn’t fixed him. Ilya thought about suicide, never about actually doing it, but about the concept. It was something he ruminated on ever since he was twelve. It was for good reason, he’d found his mother on the floor of their bathroom. A bathroom that looked like it belonged in a palace but had a dead young woman on the floor cold as the temperature of her family.

It was a poetic scene scorched into his memory, that bathroom was what his family looked like to others. Fancy, rich, eye-catching, expensive. They were famous, powerful, rich and traditional, but they were all dead inside. His mother wasn’t, and she couldn’t survive them. Ilya knew what suicide was at twelve, but that’s not what it was in their house, it was an accident. As if a bottle of Ilya’s pain killers from his dental surgery accidentally went down with a glass of milk into her stomach. It was an accident, never a choice. His father took that away from his mother even in death. Oh yes, he thought about suicide a lot, under what circumstances it would made sense. He wouldn’t do it, at least he didn’t think he ever would. Ilya showed his lack of investment in his life in smaller ways, leaving his front door unlocked, riding a motorcycle without a helmet, playing hockey recklessly, and chain smoking cigarettes. He wasn’t trying to hurt himself, but if it happened, so be it. Sometimes he wished someone would just ask if he was okay. He knew he’d lie, but maybe one day, on a day like today where everything felt too real he might say that he wasn't okay.

He was one of those nesting dolls, a million layers of armor with just a little man on the inside. He didn’t let people past his first shell, so how could he complain when people stopped trying to?

Maybe that’s part of why he hadn’t stopped thinking about Shane Hollander. Hollander was his own nesting doll, but he kept his layers on by choice, not out of fear. Ilya was a confident man, but much of it was bravado. He was comfortable in his skin and his sexuality, but never in who he was. Shane Hollander knew who he was. It was in the pictures of him and his parents on his desk at work, the brightness in his eyes and excitement watching the games, it was the genuine pleasure in his eyes when he helped one of his teammates. It was the ease in which Shane informed them in the bar of his sexuality, like it was nothing.

Shane Hollander cared for people. It was his job to care for them physically, but he did more than that. He gave his team confidence and more of his time than he was required to. He remembered everything like birthdays on the team or dietary issues. He picked up on injuries before players did themselves. He cared. He had a lovely family Ilya was sure, and he’d probably find a lovely boyfriend to settle down with who was worth all the love and attention he’d give him.

Ilya wanted to be cared for so badly. He wanted to remember what it felt like to be wrapped in someone’s arms and to be warm instead of so god damned frigid all the time. Shane was warm, warm golden skin, warm deep brown eyes, freckles and puffy lips. He had a smile that was sweet enough to erase everything bad for a moment if it was directed at you. Ilya knew if he asked for Shane to take care of him he would, with no questions or expectations.

If Ilya just dropped the constant sexual innuendo and talked to him they would be easy friends. That was a thought too frightening. Ilya would collapse too easy under his warm stare, he’d tell him all the ways he’d been ruined by life and give him all the answers of how to hurt him best.

If he could get Shane to sleep with him he’d do it in a second. He hadn’t ever wanted a man like he wanted him but Shane would have to be fine with the distance that came with sleeping with Ilya and the disappointment. It’s why Ilya never felt too badly when Shane shot him down, he so rarely saw people with self-preservation instead of self sabotage that it was interesting to him.

Sex was about trust, release. It was about consuming someone in an animalistic way that didn't require feelings, just instinct. For Ilya, it was about control, feeling some kind of control over his life. It was a way to take without giving something other than pleasure. Ilya hated how impulsive he was, how everything he did was to punish himself. But it was what he deserved.

It wasn’t enough to destroy himself anymore, Ilya had the dark itch and desire to drag people down with him. He didn’t know any other way. It wasn’t right to dim a light like Hollander's, it didn’t stop the selfish part of him from trying.

 

*

One Week Later
Boston Ice Hockey Center
Boston vs Chicago

“Shane”, he looked up from his desk and to Anna, the team’s PR girl.

“Hey” he said with a smile.

“You busy?” Anna’s eyebrows went up to her hairline almost.

“Nope come on in” he invited her, he meant it when he said open door policy. He hadn’t interacted much with the professional staff outside of coaching and medical but Anna always went out of her way to be nice.

“So there were some photos from the game last week that got shared by ESPN, you’re in the background. People online noticed. We’ve been getting tons of press inquiries. I don’t know if you’re willing, but a couple outlets want to get some media comments from you after the game. Are you willing?” she asked like she was scared of the answer. He sighed, long, loud, deep. “I’m sorry, it is a good story though” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Anna I want to help you, I do, but I'm not here for that. The media should be about the players not me standing on the bench waiting for someone to get hurt” Shane said with finality.

She hung her head and ran a hand roughly through her hair. “Okay” she agreed, still stressed. He felt bad for her.

“I would be okay with some kind of press release though from the organization if that helps you, I just don’t want to be answering questions” he offered a small consolation.

“Yeah?” she asked, a little lighter.

“Sure” he shrugged, “I trust you” he told her with a reassuring smile. She nodded once and strode out of the office. He sighed.

He wasn’t alone in his office for more than five minutes when he came in. Shane glanced up over his monitor, he didn’t have time for this today. This conversation was long overdue. Rozanov leaned against the doorway too relaxed with a flirty smile on his face. He was making his rounds to terrorize him. Hollander couldn’t get away from him if he tried lately.

“Come in, close the door” Shane said, refocusing on his monitor. He missed the jump in interest on Rozanov’s face. “Sit” Shane said, nodding to the chair in front of his desk.

He closed it quickly and Rozanov sat, Shane sighed.

“You want to see me?” Ilya asked innocently. Shane lifted his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yea” Shane said, pushing his glasses to the top of his head.

“So?” Ilya said, spreading his legs apart in the chair and letting one of his hands fall onto his thigh.

“What are you doing Rozanov?” he asked simply, deciding it was best to confront this now before it got worse.

“Doing…” he said, leaving the word hanging around.

“You need to cut it out, whatever you’re trying to do here. You are trying to embarrass me. Maybe one up me or terrorize me about my sexuality. Whatever this is, you need to stop” Shane told him.

“What am I doing Hollander?” Rozanov challenged, the asshole wanted him to say out loud everything he’d been doing.

“Ilya, don’t insult my intelligence,” Shane said, his voice firm and using his name like a school teacher might.

“Why not?” Ilya sat back in the chair, making himself comfortable. His legs falling open and spreading. Shane licked his lower lip but stayed focused on his face.

“I’m at work, this is my job. A professional environment, these advances or jokes or whatever, it’s not acceptable” Shane said simply.

“It’s not a joke, it’s not homophobia” Ilya replied scoffing.

“Okay” Shane nodded, crossing his arms across his chest. Leaving the word floating between them.

“I want to fuck you, I have for years” Rozanov said as if he was talking about the weather. Shane made no comment, just raised his eyebrows. “And I know you want me too” he finished, watching the man across from him carefully for a reaction.

Shane blinked. “I am not interested” he said simply. “I don’t want anything more than a professional relationship, that means no more sexual comments, no touching” Shane drew the line in the sand.

Rozanov was clearly horrible with boundaries, he didn’t respect them, didn’t care for them, he hurdled over them to get what he wanted. He saw this conversation for what it was, he’d broken down Shane. Ilya saw how his eyes flashed sometimes when they were together, he wanted to help his bodies’ response to Ilya but he couldn’t. That familiar desire to cause trouble flared. He wanted Shane, and even if he wouldn’t admit it, he wanted him too. Ilya didn’t know tact, he only knew throwing it down on the table.

Ilya felt a ripple of excitement. “You don’t want me to fuck you?” he asked quietly, leaning forward so his chin rested on Hollander’s desk and he had to look up at him. Shane ignored him.

“You can leave now Ilya” he said dismissively, he liked all too much the sound of his first name.

“You want me to crawl under that table and suck your dick? I’ll do it, i’ll play with your cum drying on my chin” he purred. There was no way this wasn’t going to happen, he’d say the right things and do them, Hollander wanted him and Ilya needed this.

Shane was still, eyes focused on Ilya’s face, he frowned, his eyes looked sad.. Ilya leaned back and let his legs fall open, one of his hands ran up his thigh. He was ready to go, he palmed himself over his shorts.

Hollander’s eyes flicked up to his for a moment and widened, he stood quickly and walked to the door behind him and yanked it open, “You’re better than this Ilya” he said simply, leaving him behind in his office.

It was like falling through thin ice into cold unforgiving water. Whatever heat was running through his body was gone. It was, mean. Honest. Not many people were honest with him anymore. When you had money and power, everyone tended to agree with you. Hollander was wrong though. He wasn’t better than this, using attraction to nearly extort someone into bed with him because he wanted him so bad. Ilya felt slighted, rejected, irrationally angry.

He wasn’t better than this, he wasn’t better than his shit brother who snorted coke and cheated on his wife, he wasn’t better than his father who used to find a new barely legal woman to marry after throwing away his wives every so often. Ilya was just as bad, just as amoral and selfish and cruel. He wanted to corrupt Hollander, to touch him, fuck him out of his system and possess him even if it was just once. Ilya wasn’t turned down- not for sex, it was the only way he knew how to connect with people.

He wanted Hollander to ache, to regret this. He wanted to break that perfect veneer.

Ilya left his office and played the worst game of his life, the simple words echoing in his brain: you're better than this. Could he be a man that was better than this? He wasn’t willing to try. Good men got hurt. After the game, Ilya stopped cold turkey, he didn’t look at Hollander, didn’t seek him out, stopped showing up at the complex looking for him. He had no interaction with him. He didn’t need to.

Chapter 5: Trifecta

Chapter Notes

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think or things you might want to see. I'm not above crowd sourcing.

One Month Later
Ottawa vs Boston
Boston Ice Hockey Complex

 

A name was all a man really had, a name and a reputation. He wished it was his mother’s last name stretched over his back on his jersey, maybe he’d be a better man if it was. He huffed out a frustrated breath as he circled the blue dot on the opposing team’s side of the ice.

Ilya was running from everything all the time. If he stayed moving, it didn’t come in. He let himself run like a machine. Machines didn’t feel, they repeated motions. They were programmed to do nothing but their job. His job was to score goals, to run an offence, to show up on defense, to be a captain and a leader, a face of an organization, win the cup, and score, and smile, and be hated and be loved, and win, and more and more and more and more. If he said his jobs out loud in order like that he'd be out of breath. He could have gone on forever with the expectations placed on him.

He was a machine sometimes. His muscles knew what to do, he didn’t have to think about it. He knew how to skate, how much weight to adjust onto one of his feet, how far on the edge to lean on. His body was built to destroy. He knew how to read other players. He knew when to push, when to pull, when to pass and when it was time to score. He knew when to chirp, the right buttons to press on other people and he knew when to drop gloves and fight. It was second nature. Ilya knew the ice was the safest space for him even if he hated being on it sometimes. It was a place where he could take a beating and a jab without it being personal, without it ever being deeper than the sport.

Right now, the machine’s job was to win the fucking hockey game. But sometimes the man bled into the machine, and the too strong emotions showed up on the ice. It was overtime, they were tied up against a team they should have leveled. The puck dropped and he came away with it. He passed it and moved quickly down the ice. He skated a wide loop around the back of the net and received the puck back. He sent it around to his wing who was flying up the track but it didn’t connect. Fucking nothing was lately. It got picked off and Ottawa who took it down the ice, over the blue line, and the goal horn blared.

“Fuck” he hissed under his breath. Ilya looked to his bench, something that’d become second nature over the past few months. His coach’s mouth was twisted up with anger. Ilya didn’t let his eyes drift further down the bench. He didn’t care to see what would be there in Hollander's expression. Maybe judgement from the former hockey player, disappointment You’re better than this Ilya, his face might say.

He skated to center ice. For years it was his father’s words in his mind, demanding perfection, saying something nasty and his inner monologue telling him he wasn’t enough. It’d been quieter since he passed away, but Hollander’s words stuck. They were a sharp barb that got under his skin like a splinter you couldn’t get out. He’d said it in a context, in his office with the door closed and Ilya saying elicit things, but Ilya had carried it with him since then applying it to every situation.

It was a perceptive criticism, because Ilya didn’t want to be bad or alone, he really didn’t but it was all he knew how to do. He didn’t want to push people away. He had to, it was the only way he knew how to survive. But it was bigger than just seeing through him that easily. The words could be applied in many contexts.

You’re better than this. You should be able to handle this. You are the machine. You aren’t stupid, you’re better and choosing to be worse. You’re choosing to be your father when you know you’re your mother.

A turnover into a goal, you’re better than this Ilya.

A game lost because of his poor performance, you’re better than this Ilya.

Another day where he could hardly breathe from the weight of it all, you’re better than this Ilya.

He was about to brim over, he was about to fucking lose it. He sucked in a deep breath and lined up for the handshake line, glaring at each member of the shitty team as they skated by. Ilya headed for the tunnel, storming ahead of his team. This was supposed to be a place he wasn’t affected by anything, like a bubble.

He was going out tonight, he was getting drunk, and he was going to fuck someone. He held it in until he was behind the door of the locker room. What else was there to do other than prove he wasn’t better than this all?

“Fuck!” He shouted, the bottom of his foot connecting with one of the trash cans which flew into the lockers. Ilya swung a fist into the locker and took pleasure in the way the metal bent and his knuckles exploded with pain.

He spewed expletives in Russian, and sent another slam of his fist as the team finished filing in the locker room and the door closed shut behind them. He didn’t even care that much about the game, if this was an isolated incident he’d move on in minutes. But everything in his life was shit. All of it at once. His options were to hit something or cry.

“Hey Roz, it's good we’ll get them next time,” Marleau said from his side, tossing his pads into his locker. He had good intentions. Marley was his friend even if it was just surface level.

“No” he yelled back. He flicked his hand at his side, and a thin line of blood trickled down his knuckles. “This is fucked!” He shouted. The coach was against the wall, holding his whiteboard with a blank look on his face. Ilya ran his eyes across the rest of the team. Hollander stood in the back, ever present and watching him spin out with a well trained expression of calm on his face and eyes gentler than they should be. He heard the start of those words in his voice, you’re better than this Ilya, and forced his brain to stop. He ripped his eyes away from the perfect Hollander- never punched a locker Hollander, always a good Hollander.

“Sit down” Coach told him and his ass hit his seat. “We should have won this game, you know this, I know this. There’s nothing else that needs to be said tonight. Get your heads screwed on straight. If we drop any more games like tonight, playoffs are off the table. We’ll break down more tomorrow at film” he said, waving a hand and turning out of the room.

“Rozanov, media in 10” if there was metal in front of him, he would have punched it again. Ilya hung his head, his crucifix swinging between his mouth and chest. He flexed his hand at his side and welcomed the pain that came with it and his fingers grabbed at the necklace pendant like it would take everything bad out of him.

A pair of nice leather shoes came to a stop in front of him. He didn’t dare to look up. “Come to the training room once you’re showered so I can check on that hand” Hollander asked, and the feet traveled away.

Ilya went into the media room unable to plaster a smile on his face, he was sure he looked like he wanted to kill someone. There were plenty of reporters who were there to remind him how badly he fucked up. He’d almost prefer they said it that way instead of their passive aggressive flowery way of saying he let everyone down.

He never felt more like a prize pig than when he was doing media. Sometimes it was fun if there was something to comment on, but mostly it was people who couldn’t do a tenth of what he could criticizing him. He leveled one reporter with a glare and ignored one of their questions.

One of the many sleepless nights lately, Ilya found himself scrolling through videos of Shane Hollander from his hockey days. He watched highlight clips and game films of their match ups. He even watched his interviews. Even as a teenager, he had a grace Ilya never had. You’re better than this Ilya, no he wasn’t. If Shane Hollander was here in front of the media being asked questions like this, he would answer smartly and thoughtfully not aggressively. He’d say enough for the viewer to see the news person was an asshole without saying it himself.

Ilya didn’t go to the training room, he showered. He knew he wasn’t being a good captain and he wasn’t being a good teammate, but he couldn’t be right now. He ignored the teammates that lingered behind. How was he supposed to do those things when all he did was fuck up and disappoint people? They didn’t have to say it plainly like his father did, the way they looked at him sometimes said enough. He was never gonna be good enough for everybody and their expectations. The throbbing of his hand felt like punishment for that.

Ilya waited in the locker room until all of his teammates left. He considered going back out onto the ice and skating until his legs couldn’t move anymore, but it wouldn’t make him feel better. No he needed to get the fuck out of there. Ilya had a hankering for a cigarette too.

He slipped out into the tunnel and walked until he hit the back door. It was two hours after the game ended and there were only a few cars still parked in the parking lot for players and staff. One of them was running, he squinted his eyes and saw Hollander was sitting in the driver seat of one of them and let out a breath of frustration.

Could he be frustrated? Could he lose? Could he be angry with himself and not have it witnessed by Shane fucking Hollander? He was always there watching quietly. Ilya had half of a mind to turn around and go back inside, but he’d already lit his cigarette. He had to walk by Hollanders’s car to get to his own no sooner than in two puffs of a cigarette.

The car door opened and he popped out of it, “Those things will kill you you know” he said evenly, a slight bit of judgment.

“I’m really not in the mood Hollander” he said firmly. He knew he was glaring, looking cooly at him for no fault of Hollander’s. It was Ilya’s fault as usual.

“I see that” was his only reply. A few beats of tense silence lingered. “How’s the hand?”

It was swollen, bruised, and it hurt to make a fist. But he wouldn’t tell him that. “It’s fine” Ilya said. He was always just fine, on his best days and worst.

Hollander echoed the word like it was one he’d never heard before.“Can I at least make sure it’s not broken before you go?” he asked.

And this was always Ilya’s problem. He knew what to do, he knew right from wrong. What he didn’t know is how to stop himself from doing the wrong thing or maybe he didn’t care enough to stop himself. He inhaled another drag from his cigarette, coming to stand in front of the door of Hollander’s sensible SUV. He blew cigarette smoke in his direction and watched as he wrinkled his nose and distaste.

“My clothes are going to smell like cancer now” he said.

Ilya shrugged coolly.

“Can I see it?” Hollander asked.

Ilya extended his hand out and rested it on the hood of the car. Hollander reached over, gently wrapping his fingers around his wrist and placing his palm on the palm of his own hand.

Ilya insisted on ignoring Shane Hollander because he turned him down. It was because he insulted him, or maybe just because he held up a mirror that Ilya didn’t want to look in. Now the mirror was in those glassy eyes, they looked almost tear filled all the time they were so shiny. Innocent like a baby, or some kind of deer.

Hollanders’s hands were soft, gentle and didn’t have the calluses that all hockey players had earned on them anymore. They were healing hands, not hurting ones and Ilya couldn’t help but stare at how they looked touching his hand. After two months of angry tension and avoidance from Ilya and the quiet distance from Hollander this was the most they’d talked, and definitely the most they touched. Hollander rolled his fingers over his knuckles feeling the corded tendons and gently prodding around the bones.

“I don’t think anything’s broken, but ice when you get home and come see me before practice. I will find you if you don’t” Hollander said, releasing his hand gently. He pulled away his soft skin and kindness until Ilya was only cold and calloused again.

Ilya stood in place, his cigarette burning down in his hand and more than just a little upset still.

“Are you doing okay Rozanov?” Hollander asked, earnest eyes with genuine concern. It was like a reflex, natural and normal for him to check and make sure. He asked like he cared. He was so good.

Well Ilya had reflexes too, “Fuck off Hollander” he hissed and he turned on his heel and left.

He wanted someone to ask him how he was, someone to see he wasn’t fine. But he could never handle it when it happened. Hollander had reached out. He was trying to be helpful despite how Ilya embarrassed himself and ignored him since. But he was still here trying and Ilya had spat at his feet.

 

*

Two Days Later
Boston Training Facility

Human bodies had so many limits and somehow none at all. People were breakable. If you could quiet your mind some of those limits went away. Working with elite athletes who trusted their bodies and knew their limits was a joy not many medical professionals knew.

Shane worked in clinics during his hospital rotations and in the ER, he’d blinked through someone trying to explain the pain in their stubbed toe like it was an open heart procedure with no pain pills. He’d raised eyebrows through patients talking about urinating blood for months before deciding to go to the doctor. Athletes at professional levels didn’t do that, they were something else entirely. They didn’t diagnose themselves, they didn’t make mountains out of mole hills, it was the opposite. They overworked, they pushed to their limits, and they under reported pain. It was why Shane had to be observant.

He wasn’t blind, the past two weeks Johnson one of their defenseman was favoring his right leg. Shane gave the players a week to work through an injury if it wasn’t affecting their play without his interference. By week two, he was checking in on them and having a conversation. By week three, he’d booked ice time and treatment with the player, not optional. Sometimes it was a ruse and they never made it on the ice and were in treatments the whole time. Shane went back through years of medical notes for Johnson. He’d torn his Achilles in his right ankle a few years back on the same leg.

Although Shane was an orthopedic surgeon, he was well rounded. Professional sports teams like the Sox and the Raiders needed the staff to be. He was a physical therapist more than he was a surgeon at times, a kinesiologist sometimes, a nutritionist if he had to be. He didn’t know everything, but he knew enough.

Johnson sat on the table with a frown on his face.

“Don’t pout” Shane threw him a resistance band, “I want five sets of ten, each direction. Rest between” he said. Johnson caught the band and wrapped it around his foot and started his reps. Johnson’s tendinitis flared up significantly enough during week three he couldn’t play.

“I have a lot to pout about,” Johnson said with a frown.

“Right, you’re a professional athlete who makes millions of dollars a year and gets to play a game for your job” Shane teased good naturedly. “And you’ve got Cassie, the nearly perfect woman” Shane pointed out. He’d been invited to a few team dinners, and met some of the WAGS in the group. Cassie was beautiful and smart, and was the type of woman he would like if he..you know, liked women.

Johnson smiled and he shrugged his shoulders, “Yeah” he said. “Cassie’s pregnant” Johnson said.

“Congratulations man, tell her I said so” Shane smiled brightly. “Are you excited or freaking out?” Shane asked as he watched his progress through the sets of small exercises.

“I’m fucking terrified, she’s over the moon” Johnson said. Shane nodded and typed notes in his computer.

“Uh, I don’t want to be weird or anything” Johnson said unsure. Shane looked at him over his shoulder. “But, my good friend was big in the figure skating world. We grew up training together, he got a bronze in Sochi” Johnson continued. “I think you guys would get on really well” Johnson offered.

Hollander raised an eyebrow, “Less trying to set me up and more training, yeah?” He dismissed him. He guessed he should be happy that the team was accepting him, and liked him enough to try to play match maker. He prepped a bag of ice and put it on the end of the bench for Johnson when he was done.

He’d been busy lately, Dr. Brown had decided he knew what he was doing enough that he didn’t need a shadow anymore and he didn’t bother to come in and help. Shane liked it this way, juggling multiple things at once, problem solving.

The end of the season was always full of stress injuries. It was a long grueling season and it wore down the body due to insufficient rest. Shane knew that injuries came in clusters, it was never just one and it swept through teams like a flu.

*

One Week Later
Raiders at Toronto

The officials were letting the teams play, as a spectator it made for a great game, as a player it was a mixed bag. As a doctor, watching his team get clobbered with no repercussions was making him grind his teeth. It was the last week before playoffs, Boston needed this game to keep momentum.

Shane tapped his foot repeatedly on the floor of the bench and watched as Rozanov skated by, his blue eyes narrowed into near slits as he head hunted DeMarzier from Toronto. DeMarzier was lazy with the puck, and Rozanov was able to poke it out just enough to turn on his edge and send it the other direction.

The rink felt like a powder keg, it’d been more than just chippy all night it’d been dirty. Everyone was waiting for a chance to drop gloves. Ilya was chirping well before the puck drop. Shane remembered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that sharp mouth and taunting eyes. From the bench, Shane could enjoy it more. For all of Rozanov’s faults, and there were plenty, he was funny. Shane couldn't deny that he was quick, he knew where to apply pressure, and it was fun to watch.

Shane saw the fight coming before it even happened.

Rozanov sent a pass to Marleau who was coming up the left side and Marleau went chest to chest with the Toronto defender. The defender wasn’t digging for the puck, and his stick rammed into Marleau’s face.

“High sticking” Shane called out in complaint before he could seem to remember himself. He wasn’t a player, he couldn’t complain on the bench about the refs. He had to be professional. He looked around to see if anyone would reprimand him but only saw the amused expressions of some of the players on the bench next to him, and the frustration of the others.

Not only was it a high stick, Marleau’s face exploded with blood. Everything went to shit from there, it was a brawl, everyone on the ice was fighting and Marleau, bless his heart, was trying to fight too. He was pushed off the ice by an official to their bench and Shane yanked him over the boards and into the tunnel into the evaluation room just a few feet from the arena. It was 2-2 in the third period with five minutes, and if he could get Marley back out for the power play they would score.

“That fucking bitch, I should kill that fucking pussy” Marley spat and wiped the blood on his chin on the back of his glove. One of the trainers Brad had followed them back to the room.

“Brad, he’s gonna need a new jersey from equipment. Now please” Shane said over his shoulder. “Sit down” he directed Marley. Shane tugged on a pair of gloves and grabbed hold of his chin. Marley was still shit talking and thrashing his head around. “Just the nose?” he asked and he nodded.

“Stay still, let me see if I can fix this so you can go score on the power play, let’s convert first and fight later” Shane said, swatting one of his hands away that was lingering by his face.

That seemed to convince him to stop. Marley was a rugged looking guy, good looking too.He had some serious facial hair and a very long and straight nose. Well, usually he did. Right now it was crooked and very clearly broken. Shane pressed his fingers into the side of it gently. Yep, very broken, but able to be fixed now and the initial rush of blood had already slowed. Shane learned a good trick with the Sox, you never tell a player you’re about to pop their shoulder back in or that you’re going to reset their nose. The second you do, their whole body tenses and they fight you. You tell them what you’re doing as you do it or afterwards.

“You want to get back out there?” Shane asked him.

“Fuck yea wouldn’t you? I’m gonna feed that bitch my stick” Marley said, trying to sit still. The last word had barely left Marley’s mouth before Shane’s fingers pressed down and inward firmly.

“OW! Fuck” Marley said and pulled his head away from Shane’s hands. Shane couldn’t help the small smile on his lips as he stripped his blood covered gloves and put on a new set, and reached for some bandages.

“You’re fucking, you! Ow” Marley stuttered, accusatory.

“Your nose was broken, I’m gonna tape you up and you’re going to go back out. If you complain right now I’m going to take longer” Shane said with a raised eyebrow.

“Jersey off” he said as he ripped open a few alcohol wipes, Marley dumped his soiled equipment onto the ground. Shane cleaned up the blood on his face and gloves just as the equipment manager was running down the hallway with a new jersey.

“God you’re worse than my mother, you know that?” Marley said. Shane efficiently taped his nose to offer some level of support and stepped back, handing him his jersey.

Marley threw it on and moved to his feet, jamming the gloves on his hands.

“Go score. Goalie is weak on the top right pocket” Shane said, he couldn’t help himself. It was glaringly obvious to him but not so obvious to all of the Raiders but one. But that Raider still wasn’t looking at him or talking to him unless completely necessary.

“Like a one man pit stop Hollzy, you’re a fucking legend” Marley said, patting him on the head once before he stormed back towards the tunnel to their bench. Shane didn’t keep track of how quickly he provided treatments, but he was pretty proud of how fast he managed to turn that around.

He tried to help Brad clean up the room, but Brad shooed him away and urged him to go watch the game.

Shane returned back to the bench in time to watch Marley get to the bench with two minutes left in the period. Marley nodded to his coach and subbed on the fly as another forward left the ice. A quick pass from Rozanov to Marley was made, who cut into the lane drawing the defender, he faked like he was going back to Rozanov and kept the puck, sending it into the top right pocket of the goal. The horn blew, goal. Marley blew by his teammates who were chasing him to celebrate and went straight to the bench and pointed at Shane. Shane laughed, and it felt like he’d assisted on the goal from the ice.

 

One Week Later
Round 1 Playoffs
Winnipeg at Boston, Game 1

They were up 4-2, Rozanov had ripped a shot from the blue line in the first period, wrapped around the goal in the second, and assisted for one more in the second. The remaining goal was a hail mary get rid of the puck from a defender that Winnipeg’s goalie fumbled. His Mom always said bad things came in threes. Shane was anticipating a playoff injury, he didn’t want one, but it felt inevitable. He shouldn’t have been surprised when it happened.

It was the third period of the game when Rozanov went down. Shane heard it more than he saw the injury. Sometimes injuries were quiet. Sometimes it was like a cannon. Ligaments are an important connective tissue in the body, they link bones together and prevent them from grinding and slipping over each other. Shane considered himself to be like a ligament, he tried to stabilize things around him as best as he could.

Bones give the human body structure. Rozanov was like a bone, dense and tough. Even though he was tough, the ligaments in Ilya Rozanov’s knee were like a rubber band, they stretched, they held things together. With too much tension, they snapped. A ligament tearing sometimes sounded like a gunshot when it happened. Rozanov was skating just fine as he reached his stick towards an errant puck, collecting and controlling it. He stopped on his blade’s edge and his leg was still extended out. A defender hit him hard in the opposite direction. His body went one way while his leg went the other. The pop was unmistakable.

“Fuck” Shane said. Rozanov hit the ice from the hit, and a bark of pain came out. He tried to bounce back to his feet, but his leg was destabilized. He couldn’t stand let alone skate. Rozanov’s helmet had flown off from the hit, and he just kept trying to stand without success before finally falling back to the ice again and grabbing his right knee.

Boston’s enforcer leveled the player who hit Rozanov, and both teams started going at it. Shane had already pushed himself towards the boards and was about to swing his first leg over when he was yanked by the back of his jacket by Swanson, the second string center.

“Nope Doc, let the scrum finish, always let the scrum finish” Swanson insisted. Shane needed to get on the fucking ice where Rozanov was looking rather helpless and angry. He hung his head so all Shane could see was the mess of matted curls. The officials did a decent enough job getting the players moved out of the way of Rozanov, and Shane wasted no time waving the medics over. He threw his legs over the boards and onto the ice, and made his way to him with Brad. He felt his cool blue eyes tracking him the whole way.

Bad things always comes in fucking threes.

Shane got to Rozanov quicker than the medics did. “Head, neck or back?” he asked simply, eyes taking a catalog of him, his eyes were tracking and his pupils were the same size, it didn’t look like any significant head trauma. Shane felt a little more wired than usual, maybe it was because Rozanov was nearly behind the goal now, and that Shane still remembered flashes of being loaded onto a backboard much like the one Rozanov was about to get onto.

He seemed calm, almost too calm as Shane was trying to stay focused.

“No” he shook his head no. Hollander nodded and waved the stretcher over.

“I don’t need a fucking stretcher” Rozanov hissed, Hollander leveled him with a glare, and grabbed the back of his jersey and pads and helped transfer him to the backboard to move him off the ice.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Chapter End Notes

I'm a whore (for feedback/criticism)

Chapter 6: 2 v 1

Chapter Notes

Let me know what you think :)

Shane was in his wheelhouse, this was his element. Problem solving, figuring out the failure somewhere in the body so he can fix it was his job. But his hands were shaking, and he felt a panic attack coming on. It was strange, it didn’t usually happen to him. Injuries were part of his job and he was calm in the storm. He shook his head hard and it took a little too long to thread his fingers into the narrow fingers of the nitrile gloves. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this a million times before. He’d seen much worse injuries, he’d been there for hearts that stopped, trauma surgeries and compound fractures through skin. What was his problem? This didn’t need to be personal, it was just a job. He sucked in a breath, held it and released it. He could panic later but now he had to do his job.

Shane turned with decisiveness and watched as the team of medics and trainers pulled off Rozanov’s pads and shorts until he was in his compression shorts. Shane moved them out of the way and came to stand aside Rozanov. The blare of the end of game horn registered somewhere in the arena behind them.

“Neuro check please” Shane asked one of the trainers fluttering around at his side.

“Lay back” Shane ordered Rozanov, he listened. “Relax the tension out of your legs” he said as he slid a hand under Rozanov’s built right thigh and grasped below his knee with the other hand. He pushed and pulled between them, shifting weight and the bones in his legs and looking for an endpoint that told him his ligaments were still in place.

There wasn’t an end point, there was a wince of pain on Rozanov’s placid face. Rozanov would need surgical repair, he would need tons of rehabbing, and he would be out for at least six months. He slid Rozanov’s leg up slowly until his knee was at a ninety degree angle, ignoring his cursing as he did so and ran him through another test. Fuck, make that six months of down time at least a year.

He carefully slid his leg down.

“Get him in a straight brace for transport” Shane called over his shoulder. “We’ll go to Mass General for imaging, call ahead for a private suite” Shane stepped aside and told the medics as much and to load him up. He’d seen the injury, he’d done the tests and he knew what was wrong with him, but none of it mattered until he saw the scans and could officially say it.

“I’ll be up there soon, don’t answer any questions until I’m there” Shane said curtly to Rozanov who was already being pushed down the hall. Shane jogged back to the bench to grab his stuff, and was grabbed by Coach in the hallway and one of the assistants.

“Well?” Coach asked him. Hollander shook his head and pulled him into the treatment office and just off the ice and closed the door. He’d imagined some poor trainer or doctor had a conversation much like this with the Montreal coach all those years ago.

Shane opened his mouth and then closed it, thinking for a moment. “Does his contract have a release of medical information waiver built into it?” Shane asked, suddenly his back was rather stiff and his chin lifted.

“Hollander, I don’t know, can you just tell us what’s going on?” Coach demanded.

“No, not until he has a medical release signed or it’s in his contract I can share information with you” Hollander said, simply, logically.

“It’s your job to tell us what the fuck is going on, do your job” Coach hissed. Shane raised an eyebrow. He stripped his gloves off and threw them into the trash.

“That is not my job” Shane said simply, his arms crossing over his chest and a calmness settling over him he didn’t usually have in conflict, whatever panic he had was pushed into the corner and a wash of protectiveness was there instead.

“I’m here to provide care and support to players. My job is also to protect them, and their private medical information until they sign a release or I see a contract that allows me to share their confidential medical information with their coaches”. Hollander said. “With all due respect, I’m here for the player’s well being, not management’s. Any information I share without Rozanov’s expressed consent is a HIPPA violation, and could open the Raiders up to a lawsuit since you are my employer” Hollander said firmly.

He had to care for the person, the organization only cared about the fucking score sheet.

“I’m going to head to the hospital with him. If he signs a waiver, you’ll be the first call I make, if he doesn’t that is within his rights and I’ll make sure to let him know as much. Let me know what his contract says and don’t trade him in the meantime” Shane said leaving no room for questions.

Shane didn’t have time for this. The room was quiet, and maybe he’d over stepped. Maybe he’d shot himself in the foot professionally anyway after all he’d done to keep things right around here. Whatever, he’d look for a new job if he needed to.

“Shane” Coach said simply from behind him, quieter and without any of the venom from a minute ago. “You would have made one hell of a captain. Just let us know if he’s okay” he said simply.

Shane wasted no time, he left the office. This is what he did if one of his guys went to the hospital. He headed to the locker room and packed Rozanov’s bag with a clean change of practice clothes and grabbed his phone and wallet from his locker. The drive to the hospital was short, and Shane navigated his way through the place until he got to the private suite. The nurse who was leading the way slipped into the door and came back after a moment to bring him inside.

The smell was stringent, too clean from bleach and those purple top wipes that gave you cancer if you even looked at them. He always hated the lighting in hospitals, Shane could feel the lights buzzing in his teeth. Rozanov was sitting up in the hospital bed still wearing his under clothes, tight spandex shorts and his equally tight shirt. He was dwarfing the bed, his right leg was straight on the bed and his left foot was hanging off the bed. His face was placid, eyes tracking Shane as he flitted into the room.

Shane thought about the weird silent treatment and uneasy relationship they’d had since Shane set Rozanov straight. He might not want him here.

“Hey” Shane said, dropping the bags in the chair in the corner of the room, he was keyed up. ”Is it alright that I’m here?” he asked, he wouldn’t hold it against him if he said no. They hardly had a positive relationship.

“Yes”, Rozanov said simply, his hand ran through his curly hair, half stuck up and half slicked to his head.

“Did they give you anything or do anything?” Shane asked.

“No, just got up here five minutes ago” Rozanov said, pulling himself up higher on the bed and wincing slightly as he moved his leg.

“Did you sign any papers?” Shane asked. Rozanov shook his head no.

“Okay” Shane nodded, “Before anyone else comes in here, I need you to listen to me”.

“Is this doctor's orders?” Rozanov raised an eyebrow with a hint of a smile. He was in much better spirits than Shane expected, and he was actually talking to him.

“Does your contract have a medical information release clause?” he asked urgently, pulling up the chair next to him and sitting down in it.

“No, Hollander. You are having a panic attack”, Rozanov said. Shane was talking too swiftly, and he was sure he had that wild look in his eye he sometimes got. He huffed out a frustrated breath.

“Just fucking listen ok, don’t sign anything. Don’t let the Metros know what’s going on or what the scans say until you know. We can talk about what it means so you can plan if you need bring in your agent” Shane insisted, running a hand through his hair. Rozanov’s eyes ran over his face, revealing nothing.

“You mean Raiders” Rozanov said evenly. Shane shook his head and dragged a hand through his hair. Fuck. He was losing it a little, old memories were mixing with the present.

“Yes, don’t give the Raiders any information. Not until we know what’s going on” he said. Rozanov shook his head slowly, his eyes running over Shane’s face. “I’m not trying to make you worry I’m just trying to protect you” Shane insisted, realizing he was a bit more frantic than usual.

“I’m not worried” Rozanov said, it seemed honest and it gave Shane pause. “I will listen, nobody knows my medical stuff but you” he said as if to assure Shane.

A strange olive branch extended between them. Shane released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“So I break my knee?” Rozanov asked as an afterthought, looking down at it.

Shane moved to stand over him, there was already significant swelling. He slowly moved his fingers to his knee and pressed into it gently, Ilya hissed a small breath between his teeth.

“No break, probably some ligament tears but we need some scans done before I can say for sure” Shane said. “Do you want me to call your emergency contact?” Shane asked, he was sure Rozanov would like to have someone here he actually liked and trusted. A doctor strolled into the room and Shane moved to his feet.

“Mr.Rozanov” the doctor said, nodding to him, “And…” he said, squinting at Shane’s badge.

“Doctor Hollander with the Raiders” Shane extended his hand and they shook.

“I’m Doctor Lee, what’s going on today Mr. Rozanov?” he asked, standing at the foot of the bed. Rozanov looked at Shane and raised his eyebrows.

“Tell him” Shane said with thinly veiled frustration.

“I was playing hockey, I stop on edge of skate to change direction. I got hit, leg stays one way, body goes other. I hear pop, my knee hurts. Owie” he said with a flourish of his hand and let it smack back onto the hospital bed. The doctor nodded and then looked at Shane.

“Positive lachman, positive valgus tests. Hoping for imaging to confirm, he has no allergies and we won’t need any surgical consultation” Shane explained simply. Dr. Lee nodded his head.

“Well then let’s get him to MRI” he said, “Someone will be in to take him in and get him dressed out” he said and left the room.

“How did the game end?” Rozanov asked to fill the silence, Shane scrolled on his phone for the score.

“Lost, 3-2, only the first game in the series. They can pull it out next game. The team took care of the guy who hit you” Shane said. He dug through his bag and took out a pad folio and a document.

“Sign this” Shane handed it to Rozanov. He read the paper over.

“No, you told me not to sign anything” Rozanov countered, his lips pursing into a frown.

Shane let his head tip backwards in frustration. “It’s only for me, it lets them share results and things with me. Unless you want Dr. Brown, or someone else” Shane offered. Rozanov squinted his eyes at Shane, as if trying to decide.

“No, I want you” Rozanov sighed, grabbing the pen and signing it like it was an autograph with a smirk.

“Ok” Shane said, breathing a little easier since his dumb paper was signed. “Do you want coaches and teammates visiting you or not? I can restrict visiting on your behalf, everyone wants to know” Shane offered.

“Will I be here long?” Rozanov asked with raised eyebrows. Shane shook his head.

“Then they do not come” Rozanov said simply, coolly. There was still an air of discomfort between the two of them.

“Ok, I’ll let them know” Shane picked up his phone and sent a text to Marleau who was Rozanov’s alternate captain.

A nurse breezed inside the room and helped Rozanov dress out while Shane was busy on his phone. “You’ll need to take your necklace off before we go to imaging” she said, reaching towards his neck.

He snapped his head away from her hands. “No, no, no. It stays on always” Rozanov’s hand went to the warm metal sitting between his pecs and pressed his thumb into the crucifix.

She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, we can’t have you go into the MRI machine with metal on. If you lean forward I can take it off for you” she offered kindly.

“No” Rozanov sat up too quickly, not paying his leg much mind and hissed at the pain. He was a caged animal, eyes pacing like he was being cornered.

“Hey” Shane went to his feet so he could stand next to him. Shane’s hand rested on Rozanov’s bicep only long enough for Rozanov’s attention to be grabbed before removing it. “The scanner is a big magnet, if you keep it on it will rip it off and hurt you, you have to take it off” Shane told him.

Rozanov looked panicked. A necklace was what was worrying him, not his injury status. Panic didn’t look right on him, someone always so confident being almost scared. His fingers were holding the pendant tightly, his nail beds turning white. It must be important, this was the most emotional Shane had ever seen him.

Rozanov’s eyes skipped to his searching his face. “It’s my mother's,” he offered weakly.

“We can put it in your belongings bag, it stays in the room” the nurse said quietly. Rozanov shook his head.

“Hey” Shane repeated, softer. Rozanov’s eyes skipped to him and there was emotion in them. “I’ll hold onto it. I’ll put it on my neck, so you can see it there until you get out. It won’t fall off, I won’t lose it” Shane said, quietly.

Shane reached a hand forward, his instinct was to lay it on the skin of his bicep again, rub circles on his skin, comfort him with that way that human touch only seemed to help or hurt. Shane’s hand hovered before it dropped back to his side. It wasn’t appropriate or professional. He shouldn’t touch.

Rozanov pressed his lips together firmly and nodded. “Lean forward” Shane said, his hand moving to push his shoulder forward gently and he carefully unclasped the necklace and pooled it in the palm of his hand. It was warm from his body heat. Shane ran his thumb over the pile of chain in his hand.

“Put it on me yourself. I’m not going to lose it” Shane said, kneeling at his side, head tilted to the ground. He fixed his eyes on the dirty tile floor of the hospital room. He felt Rozanov’s hands shaking on the back of his neck, and heard the quiet cursing as he struggled to clasp it. When he did, there was a gentle huff of breath and a quiet “Okay”.

Shane got up and sat back in the chair at the side of the bed. Rozanov’s eyes followed him, stuck on the necklace that was hanging lower on Shane’s chest than on Rozanov's. Shane smoothed the chain around his neck. Rozanov’s eyes flicked to his, deep, something in them more so than usual.

“We’re good here” Shane assured him. “Listen to nurse…” Shane trailed off, and looked up at the RN who was still standing there watching them.

“Bailey” she said with a small smile.

“Bailey” Shane repeated and leaned back in his chair. He always made an effort to be nice to nurses, he hated when doctors thought they were better than them and were needlessly rude.

“Any other jewelry or piercings or anything metal on you?” she asked.

“No Bailey” Rozanov said, shaking his head.

“Okay then lets go downstairs” she said, grabbing a wheelchair from the corner and getting Rozanov transferred over into it.

“Have you ever had an MRI?” Shane asked as he opened the door for them. He shook his head. “Are you claustrophobic?” Shane asked. Rozanov’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I do not know this word” he said.

“Are you afraid in tight spaces?” Shane said with a small smile. Rozanov shook his head no.

“Good, you’re going to lay on this table and they’re going to move it into this machine. It makes a loud noise and you have to stay still and try to keep your leg straight. They let you pick music to listen to. I’ll be in the next room over looking at the scans and we’ll know what we’re looking at. Okay?” Shane said.

Rozanov just nodded his head.

“Bringing your own doctor makes everything move ten times faster” Bailey told Rozanov, “The scan is quick don’t worry about it” she assured him as they pulled around the corner to the imaging room and got him transferred on the table.

“I’m going to be in the other room,” he said. Rozanov nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. His eyes fixed again on the pendant on Shane’s neck.

Shane slid around the corner into the imaging room and leaned up against the wall as they prepped him and the tests started.

Shane always liked this part of medicine. People were interesting on the outsides of their bodies but the insides were just as interesting. He flipped his glasses down onto his nose and leaned towards the computer. The scans took maybe fifteen minutes if they were done right the first time. Fifteen minutes of waiting and he had his answer.

As he anticipated, “Shit” Shane said under his breath as he took in the images. “ACL, MCL, and meniscus” Shane muttered, and took a note on his pad.

“Ugh we are so fucked, in the first round too. Could have been a cup contender” the MRI tech groaned quietly as they took in the missing ligaments.

“We’re not deep in the center, but I think we can do some line swaps and figure it out. Won’t be as pretty but I think we can take them” Shane said. The tech glanced over his shoulder.

“Yeah” he said, and then snapped his head back. “Holy shit you’re” he said pointing his finger at Shane.

“He’s moving, can we focus on that?’ Shane asked the guy. He nodded enthusiastically and turned on the microphone.

“Try to hold still, we're almost done” he said over the microphone to Rozanov.

“Maybe you could put some skates on,” the tech said over his shoulder. Shane made no reply. He pulled up his phone calendar, Rozanov would need four weeks of downtime for the swelling to subside before Shane could get him on the OR table. Shane rang his contact at the city surgical center and left a message.

On the bright side, this was not a career ending injury, Rozanov would be out for around twelve months if not a little longer if everything went well. One year was a long time for someone to be on injury reserve, and teams got touchy especially with high salaries taking up most of the cap. Shane was no liar, but sometimes there was a range for recovery and Boston didn’t need to know the low end wasn’t achievable.

Shane waited until they were back in the room and the door closed behind the doctor to tell Rozanov. Whatever reaction he expected to see, he didn’t get it. Rozanov looked bored in the room, he flicked a piece of lint off of the sheets. Shane sat in a chair nearby and just quietly watched him. Maybe he was in shock, maybe he would go home and punch something like he had in the locker room. Maybe he didn’t want to show any weakness with Shane.

“Do you have any questions?” Shane asked him. Rozanov just blinked at him.

“Do I get any pain pills?” he asked suddenly. “Don’t want them” his hand went to his neck absently as if to grasp something.

“After surgery we can discuss a prescription, for now over the counter for pain management" he said. Rozanov’s hand closed on his chest around nothing, and his eyes traveled down to Shane’s chest with almost desperation. Shane looked down and realized what he must be staring at.

“Oh” he said, bringing his hands to his own neck and touching the metal with his fingers in the same way Rozanov had held it.

Shane reached for the back of his neck and unclasped the necklace quickly. He reached out towards Rozanov with it and he shook his head and tilted his head down. Shane quickly secured it around his neck for him, his fingers dragged against the skin at the back of his neck for a second. Rozanov grabbed the pendant between his fingers like it was some kind of tether to life.

Shane was observant but it felt like he was missing something big. He cleared his throat, and whatever panic he saw a moment ago on Rozanov’s face was gone in a moment. Shane didn’t know if it was okay to ask him things. It was made pretty clear the past few months Rozanov wasn’t interested in knowing him or being known by him.

Shane decided to ask anyway. “You said it’s your mother’s?” Shane said before he could stop it. Rozanov’s cool eyes slid to Shane’s, closed off and guarded.

“Yes” the response was simple, it didn’t invite any more questions or desire to provide any other answers.

“Do you want to call them? Your parents”, Shane offered. Rozanov looked anywhere but Shane.

“They’re dead” was the reply.

“Oh” Shane replied. Silence was heavy and uncomfortable. Shane should stop prying, get back to helping instead of trying to get to know him.

“Where do you live?” Shane asked.

“Off Newbury” Rozanov said simply, it was the most expensive neighborhood in the city, full of old brownstones and extremely expensive townhouses.

“In a brownstone?” he asked. Rozanov nodded once. “With an elevator?” Shane asked.

“Four story walk to penthouse” Rozanov said simply.

“Rozanov, that’s, you’re" he stuttered, "You're not going to be able to walk for a while let alone go up four flights of stairs. You’re going to be on crutches today and for at least a few months after surgery” Shane said, blinking at him. “Is there somebody you can stay with for a bit?” Shane asked.

Rozanov blinked, he stiffened. The lack of response was the answer, and it was loud. Shane wanted to relate to Rozanov and tell him he’d been where he was, albeit Shane’s experience was worse. He wanted to reach out and comfort him and tell him it was okay to be afraid. But there really wasn’t much their situations had in common aside playing hockey and being in a hospital bed.

Rozanov would be back to the sport if he wanted to, Shane never had a hope. Shane was devastated, Rozanov sat almost bored. Shane had his family with him and their endless support, Rozanov’s parents were dead and he didn’t seem to have anyone.

“Can I call someone on the team for you? You need somewhere to stay tonight” Shane said simply. Shane watched Rozanov with the team. They respected him, liked him, but there was a sort of distance between them aside from jokes and jabs. Did anyone know Rozanov? Marley seemed to be the closest to him.

“No” Rozanov said simply. The nurse came in the room to help get him discharged and Shane took the moment to slip out of the hospital room. Clearly he wasn’t going to make this easy on him.

He huffed out a breath and checked his phone, it was just after one AM. He clicked on Marley’s number and said a quiet prayer that he wasn’t out drunk somewhere and answered. The phone rang four times before it clicked and a gravely voice came through.

“Hello” Marley asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Hey, it's Shane” he said quietly.

“Is everything okay? Is Roz okay?” there was an urgency that bled through his tone that cut through his sleepy confusion. Shane heard a female’s voice murmur in the back.

“Shit sorry” Shane apologized.

“Hollzy, is he good? Where are you?” Marley ignored his apologies.

“He’s good, getting discharged. There’s no way he’s going to be able to climb his apartment stairs and he’s being stubborn. Do you have stairs to get to your place, and if not can he stay with you for a bit?” Shane asked.

Marley huffed out a relieved breath. “I can set him up on my couch downstairs. All the bedrooms have stairs. Do I need to come pick him up?”.

Shane looked over his shoulder and popped the door and saw Rozanov was stripping off the hospital gown over his head. He raised an eyebrow at Shane, who turned around again.

“No I’ll bring him, send me your address?” Shane asked.

“Yea, thanks Hollzy see you in a bit” Marley yawned and Shane ended the call. The car ride was silent, they didn’t talk, he didn’t turn on music. They sat with just the sound of the air whooshing through the vents and the tires over manhole covers. He helped him up the four small steps to Marley’s front door. Marley greeted them with his hair half stuck up and shirtless, a pair of sweatpants on and narrowed sleepy eyes. Shane passed him the bag he’d backed for him.

“Rozanov” Shane called before he passed through the threshold, “I’m going to pick you up at 0800 here tomorrow, we will go to the facility together and talk to staff. They set up a meeting” Shane said. Rozanov nodded and continued into the house.

“Thanks Shane” Marley said, with an appreciative nod.

“Yeah, thanks for taking him. I figured’d he be happier here than at mine. He wasn’t really willing to volunteer much information on who he could stay with” Shane said shoving his hands in his pockets. Marley nodded with a frown on his face.

“Does he need to take pills or anything?” he asked. Shane shook his head, “Whatever over the counter is fine, icing won’t hurt but nothing special outside of that and resting” Shane said. "Make sure he is using the crutches".

“Okay, thanks” Marley nodded and said his goodnight.

 

*

6 Hours Later
Boston Training Facility

Ilya sat in a conference room chair and blinked at the polished wood of the table, he slept like shit. He’d been in this room a few times, it was the business room. It was the place contracts got signed. He sighed quietly and adjusted his leg under the table, he was already going crazy. He was swollen, stiff, and he didn’t realize how much he needed his knee until it hurt all the time. He heard the door opening and closing as more people seemed to be filing into the room and pulling out chairs.

Ilya was at the head of the table and Hollander was to his immediate right. Hollander was hovering, he hovered in the hospital last night and he was doing it again. He wanted to reach over and grab his bouncing knee and tell him to relax, but he didn’t. Hollander was clearly anxious and it continued into the morning. His nose was scrunched in a way that made his freckles even more apparent.

Ilya would usually be annoyed about being fussed over, but it seemed like Hollander was trying to care for him in whatever neurotic way he could. He was in his corner, even if it was nothing but professional. Ilya looked up and noticed that the rest of the table was being filled in with professional staff and coaches. The GM for the Raiders was at the head of the table opposite of him, the table was very clearly split. The two remaining seats on his and Hollander’s side were empty. Coach walked in and sat on the other side of Ilya.

Coach gave him a firm nod, and a gentle slap on his shoulder. Ilya felt Hollander’s eyes on him but he didn’t look up.

“Shane” Coach said with a nod. Hollander made no reply.

“Okay” their GM said, “Looks like all relevant parties are here” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out why we didn’t have an update last night and why we don't know what is going on,” he asked.

“Dr. Hollander brought it to my attention that Ilya’s contract does not have language built in that allows him to disclose medical information” Coach said, “So we’re hoping to hear now about what happened yesterday”. The GM raised his eyebrows and looked at his assistant, who quickly jotted something down.

Shane cleared his throat, “Ilya tore his ACL, MCL, and his meniscus in his right knee” Shane said simply. Ilya just sat and watched Hollander with little expression on his face. Whatever anxiety he'd been carrying since last night seemingly evaporated and was instead cooled into a hard mask as he talked to the staff.

“Can he get taped or braced and continue playing or what are we looking at?” Coach asked.

“Absolutely not”, Hollander said firmly. “The ACL holds the two bones in your leg in place so when you change direction or push off the bones don’t slide over the other and grind or slip. It’s the support to the knee with the MCL. The meniscus keeps the knee cap in place. He can’t skate, he can’t change direction, he can’t put weight on his leg for at least two weeks. He’ll need surgery in about four weeks when the swelling subsides". Ilya felt a bit like a child with adults talking about him infront of him.

“How long is recovery from surgery?” Coach asked.

“There’s a protocol afterwards, usually six months minimum post op but up to a year in some cases” Hollander said leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.

“But if we did tape him or brace him, could he play in the playoffs?” the GM asked. Ilya felt like a piece of meat at a butcher counter being haggled over. At the end of the day he was just a body in a jersey who scored goals and made them money. They didn’t care about him. They hardly even knew him, they cared about the bottom line. Ilya stared at the wood grain on the tabletop.

“No” Hollander’s voice was firm. “Taping him, bracing him, or making him play would cause chronic pain. His knee would buckle anytime he tried to turn, you’d be causing career ending damage. Osteoarthritis. Not to mention he’d be totally ineffective on the ice. He’d only hurt himself more” Hollander listed.

“Rozanov” The GM said, Ilya’s eyes flicked up to meet him. “What do you want to do?” he asked. Ilya wanted to laugh.

What kind of question was that? He heard what Hollander said, he couldn’t play let alone walk. It was a question that asked him to give the answer he wanted to hear. If he said no, he was disloyal and standing up to management, if he said yes he’d be damaging his body. Ilya opened his mouth, unsure of what to say and he suddenly realized he didn’t really care. He didn’t care he was injured, he didn’t care about hockey. He didn’t care if he got back to the sport. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to disappear.

“No” Hollander repeated again, harder and firm like he was battling the thought in Ilya’s head. “I won’t sign off on it”. The GM’s eyes slid to Hollander’s and flashed.

“We can find a doctor that will, we’re not going to find a new center. You’re replaceable, he’s not” he said, clearly not happy with the answer he was being given, the tip of his nose was red. Hollander was fighting for him, at least for his health. He felt the need to back him considering he was putting his neck out for him, for no reason seemingly other than what was best for him.

“I won’t work with another doctor, I will work with Shane” Ilya piped up. A beat of silence filled the room. He didn’t know why he used his first name.

“That settles it then, I cant in good conscience put him out like this" Coach piped up. Three against one. It was their end of the table against the rest. The room was quiet.

“So then what?” the GM asked, clearly simmering with anger about being stood up to.

“Physical therapy every day pre-surgery to get him stronger, surgery in four weeks and then PT until he’s ready to go again” Hollander said simple. “Cutting corners will only get us back at this table, he’ll come back when he’s ready” he reiterated. "I won't sign off on return to play until he actually is ready" Hollander warned.

“And we can do all the treatment he needs here?” Coach asked.

“Our physical therapist is about to go out on maternity leave” John the head trainer said while standing against the wall.

“I know the protocols, I can work with him" Hollander said, "We can supplement with training staff". He had an answer for everything.

“What about away games?” Coach asked. Hollander looked at Ilya. He was their captain, he should be at playoff games to support his team. It was the right thing to do.

“He won’t be able to travel immediately post surgery, if the team is still traveling I will go to away games. I have a PT I worked with at the Sox who might be able to supplement if needed” Hollander said.

“And in off season?” Coach asked Hollander. He shrugged. “I’m here, I’ll work with him. If it’s what Ilya wants” Hollander said, their eyes connected for the first time since they sat down. Deep brown eyes that were protective and emotional. Eyes that saw right through him.

“Yes” he said simply. Hollander nodded once hard.

Chapter End Notes

Oh no! They're going to be spending a lot of time together, I wonder what will happen??!

Chapter 7: Building Trust

Chapter Notes

YuH get into ittttt (meme)

Three Days Later
Boston Hockey Complex

 

Ilya laid on the treatment table as one of the trainers set up the cold pump machine and wrapped his leg up. He felt better rested than he had since he was a child. He looked around the room at the faces of some of his teammates who looked like they’d all been kicked in the groin. Ilya supposed he should feel like that, but he didn’t. Ilya was too distracted at the prospect of Hollander. Ilya was bored of hockey, he was not bored of Hollander. He should be, he was objectively boring, he read books, he did crossword puzzles and read the New Yorker, he got excited about surgeries and injuries. He drank plain green tea. Boring, boring, boring.

Hollander sat on his little stool typing on his computer a few feet away, his nose scrunched in concentration and a small V between his eyebrows. Marley and a few of his teammates hung around Ilya’s table, moping.

“This is such bullshit, you should be coming with us on the road” Marley said, climbing onto the end of Ilya’s table and sitting down.

“Those things are not stable enough for two people of your size” Hollander said in a sing-songy voice without looking up at them. Ilya wished he would, he wanted to look at him straight on.

“Fuck you Hollzy, you’re climbing people like a tree on these tables all the time” Marley snipped back. Hollander was doing his best to stay distant. If Ilya knew one thing, it was how to get a reaction from people. He did it with his family, with friends, he did it with people on the ice. He was going to do it now.

“Hollander is delicate and small. He weighs nothing, like a small baby” Rozanov said, earning a laugh from the guys.

Shane’s eyes flicked up to his as if to take his temperature. They hadn’t interacted much since he’d turned Ilya down. There was the brief truce in the hospital and going to bat for him with management, but as much as Ilya wanted to read into it he knew Shane would have done the same thing for anyone else on the team. It was just who he was. He needed to stop thinking of him by his first name, it was Hollander, not Shane.

Ilya was the one who had to decide where this was going. He was the one who’d made this dynamic needlessly uncomfortable, and reacted emotionally afterwards when Shane, no, Hollander drew a line in the sand. He supposed it was up to him to make it right.

Ilya decided if he was going to be spending so much time around Hollander, he needed to at least try to bury whatever resentment he had towards him. The only resentment was his rejection, it was childish but it burned and stung like a blister. Ilya, if he was being honest with himself, he liked Hollander a little too much. He was attractive, smart, and he’d protected him. He’d gone to bat for him with the Raiders and Ilya hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

Ilya had wanted Hollander’s body for a while, ever since he’d met him all those years ago, but now he found himself wanting his approval. He wanted to impress him, and show him he wasn’t just a smart mouth and half baked decisions.

Hollander looked up at him from behind his monitor and glared, the attention lifted the edges of Ilya’s mouth into a soft smile. Hollander paused his typing and furrowed his brow before typing again. He was so pretty, not in a feminine way, hot wasn’t always the right word for him. His eyes made Ilya ill sometimes, so shiny and filled with all the thoughts he didn’t say, and his freckles and long eyelashes. His skin was smooth and flawless. Ilya looked away and back at his teammates who had circled around him.

The freezing water started pulsing around his leg and he let himself settle into the bed, enjoying the relief.

“It’s only a four hour ride to Winnipeg, I feel like his leg will be fine” Johnson said, resting his chin on the training table and looking up at Ilya. “Come on, Hollander let him out” he begged.

Hollander rubbed a hand over his face.

“Do you even have a GED Johnson? Maybe you should leave the medical calls to the Doctor” Hollander said with a smirk.

Ilya liked this, he liked that his team liked Hollander and that he seemed to like them back. Ilya knew some of his team believed anyone outside the hockey players were just there to help, that they didn’t matter and weren’t worth saying hello to. It always made him angry, and he snapped at them whenever he saw them being dismissive to anyone on the staff. Ilya never had to make anyone like Hollander, they just did.

Johnson pouted and the boys laughed. “The plane doesn’t have enough space for his leg to be straight without getting run over by the drink cart” Hollander said. “He’d have to sit in the box at the game anyway or you’d trample him on the bench” Hollander said. He raised his eyebrows to ask his team if they understood why he wasn’t going now.

Some of them grumbled under their breath. Hollander bent over at the side of the table and rolled up a towel, and flicked Marley out of the way. Hollander gently lifted Ilya’s leg and placed the towel underneath his knee. Ilya wondered if those hands were always so gentle, they used to cause chaos on the ice. Ilya’s eyes lingered on them, they were strong, thin fingers, a little cold at the fingertips.

“We win this game and we’ll be back here for the next game by the end of the week” Marley told Ilya, patting the top of his head as he slid off of the table, which did wobble from the movement of his weight.

“Is how series games work Marley, yes, very good you’re learning after thirteen years” Ilya said and Marley rolled his eyes.

“Time to head out boys, loading the bus up” Tim on the training staff said poking his head in the room, the guys groaned. They slapped Ilya on the back, and Marley gave him a little shake on the shoulder.

“You gonna be good by yourself in the house dude?” Marley asked again, Hollander flicked his eyes up to him.

“Yes, I am going to climb stairs and jerk off on your pillow tonight I think” Ilya said, to fuck with Marley and to watch the flush spread over Hollander’s cheeks. He got what he was looking for.

“Ugh dude” Marley laughed and got off of the bench, Ilya told them to win and watched them walk out and the heavy metal door slammed behind them, closing off the loud jokes and yelling and leaving Ilya and Hollander in a quiet vacuum.

It was just the two of them there, Hollander was staying behind travel games until his swelling was under control and his therapy started up. It was going to be just the two of them today.
Ilya watched as Hollander focused on anything but him, fluttering around the room, cleaning, putting things away and straightening up.

Ilya monitored his movements, greedy for the alone time, even if it was just to watch him without being worried about his team catching on. Hollander was graceful as he moved, the athleticism never left the athlete.

Ilya studied him a lot when he was quiet, but Hollander shared more when he was talking, it wasn’t always through words, it was the expression on his face or what would flash in his eyes.

“You think we will win tomorrow?” Ilya asked him in the quiet room.

“Yes, Winnipeg’s goalie is hurt and their defense relies way too much on him” Hollander replied simply, Hollander's eyes said no, they wouldn’t win the game. Ilya snorted.

“Their backup is good enough to make an impact” Ilya said, it was true.

“I just think they’re a bit young which isn’t a bad thing, they need veterans to anchor them with their usual lineups disrupted and in playoffs” Hollander replied over his shoulder. Ilya liked talking to him, even about hockey. Even if he wasn’t being totally honest.

A few long seconds of silence stretched between them.

“So” Hollander said, back still turned, folding towels. “I think we should have another one of our talks”.

If Ilya wasn’t in the same room as him he’d think by his voice he was being held at gun point. Ilya felt his lips quirk up into a smirk. He couldn’t help himself.

“I haven’t said I want to suck your dick in like thirty days Hollander, I am clean. Behaving” Ilya said, and watched carefully for Hollander’s reaction. He snapped his head over his shoulder with a glare and his mouth opened and closed. Ilya couldn’t help but smirk, he snapped his lips closed so he didn’t laugh.

“That’s not, not what I meant” Hollander spun to face him now, still keeping his distance. Ilya raised an eyebrow and waited for him to compose himself. Ilya wanted to peel that composure back with his fingers, and let it fall to the floor like clothes on the way to bed. He had a feeling Hollander blushed all the way down to his toes, and he bet those freckles were elsewhere on his skin.

“I meant, having a talk about therapy and recovery. Expectations” he said, waving a hand around in the air. “We don’t need to be friends, but there needs to be a level of trust here, you need to trust I’m going to make calls that are for the best and I need to trust you’re going to tell me how you feel and not do more activity than I authorize” he settled with his back against a table. “You don’t have to like me. But you need to trust me, and I need to know if you’re in pain or if we’re doing too much” Hollander repeated, a bit more settled.

Ilya gave him a once over, he already trusted him about this, Hollander had proved himself to his teammates, and he’d proven himself behind closed doors with his management. Ilya wasn’t sure honesty was something he could provide, at least not in the way Hollander would appreciate.

“Fine” Ilya shrugged.

“That’s it?” Shane asked incredulously.

“Oh you want me to fight you?” Ilya offered at Shane’s pause. The machine beeped loudly, and Hollander carefully unwrapped the wrap from his leg and rested it on a cart. He grasped Ilya’s ankle with his hand and gently pushed it towards his butt, forcing his leg to bend. Ilya gritted his teeth through the pain, Hollander was torturing him.

“I know, sorry. We have to push through all that swelling or you lose mobility” Shane apologized earnestly and brought his foot to a stop. “Keep it there for a bit and then I’ll stretch you out” Shane said.

Ilya felt his mouth open, “I’ll stretch you..” he started, and Hollander glared at him and the rest of the words died in his mouth. Asking Ilya not to flirt with him when they were alone, and like this, was next to impossible, it’s part of why he was ignoring him to begin with. If Hollander wanted trust, he had to understand this was part of it too.

“Ok, let’s talk through surgery so you know what to expect. It’s boring but we need to” Shane said, collapsing back onto his little stool.

“We have three options for your new ligaments” he said, sliding his glasses down from the top of his head, he grabbed his notepad and squinted at it. It was endearing for some reason, and Ilya felt a small smile lift at the edges of his lips. Hollander babbled on for a while in the way that he did when he was speaking about his job and nobody understood what the hell he was saying. He didn’t bother to try dumbing things down.

Cerebral, it was the word the announcers always used in old clips of Hollander playing. Ilya had looked it up once, it meant smart essentially, using your whole brain. Ilya didn’t care what he was saying, he just liked watching the emotions flit across his face, his hands moving around in the air as he talked, how his puffy lips touched and parted as he spoke. Ilya was fucked, he knew that.

“Are you even listening to me” he asked loudly at one point, and Ilya lazily moved his eyes up from Shane’s neck where he’d been watching him swallow and up to his eyes. His cheeks were red.

“No” Ilya said honestly. Shane hissed through his clenched teeth.

“Focus, for fucks sake, this is your decision” Shane ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Less english words, tell me only what I need to know” Ilya offered, not like it would make much of a difference.

“Three options for new ligaments, I take some from your muscle, tendon, or we used cadaver tissue from a donor”

 

Ilya raised his eyebrows at that, “Like kidney donor?” he asked.

Shane shook his head, “Not a live person, the risk of that is that it is a bit weaker in the long run. I prefer using your own tissue”. Ilya shrugged.

“We do what you like” he said simply.

“You need to pick, I can take from your patellar tendon”, Shane moved to stand, hands warm and gently laying on his knee and running it down the middle. “That’s right here” he said. “Or we can use the hamstring, it’s the tiniest bit, and that’s from here” Shane said, sliding his hand under Ilya’s kneecap and up the back of his thigh towards the center. It wasn’t a touch that was overtly sexual, it wasn’t like he was doing it on purpose. He was just helping him understand, but Ilya wanted more. He wanted his hand to push past the line of his compression shorts, past where it was professional to touch him. Ilya tensed.

Shane’s hand left his skin, “Hamstring is generally the stronger option” he continued talking. Ilya cleared his throat.

“We do that then” he said. Shane only nodded and grabbed his ankle again, moving the rolled up towel under his ankle and pulled it his leg slowly until it was flat. His leg felt fat and hung limply.

“You’re going to need to stay with someone until you can walk, it will take about two months before I’ll think about getting you off crutches. Somewhere with no stairs to climb. The first week after surgery you’ll be on bed rest” Shane said, tapping on his tablet.

Ilya blinked, he was already over extending his stay at Marley’s house and his neck was numb from sleeping on the pullout couch. Ilya didn’t have many options. He could maybe call Svetlana and borrow her for a few days at most, but she might be busy with work.

Ilya always knew he was alone, it was the sticking point of his, the cause of that cold feeling in him more often than not, he was alone, with no family, nobody to care about him. He’s lived in this city for more than a decade, a normal person would have someone to call and ask for help.

He wasn’t normal, he was too harsh to have real relationships, refused to open up, too sad, too mean, too unlovable. He felt it all again, all the words his father called him and his brother barked over the phone.

“Hey” Hollander said, he reached his hand out towards Ilya before he thought better of it and his hand dropped to rest on his own thigh.

Ilya must have had some kind of expression on his face that showed how destroyed of a person he was because Hollander’s eyes were soft.

“Uh” Hollander said it like was unsure of himself, “I have a guest bedroom on the first level of my place, it has an ensuite. If you want” he said quickly, “The offer is there, I’ve got a gym too. It could make sense for treatments”.

Ilya gave no response, it was a horrible idea. It was a pity invitation. It was embarrassing. After treatment was done, Shane drove him back to Marley’s house and situated him inside mid morning.

He spent a lot of the day with his finger hovering above a contact newly added to his cellphone as of this morning Shane Hollander. He’d insisted on putting it in his phone since Marley was going to be out of town and there wasn’t anyone checking up on him while he was away. Hollander made it a point to do so.

It was sometime late at night that Ilya scrolled through the seven texts in their chat from earlier in the day again, willing Hollander to text him.

S: How is it feeling? Don’t forget to ice in twenty minute intervals. Let me know if you need anything.

I: Okay

S: Do all the exercises on the sheet I gave you too since you have two days off

I: Okay

S: I don’t like your tone.

S: I don’t believe you’re going to do them.

S: Let me know if you need anything, mean it.

Ilya hadn’t exactly given him much to work with, one word answers that read cold and disinterested.

Ilya wanted to tell him, he wasn’t even sure what. That he was a shit person maybe. That he was tired, that he didn’t really care about hockey, he didn’t really care about recovering. He was just doing what he was told to do, the only thing he was really ever good at. He liked having an agent, a coach, a trainer, someone else to make his decisions. When someone wasn’t there to do it, he self destructed, it’s why his personal life was so bleak. He wondered if he could text Hollander and ask him what he should have for dinner, he was too tired to even choose. Too bone deep exhausted by himself. Hollander would probably text back in thirty seconds, something boring, something like chicken and rice, no, he’d say salmon and rice. He’d probably link some article about the benefits of fish and healing. Ilya felt the beginnings of a smile at the thought.

Ilya just wouldn’t eat tonight. He wouldn’t text Hollander, it would be too telling, but he could imagine their conversations like this, the boring things he’d say, the occasional joke that was more funny than Ilya would ever give him credit for.

 

*

Next Day
Boston

 

Well, he held out longer than he wanted to, at about 6pm he texted Hollander. It wasn’t his fault that their text chain was at the top of his messages, waiting for him. He wasn’t supposed to see him today or tomorrow, he was supposed to be resting and Hollander wasn’t working.

 

Truth be told, Ilya was bored. He’d gone through all of the cabinets and drawers in Marley’s house, he’d found all the embarrassing things he could, he hopped around to different couches, and he slept. He was too alone. He didn’t want to be.

It was only two hours until puck drop for Boston and he wasn’t there. Ilya knew he could be a manipulative little bastard when he wanted to be, and right now he wanted to be. He knew the right things to say to get what he wanted. Everything these days took longer than it should, it took him nearly an hour to shower, ten minutes to get dressed.

He’d finally sat back down, and was staring at his cellphone. He picked it up again, and slid his finger into their conversation. He didn’t want to wait another whole day to see him and piss him off.

The cursor clicked, waiting for him. Ilya’s lips twitched into a small smile. Hollander had given him a list of things he was not allowed to do while injured, it was basically everything. Ilya had plenty to choose from.

I: Going to bar to watch game, do you think crutches fit in taxi

Ilya sat back and waited, he turned the ringer up high on his phone and rested it on the couch next to him. He reached for the remote and the reply was instant.

S: Are you kidding….what did I say about alcohol and going out into crowds

Ilya could almost imagine the frustration on his face, the little crease between his eyebrows and his mouth set into a hard line. Ilya’s fingers grasped onto the pendant around his neck and he smiled a bit, putting the pendant between his lips and pressing on the metal. Ilya typed out another response.

I: Will be fine, want to watch game. Bored, will probably get little bit drunk. Have no ride to get there :(

Ilya didn’t have to wait long, the text bubble stuttered a few times before it relented simply.

S: Rozanov

Ilya’s reply was immediate.

I: Hollander, you said build trust, i’m just telling you my plans.
I: Fine, I will not get taxi. I will walk there myself, only three miles each way. Night
S: Be there in 30, I hate you

Ilya chuckled quietly to himself and thirty minutes later the front door opened, Hollander pushed it open, yanking the spare key Marley had given him out of the door. Hollander looked frustrated, he also looked good. He was not in his usually khaki pants and collared shirt or team jacket. He was in a pair of jeans, a tight long sleeve and a backwards baseball hat. Ilya licked his lips.

Hollander pulled the door closed behind him and turned to face Ilya who was sprawled out on the couch. Ilya flicked an amused eyebrow up at him, and Hollander sighed, long and loud.

“Is there anything I can say to convince you to stay here?” Hollander asked cautiously. Ilya’s lips twitched, for someone who ran from his comments, he gave him too many opportunities.

“Only things you’d yell at me for saying” Ilya said with a smirk.

Hollander looked at his feet, the bangs of his dark hair suspended in the air for a moment before he lifted his head back up.

“Where are we going?” he sighed again.

Ilya didn’t want to be in a loud sports bar, that’s not what this field trip was about. He didn’t want to have beer spilled on him or to be recognized, he wanted a dimly lit place he could look at Hollander under the guise of watching the game.

Ilya directed him to a place fifteen minutes away, it had quiet booths, warm dim lighting, and always had Boston games playing. Hollander was helpful, holding the door and a hand hovering behind Ilya’s back, never touching, but there if he was needed. They slid into a booth, Ilya felt a smile small on his lips as he looked across the table.

“You get one drink, what do you want?” Hollander asked him.

“Beer, whatever” he shrugged and watched Hollander disappear to the bar. Ilya wondered if this may be considered a date to some, probably not if he extorted him here.

Hollander came back with two beers and slid one towards Ilya. Hollander was looking anywhere but him, his eyes fixed on the TV showing the team warming up. Hollander was pushing his glass back and forth gently between his two hands. Ilya nudged his foot under the table. Hollander looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“You get to pick a starting line with anyone in the league, who do you pick?” Ilya asked, hockey was always going to be a safe topic to start with.

“Active players?” Hollander asked.

“Yes” Ilya replied.

“Based on skill only, people I want on my team, or representing my organization?” Hollander asked. Ilya should have anticipated this, he’d want to know every theoretical detail and think it through a million ways of a hypothetical.

“Skill only, no chemistry, no reputation” Ilya rolled his eyes and groaned. “Goalie first” Ilya prompted. Hollander ran a finger down the side of his glass, collecting condensation on his finger tip. Ilya liked how thoughtful he was, how the different things he appeared to consider flickered across his expressive face.

“Lobotrov probably, I don’t think he’s number one in saves this season but he’s so consistent and he runs his guys like a coach” Hollander replied.

“Defenders” Ilya asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“I like the physicality of Johannes from LA” Hollander said and rubbed a hand on the side of his jaw while he thought, “And then probably Trudeau from Dallas, he’s fast and scrappy. Fearless, doesn’t shy away from a fight but doesn’t waste penalty minutes” He explained.

“Forwards” Ilya asked.

“Left wing” he said thoughtfully, “I maybe want Hugh from Minnesota" he said with a shrug. Ilya frowned, Hugh was a center. “I think he could be a better wing than a center” Shane shrugged before Ilya said anything, “He seems like a humble guy, he’s better off the puck when he’s not making decisions and just playing. I want him as a wing” Hollander said.

“For right wing, I like Marley honestly. He’s such a grinder, doesn’t care about his own points, just working hard. He plays well on both ends”. Ilya agreed, Marley was not only his friend, but a great hockey player, he was the best support for Ilya’s speed. Marley would probably cry if he knew the things Hollander was saying about him.

“Center” Ilya prompted.

Hollander shrugged. “Scott Hunter is the only option, he’s a leader, he’s calm and collected, experienced. He is intelligent” Hollander said simply. Hunter was good, but he was also the blandest man on the face of the earth. Soggy white bread man, generic American man.

“He might be more boring than you” Ilya groaned, his two arms stretching across the table and nearly brushing against Hollander’s chest.

 

“And yet, you were begging me to pick you up and go to a bar with you” Hollander quipped back. Ilya smirked, this is what he wanted, bitchy Hollander. A little mean flirting.

“Maybe I did hit my head, wanting to spend time with Dr. Boring. Is only explanation” Ilya whined and he rested his forehead on the table.

“Shut up” Hollander said.

It only then occurred to Ilya that Hollander hadn’t picked him as his center. He gasped and slammed his fist down on the tabletop, their glasses jumped on the table and Hollander shot his hand out to steady his glass.

“Rozanov” he admonished.

“You pick Scott Hunter over me?” Ilya was incredulous, he almost stuttered. It was like all of Hollander’s smile went into his eyes, they lit up with joy as he let out a couple puffs of hard air as a laugh.

“You said active players, you’re on IR. You’re on crutches” Hollander almost snorted pointing to the crutches just next to Ilya. Fair, but it still put Ilya in a sour mood and he muttered some Russian curses under his breath.

“And if I wasn’t?” Ilya asked, the question hanging between them. Ilya hadn’t wanted someone’s approval this bad since before his father died. He wanted to be accepted by him, even if it was just his hockey.

Hollander took a sip of his beer and shrugged.

“I would still go Hunter, I’d pick you for my second line” Hollander answered, his cheeks slightly flushed.

Ilya was suddenly rather bitter, and he wanted an explanation. “I’ve won more cups than Hunter, I’ve won more MVP’s, more points, I’m hotter” Ilya said, listing his accomplishments. Ilya rarely felt insecure about anything. “You ask anyone, everyone, I am better center” Ilya said seriously.

“You are objectively a better hockey player than Scott Hunter” Hollander agreed, his eyes meeting Ilya’s and pacing around his face, whatever jokes he was going to make died there. “But there are things bigger than just being statistically better” Hollander shrugged. “Hunter still plays like he has something to prove, even after all his years he’s got passion” Hollander said.

There was subtext Ilya heard loud and clear. Ilya wasn’t passionate. It felt like a swift kick to his shins.

He was passionate, ask anyone. He was a passionate lover, he fucked hard, flirted, and sometimes recklessly. Ilya considered where else in his life he was passionate and he came up with nothing. He of course knew this, he’d known he’d grown tired of hockey, he’d barely kept friendships, he didn’t have real relationships, he had no hobbies. He was constantly treading water. He knew all of this, he’d known it for years, but it was one thing to think those things and another for a man like Hollander to say it to you in a bar like it was a fact. Ilya felt small, like a child.

Hollander’s dark eyes had all sorts of emotions flicker through them, some he could name, and some he couldn’t. He knew what pity looked like, he’d had years of that look after his mother died. There wasn’t pity, lucky for him, but there was hesitation as Hollander took a sip of his beer and refocused his eyes on the TV over the bar.

“Are you passionate?” Ilya asked, he meant to ask it with an air of flirtation, to deflect his discomfort back onto Hollander but it came out as a sincere question. Ilya already knew the answer to it. Nobody could look at anything Hollander did without seeing the intensity he carried. He could see Hollander’s hesitation, this was not their usual conversation.

“I don’t know” he shrugged, “I’ve been accused of being emotionless in some areas of my life, and too invested in others” he shrugged, eyes flicking up to Ilya’s.

Ilya emptied the rest of the beer in his glass and turned away, this was getting all too serious for him. He was here to flirt, to mess around, to get Hollander to open up a bit, but not in this way.

“You are only boring I think” he said. Hollander rolled his eyes, and the quiet tension settled back over them again. Ilya’s eyes flicked up to the TV to find the game already started, and they were midway through the first period.

“I think you’re probably boring too, under all the flashy European stuff” Hollander said after a few beats of quiet.

“No, only stupid person thinks I’m boring” Ilya said, shaking his head. They watched the game for a few minutes, and Ilya got sucked into listening to Hollander’s quiet commentary.

Sometimes it seemed like he didn’t realize he was saying it out loud. Ilya barely watched the game, maybe he should feel guilty about it, he was their captain, but nothing in the game was as interesting as watching Hollander taking in the movement on the TV and watching the reflection of light in his dark eyes. He was saying thoughtful things, he was picking up on things Ilya didn’t notice.

“Marley looks a little lost without you still” Hollander said at one point, glancing over at Ilya to find him already looking at him. Shane’s eyes stayed there for a moment before flicking away.

“You sound more like a coach than a doctor, you would be okay coach” Ilya pointed out.

Shane shrugged, “I wasn’t planning on coming back to hockey, I just wanted to work with athletes”. Ilya would never coach, when he retired he’d let himself fade into obscurity. He didn’t know what he’d do after that.

“You were with baseball team before” Ilya said, less of a question and more of a statement.

“Yea, it was a good way to get my foot in the door for pro teams. I met some good people, but baseball is boring” Hollander said. Ilya snorted, it must be very boring for the most boring man to think so.

“You sleep with any players?” Ilya asked. Hollander made a noise of protest.

Ilya shrugged, “What? Baseball pants are hot. You don’t think so?”. Hollander’s cheeks blushed and he tilted his face down towards the table. Ilya enjoyed the view of the bridge of his nose where his freckles were the most concentrated before Hollander looked back up.

“Ah come on Hollander, we are having friendly beer, building trust” Ilya encouraged, using his words against him.

Hollander sighed. “I don’t do that, my job is my job. My life” he coughed, “I just keep things separate. Also, sleeping with closeted guys isn’t as fun after thirty” Hollander said, looking back at the TV. Ilya bit his lip, he half fit that description.

He was bisexual, he’d had sex with men, but he still had his reasons for not being open. Ilya was not ashamed of this part of himself, it was probably the only part of himself he wasn’t ashamed of. But Ilya still had a Russian passport, Russia was complicated. Ilya was working on citizenship with the US but it was taking a very long time.

“What if you’re missing out on the best sex of your life with that attitude?” Ilya asked, genuinely curious, leaning across the table, his eyes flicking down to Hollander’s lips.

“Maybe you’re right, maybe I should text that outfielder” Ilya was still staring at Hollander’s lips that pulled into a smile.

“You know some people have reason for being in the closet” Ilya said simply, uncharacteristically still bothered by the comment.

“I know, I’m not being judgmental. If I was still playing hockey there is no way I’d be as open” Hollander said, an apologetic smile on his lips.

“Sneaking around can be hot” Ilya said simply. Hollander’s eyes slipped to his, he cleared his throat and refocused on the TV. The sexual tension was still thick between them, and Ilya let out a sigh. He turned to watch the game and watched his team lose 3-1. Hollander dropped him off at Marley’s without another personal word exchanged.

 

*

Four Days Later
Game 3- Winnipeg Boomers at Boston Raiders
Post Game

Shane ached to control everything in his life, and he found ways to do it. He’d been admittedly a little out of control lately. Shane was spending a lot of time around Ilya Rozanov, his strong jaw, his crude sense of humor, his built body, and his blue eyes that went right through him. Shane was acting stupidly, getting beers with him on an off day, talking to him about things other than treatment. He wan’t minding boundaries he should be. He shouldn’t be salivating over someone on the team.

None of it was helping Shane’s promise to himself to keep things professional. Shane was out of control when it came to Rozanov. He wanted to kiss him, he had for years, he wanted to crawl into bed with him, he wanted to help take care of him. That was Shane’s issue, casual sex had to be casual, and Shane was anything but casual about Rozanov. There was too much under the surface that Shane could see and wanted to know about. He wasn’t the asshole playboy he acted like, he was complex. Shane wanted to know more. It was more dangerous than just pure sexual attraction, there was already too much of that. Shane needed to get the image of Rozanov’s pretty sculpted lips smiling gently across a tabletop in a bar, the way his eyes flickered with a joke before drifting off into some sad memory.

Shane was looking for any distraction, anything he could control. He could use a distraction. It didn’t take long for Shane to find one. Shane met Evan Pitts at a home game, the second in the series against Winnipeg. Boston scraped out a 3-2 win in game three of the series, but were so clearly missing Rozanov. It wasn’t the team's fault, they’d all been drafted and traded around him, he was the team.

Shane had no reason to be in the media room that night. He was mostly there to support Marley, okay, maybe make fun of him a bit. Shane was leaning at the back of the media room watching Marley take two full minutes to think through an answer before he gave a response that was not worth all the wait.

Shane was still trying to figure out if Marley had CTE or if he was just not as blessed cognitively as the rest of the world, lucky for Marley he was good at hockey and he was attractive so people gave him a pass. He’d stepped up in Rozanov’s absence as the alternate captain and as a contributor, he’d had a goal and an assist tonight. It was a pretty thing to see. Watching him do media was like watching a dumpster go up into flames though.

“What’s the attitude of the team been in practice? Have you lost any momentum with Rozanov absent on the ice and his leadership” a journalist asked. Marley screwed up his face, and his fingers pulled at the black and yellow colored table cloth on the table. Poor Marley was using all his brain cells to think, and he was doing it hard.

“I think we are a team that can overcome adversary” Marley nodded like he was some kind of scholar. Shane had to slap a hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t bark a laugh out. Adversity was the word he was looking for, it was like watching Rozanov try to place a word in English during a presser, but Marley ONLY spoke English and still couldn’t get the words right. Shane couldn’t wait to make fun of him for it.

A few journalists in the back of the room looked over their shoulder at Shane, and he guessed he wasn’t successful in not making any noise. Some with the same humored expression, some just glanced and then looked back ahead. Shane tried to school his face into one of composure, he was a professional damn it. God he couldn’t wait until he could find this clip later and laugh about it at home unrestrained.

“We love Roz and he’s still a big part of our team, but we are deep, you know. We all play hockey so, yeah” Marley finished. Amanda told the press they had one more question and Marley looked relieved.

“Heading into the playoffs, what do you think is most important for the team?” one of the journalists in the back row asked.

Marley paused for a second and shrugged, “Scoring goals, more of them than the other team” he said so earnestly it made Shane want to laugh again. He chuckled quietly, and one of the journalists tossed him a look over his shoulder again, a wide grin on his face too.

He was good looking, and Shane let himself make eye contact for a brief moment before flicking his eyes back up to Marley. Marley was a good guy and a good teammate, he dished out so much shit to everyone else Shane could hardly feel bad about laughing at the guy.

The presser ended and Marley walked down the row of media, eyes locking on Shane’s and winking as he shoved his arm out to hit Shane’s shoulder on his way out of the room. Shane lifted his back off the wall he was standing on and was about to head out of the room behind him when he heard someone speak next to him.

“Maybe you should give him some media training, you were always pretty good with the press” a quiet voice said from next to him. Shane glanced over, it was the good looking journalist. He had pretty green eyes and they were dancing with mirth. Shane let his eyes run down his lanyard around his neck that had PRESS in bold letters and he squinted at his name badge. He should have worn his glasses.

“Evan Pitts, Boston Herald” he said, with a flash of a white smile and extending his hand.

Shane extended his hand back, shaking it. “Shane Hollander, Raiders, uh here” he said in reply, moving a hand around the room.

“I know” Evan said with a small shrug, “We played against each other in juniors a couple times years ago, you probably don’t remember me”. Shane squinted at his face again, trying to match it with half covered faces with helmets and by lines on stat sheets he used to study. It was years ago, almost a lifetime. But Shane had one of those brains, good with numbers, scouting reports, and names. He blinked two more times before he placed him.

“Manitoba right?” Shane asked him and was rewarded with a bright smile and a nod in acknowledgement. “You were a right wing, you had that one fake” Shane said remembering the game. The same eyes in front of him at the time were protected by a visor and the cage of his helmet when they’d played.

“Yep, it was about all I had ” he said, “I’m surprised you remember me” he grinned. Shane waved him off with a hand and a shake of his head. He wouldn’t get into it, how much he missed hockey, how he wished things were different. They weren’t.

“So press now huh?” Shane asked.

“Yep, wasn’t good enough to get drafted, played a little college. Pro just wasn’t in the cards for me but I just love the sport” he said with a shrug, he didn’t sound hurt over it. Maybe Evan was a normal guy who knew how to move on.

“I know the feeling” Shane said in reply, and Evan rolled his eyes goodnaturedly, tucking the pen behind his ear. It was hot for some reason.

“But we both ended up at a pro hockey game anyway, guess that means something” Evan said, holding his hands out to the room around him.

“It means old habits die hard” Shane told him.

“Hard indeed” Evan said with a smile that was a little flirtier than Shane had picked up on, Evan’s eyes flitted around his face.

Oh. OH. Shane thought. Shane was still bad at picking up the signs of interest, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get better.

“Well, I thought I might as well come say hi. Couldn’t help but notice you enjoying the questions. I selfishly was hoping you might give some info on Rozanov as his Doctor” Evan said, smiling and eyes bright. Shane had to remember he was part of the organization, he couldn’t make jokes about players to journalists, he couldn’t do anything other than be professional.

Shane’s back straightened, and he let the smile fall from his face. “I’m just here to support the guys, no comments from me” he said. He hoped Evan bought it. By the quirk of his eyebrow, it didn’t seem he had.

“Relax Shane, I know how it is, I'm not going to write anything or try to swindle any info. As for Marleau, I bet you spend a lot of time with those guys and have some chirps ready for him. I miss the camaraderie" Evan said, resting a hand on Shane’s wrist over his jacket. Shane nodded.

“Marley would say commandeering" Shane joked. Evan laughed. “Marley’s a good guy, fun to be around. Always has something to say, even if he’s not sure exactly what he’s saying” Shane replied quietly, a smile on his lips. He decided he could look into Evan’s eyes a beat longer than normal for a friendly conversation.

“I was entertained” he said with a shrug.

It wasn’t that Evan wasn’t hot, or they didn’t have easy conversation, it was that Shane hadn’t felt like going out and hooking up lately. He didn’t feel like flirting or lusting after anyone new. He was content with the weird direction his life was heading in no matter how bad of an idea it was. Shane sometime about a month ago realized whatever was happening with Rozanov was probably going to happen eventually. Shane was putting up a fight, he was pretending it was nothing. But Evan was here, he was a former hockey player too, he seemed fun and like they could get along, he was good looking. Maybe he could lose himself in him for the night, and it would be one more night he outlasted Rozanov than he thought he could.

“Yea” Shane said, to himself more than Evan, like he’d given himself permission to use the guy in front of him. Shane was usually better than that.

“Well, I was going to head out to the bar around the corner and go over some of the game stats” Evan said, looking down at his notebook before looking back up at Shane. “You have any plans for after the game, or do you wanna dissect it with me over a drink?” Evan asked, it was straight forward, it was something Shane could read and understand. It wasn’t a sexual comment, or an intense look in his eyes that Shane was supposed to puzzle a meaning together through.

Ilya Rozanov’s blue eyes, troubled, flashed in his mind and it made Shane’s resolve strengthen. He wanted something easy, something distracting. Shane's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he rudely pulled it out by his hip and read the message from Rozanov.

 

I: Think I left my passport at that bar, can you bring me back so I can get it and four beers please

 

Shane could blow off Evan, decline his offer and go to the bar he actually wanted to with the man he wanted really fucking badly.

Evan was still waiting for his response. “Yea, I’d love to” he said, “I’ve got a few treatments to do, but if you don’t mind waiting an hour or so” Shane said, glancing down at his watch.

“I’ll be at Kings, come find me” Evan said, digging through his pants pocket and handing Shane a card. Shane flipped it over in his hands, sports columnist. Shane paused for a second and wondered if this was smart. “I don’t have any ulterior motives” Evan said, reading his mind and Shane’s eyes went back up to Evan’s. “Well not about hockey at least” he said with a smile and walked by Shane towards the door.

He went and he found him, and they talked for hours. They talked about lineups, about hockey, about playoffs, they talked about other things too. Shane couldn’t remember a time he clicked with someone like Evan. It became very clear to him what Shane thought could be a one night distraction from Rozanov, could be a week long distraction, maybe months of it. Shane scribbled his phone number on Evan’s card and left it on his bedside table the next morning.

Chapter End Notes

LMK what you think :)

Chapter 8: And they were roommates

Chapter Notes

Two Weeks Later
Shane’s Townhouse, Boston

 

Shane was spiraling, he knew it, but it was too late to stop once it started. There were few people in his life that he could really let go in front of. He seldom did it with his parents, they would still exchange looks between them like they weren’t sure if they should step in and do something or leave him to it. Hayden and Jackie were the next options. Hayden had a child-like excitement for Shane’s good temper being cracked and Jackie took everything in stride. Shane became very good over the years at brushing the small stuff off. Jokes about his eyes, or his heritage. Jokes about his parents, ribs about hockey, gay slurs. He didn’t blow up or act ridiculously for no reason. He did however build up until he was about to burst, and let months of anger boil over like a pot on the stove.

Shane was at Hayden and Jackie's place no more than thirty minutes when he boiled over. Poor Jackie had asked Shane such a classic, easy question. She'd asked how work was going. It was a small talk question, a question you asked a friend, or a family member, anyone really. You asked the question anticipating a short response, something menial like ‘good’. Jackie and Hayden did not get a short response. They were met with a rant from Shane. A rare, unhinged rant.

Shane started with just simple frustrations, he doesn’t like the brand of tape they stock in the locker room, the charting system they use isn’t intuitive, the ice bags are too slippery so the knot isn't as symmetrical as he likes. Then the frustrations got dumber, Shane didn’t like how the door to the training room was off center, there was a chip in the concrete floor his stool would dip into when he rolled over it. Maybe that’s why work was bothering him. He covered all the small things that made no sense until he’d built up enough steam to talk about what was really bothering him. Shane shuttered around his name, saying everything but his name, remembering every detail with too much reverence which only made him angrier. Shane was the controlled guy, the smart guy who made good decisions. He’d never been one to let someone else sway him. He wasn’t swayed, he was willing to throw himself at Rozanov’s feet and it killed him.

Shane wasn’t going to tell Hayden and Jackie how much he wanted to have him, that wasn’t something he was going to do. But he could complain until he had something else to focus on other than this sick need. So he complained, about everything, about how messy he was, things he said, the grins he’d give after saying something to Shane, his arrogance. For every criticism he made of Ilya Rozanov to his friends, he fought off a complement that outweighed it.

“I’m telling you, it’s fucking torture” Shane whined to his friends.

They exchanged a look, that kind of look that people who’d been together forever gave each other to talk shit about their friends right in front of their faces. He’d been talking for minutes, at a speed that made his voice unstable and his breath come quick like he’d been running.

“Shane” Jackie said gently, an empathetic squint to her brow as she looked at him after some time.

“All he does is fuck with me, everything he can to make me mad and it works every single time. He tries to make me look like shit and feel like shit” he complained.

“Tell him off” Hayden shrugged, trying to be helpful. Jackie threw him a look that showed he’d just made the most obvious suggestion in the world.

“I do, all the time. It does nothing, it makes it worse” he said.

“Shane” Jackie’s quiet voice prompted again, his eyes flicked up to hers. “Does the team know you’re gay?” she asked kindly. He nodded yes.

“And have they been okay with you about it?” Jackie asked. Shane nodded again, they had been, nobody really seemed to give a shit actually, it was nice.

He knew he was red in the face, he could feel the flush in his face and the hotness in the tips of his ears. He hated feeling like this, he felt like a live wire, like someone who might make a decision without thinking through the consequences. Shane was being a little crazy, not as stable as he usually was. He’d had two beers with dinner, and he was a bit of a lightweight, that must be why he was so off kilter.

“I think that maybe this guy likes you” Jackie suggested, “Sounds like it’s in a very third grade cooties kind of way but still. I have to believe that over being intentionally cruel” Jackie said, her hand resting on Shane’s forearm. She gave him a gentle squeeze. Jackie liked to see the best in people.

“I mean he sounds straight, just like he’s a massive asshole” Hayden suggested, Hayden wasn’t as perceptive as Jackie. Shane knew she read it all over him. “Don’t fall for a straight guy Shane, my roommate in college did and it was really bad” Hayden told him.

“I think he just wants to get a rise out of me” Shane relented.

“Stop giving one then” Jackie shrugged. It was much easier said than done, every part of Shane jumped to attention when Ilya was around. Asking him to ignore him was like ignoring your body being on fire.

“I’ll fight him for you” Hayden offered.

“Hayden” Jackie warned.

“What? I’m serious, Shane’s my best friend. If this guy is this much of a douche, I’ll just punch him” Hayden shrugged like it was the most natural progression in the world. “My loans are deferred, we have the bail money babe” Hayden said with a smile.

It did nothing to lighten his mood. Shane couldn’t tell them the real issue, that he wanted Ilya Rozanov in ways that would only hurt him. He wanted the physical connection, and he wanted an emotional one he wasn’t certain could ever exist. The only thing he wanted more than Rozanov leaving him alone, was not leaving him alone at all.

He couldn’t tell his friends he was spiraling because of a six word text he received as he was pulling into their driveway almost two hours before,

 

I: I will stay at your house

 

One Week Later
UMASS Surgery Center, Boston

Ilya had spent the prior four weeks in Hollander’s orbit every single day. He was a motherfucker when it came to training. Ilya remembered how much of a hard ass he was, how they had both bike sprinted until failure in the hotel gym all those years ago, how he’d logged the most training hours pre-draft out of the whole group. But that was then.

Hollander told Ilya early that he was going to lose lots of muscle tone in his right leg post op, and that they needed to all but smoke Ilya’s legs to prepare him so he was still strong afterwards. Ilya rolled his eyes initially at Hollander’s little tabletop leg exercises. He was a professional athlete, his body was cut from years of hard work, there was nothing he could do on a table to feel challenged. He’d underestimated him. Hollander ran him through reps like he was in the fucking Army, he made him do the stupid leg exercises until he was shaking from exhaustion and Hollander had a smile on his face. Hollander always seemed lighter in times like that, his eyes were lit, and Ilya got flashes of the eighteen year old kid bending for the puck drop, brow furrowed in competition in the man in front of him.

Hollander was not above doing things himself to make people buy in more. It took maybe two days for him to realize if he wanted Ilya to show up and work, he’d have to show up too. Hollander’s almost psychotic training schedule got him out of the house, it got him out of being alone. Ilya had something to look forward to. Things were a little easier between them, competition unlocked something in Hollander that opened him up to Ilya in some ways. If Ilya was slacking, he pulled up a table next to him, and started doing the same exercises, rep for rep, pushing him to do more, to be stronger, to beat him. They would look at each other, sweating, grinding out another impossible repetition, sometimes grunting, daring the other to work harder. It was fucking erotic, and it was working. It made him think of what playing against Hollander pro would have been like, he knew there were times Hollander was thinking the same thing.

Hollander dragged him into the gym too, letting him work his chest and arms, carefully spotting him and pushing him there too. He had no reason to follow him into the gym as it had nothing to do with his knee, but he did it anyway. Ilya needed it, he needed the attention, he needed to be told what to do. Hollander seemed to like it, he was bitchy, snappy, bossy. Sometimes Ilya disagreed with him for the sake of the fight, so he could see how his eyes flashed and his cheeks flushed when he was mad. He liked when he was pissed. After a long few hours of working out, Ilya would lay on the table and Hollander would methodically massage his leg, strong fingers that were gentle where they needed to be chasing away soreness. He’d send him into the ice bath and would be there when he was out to drive him home and do it all the next morning. It was torture, but he didn’t want it to stop.

The practice complex was quiet usually, and they were rarely interrupted by other players as they were still on the road. Rozanov liked coming in though, he liked when Hollander knocked on Marley’s door in the morning and helped him into the car and drove them to work. He liked making fun of Hollander’s shitty music tastes. He liked that his hands were healing him, preparing him. He liked the little bits and pieces of Hollander he hadn’t seen before being unearthed. Although Ilya’s strength had improved, his ability to make good decisions hadn’t, he still wanted trouble, and he was about to have endless opportunities for trouble. Ilya knew nothing about Hollander outside of his own observations, and articles he’d spent too much time finding online.

Hollander smiled sometimes and wasn’t so uptight with him. They didn’t talk about anything personal, but it was like the storm cloud was moved to the side a bit, most of the time at least. Sometimes when Ilya was home in the quiet with nothing to do but think negatively, he’d have a thought about wishing Hollander was there. Most of Ilya’s thoughts around the man were about his body, about how’d he react to him, the things Ilya would do if given the opportunity. But sometimes in the quiet, another thought would sneak up on him. Would Hollander like him if he got to know him? Actually really got to know him. Ilya thought he might, but then a hard Russian voice he hadn’t heard outside of his head in years told him no, nobody would. Ilya texted him more than what was probably welcomed, most of the messages went unanswered, but every once and a while they weren’t. Ilya sometimes texted him a question about his life, Hollander didn’t answer a lot of those.

Boston was in the second round of the playoffs against Brooklyn. They’d lost the first two at home and won the third on the road and would play the fourth game in New York. Marley wasn’t there to take care of him, and his surgery was today. It was the tentative plan for Marley to help him the first few weeks if they weren’t still playing. But they were, meaning option number two was the only one on the table.

He would be going home with Hollander tonight, to his house, where he’d be taking care of him for the foreseeable future. It was probably a little strange, he remembered Coach just blinking at him when he first told him. He’d looked at Hollander and asked if he was sure, he shrugged and said he had a home gym set up and that he’d be able to work more with Ilya throughout the day. Hollander said he considered it the right thing to do. Coach and the staff signed off on it, however unheard of it was. Boston wanted him back as soon as possible and weren’t going to scoff at the unconventional.

He had an easy job today, he was laying back and waiting to get rolled into the operating room in his medical gown that showed his whole ass if he wasn’t careful. Hollander had covered him in something like six blankets after he’d rolled over earlier and gave Hollander an eyeful when he was in the room. Hollander had come by every so often to check on him while they waited. Ilya wasn’t listening to a fucking word he said, especially when he was wearing his little blue scrubs. It was like every bad medical drama in the world with the fucking hot doctor right in front of him.

Ilya had the thought as he waited about how he might not wake up, even if it was unlikely. It was hard not to think of death and inevitibly his mother, especially as he passed Hollander his mother’s chain for safe keeping, twice in the matter of months he felt the absence on his neck. He knew it was in good hands, and it gave him solace to know it would be on his skin as Hollander’s capable hands worked on Ilya. It was another way his mother might be looking down on him and watching.

Ilya’s father called the necklace a dog collar for years, he did everything and anything to minimize what it actually was. That necklace was his mother’s symbol of religion and hope. It hadn’t saved her. His father didn’t believe in hope, he believed in ownership. That’s what his father believed his family was to him: pets, pets you ordered and scared with a loud shout and a fist in their side until they were obedient. A dog collar was a sign of ownership.

Ilya wore his mother’s necklace to show he was tied to her. Tied to, never owned. It was hard not to feel the same when Shane Hollander slipped the chain around his neck with the most care in the world and a small supportive smile. Did that make him Shane's the way he was his mother’s?

Ilya also had the thought that the same metal resting on Shane’s neck was warmed by Ilya’s skin, and carried the warmth of his mother’s skin before him. It made him calmer, but somehow almost sicker. It was too intimate, especially when Shane grabbed the pendant between his thumb and pointer, gave it one rub, and tucked it under the v neckline of his scrub shirt. He gave Ilya one last smile and word of encouragement and left. Ilya woke up hours later feeling like he was floating, like there was only good in the world and nothing bad could ever happen. He was high as fuck, and it felt nostalgic, like the warm embrace of his mother’s arms. When he finally blinked his eyes open, it was the bright fluorescent lights that met him and hushed voices. Ilya hardly remembered anything for the rest of the day, he was so hopped up on pain meds, he barely remembered the small smile on Hollander’s face as he slurred words to him, or being loaded up into the car gently and going towards some unknown house. He definitely didn’t remember being put to bed.

Ilya woke up somewhere after midnight with a groan, he wasn’t quite sure where he was. It didn’t smell like he was home, it didn’t feel like the couch with a metal bar down the middle at Marley’s. He reached for his neck like he did when he was uncertain, his fingers found warm metal in the dark. He was on a plush bed with thick sheets, a dim light bled under the crack of the bedroom door. He was in a quiet bedroom. He tried to scoot up the bed and felt a sharp cutting pain in his leg.

He swore in Russian loud enough it echoed off the walls of the room. He heard quick footfalls and the door was pushed open. Hollander flicked on the light and squinted at him, his hair was disheveled and he was in a loose t-shirt and sleep pants, he was barefoot. His dark hair was stuck up and was not as neat and tidy as usual. It was endearing.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and damp with sleep.

The day flooded back into Ilya’s confused mind, he was at Hollander’s house, a large townhouse by the water in the city, immaculately clean, quiet and so very Hollander. Ilya blinked the sleep from his eyes, he felt like he’d been run over by a bus. He looked down at his leg, all wrapped up in white gauze and in a big brace. He had no friends or family here to care for him, only a man who had invited him to his home out of pity and obligation who was far too good for him.

“Da” he said stupidly, his throat felt too thick. Ilya lifted a hand and pawed at the side of his neck. His throat felt like it was cut up on the inside. His knee was mostly numb, but he could feel bone deep soreness just around the numbness.

Shane scrubbed a hand over his eyes, “How bad does it hurt? Your nerve block is probably wearing off” he said, moving from the door to Ilya’s bedside. He hovered over him as if he was unsure what he should do.

“Russians do not feel pain” he replied through gritted teeth. Ilya wished that was the case, he could take all the physical pain in the world, he couldn’t stand emotional pain.

Shane almost snorted and scrubbed a hand over his face.“I drilled into your bones with a power drill like twelve hours ago, it’s going to hurt” he said, squinting at the clock. “I’ll get your meds” he said. Ilya made no reply, he was caught with just how weird all of this was. Shane in his pajamas, Ilya in his house. Hollander taking care of him. The thought was a comfort, not being alone, it was why Ilya had told him he would stay.

Shane returned fifteen minutes later with some broth, some bread, apple sauce, and a glass of water. He pulled a couple of orange pill containers out of his pockets and laid them on the bedside table. Ilya always hated those bottles.

“No” Ilya said as he glared at the orange bottles, he didn’t want to look at them let alone be near them. It was the same color as the bottle in his mother’s too pale hand all those years ago, the bottle that took her from him had his name scrawled across the container just like to ones in Shane’s hand.

His fingers grasped the pendant again.

“You need meds” Shane said simply, eyes pacing around Ilya’s face.

“I don’t want them here” Ilya said simply. “I take them, I don’t want to see bottles. You keep them somewhere” he said with urgency. Shane grabbed them quickly, removing two pills and pocketing the bottles without any other question. Sometimes Hollander looked at him like he was a wild animal, something he couldn’t explain or control, and sometimes, like now, he looked at him with just enough care and softness it made Ilya want to board up his windows and stay shut inside.

“Eat first” Hollander said, hovering over his bed, “Your stomach will be bothered if you don’t, and drink water” Shane directed. Ilya took a bite of bread he soaked in broth, swallowed the pills and had some water.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Shane asked after a few minutes. Ilya groaned.

“Yes” he said simply.

“Okay, I have a urinal I can give you so you don’t have to get out of bed” he offered, Ilya put one of the fluffy pillows over his face, it smelled clean. This was the most ridiculous day of his life.

“what the fuck” Ilya said into the pillow.

“Hey it’s perfectly normal, it’s part of my job to see that stuff and handle it. I don’t care” Hollander said to reassure him with a gentle shrug.

“No, I get up” Ilya groaned.

“No weight on it then” Hollander threatened quietly. Ilya heard the sound of his crutches clinking together. “Slow” Hollander reminded him.

“Can I take shower? I feel unclean” Ilya asked as he threw the pillow next to him.

“Sure, I’m going to have to wrap up your leg so it doesn’t get wet and monitor you though” Hollander said, his arms crossing over his chest. Ilya ran his eyes over those arms.

“Mmm, if it gets you in the shower with me, okay” Ilya flirted. Shane’s cheeks went red and he gave him a hard look. “Sorry, medicine makes you say things right?” Ilya offered.

Shane grumbled as he turned and disappeared into a small hallway. Ilya didn’t make any attempt to move, he just let Hollander flit around. He heard a door swing open and more light flood into the small hallway and the sound of water hitting a tiled floor.

Shane came back a few minutes later and carefully directed him how to get out of bed. Hollander’s steady hand was at his elbow and was there to steady him without question. Steam filled the room and he inhaled it, it soothed his dry throat. There was a large chair in the shower, and a second chair right in front of the sink.

“Sit” Hollander directed him to the first chair.

Ilya did, collapsing into it clumsily as Shane flitted around the bathroom. Shane moved to his knees in front of Ilya and a breath caught in his chest. It was innocent, Shane was wrapping his leg in plastic so the surgical site didn’t get wet. His eyes were focused on what he was doing, hands moving slowly and gently to not hurt Ilya. One of the bangs from Hollander’s unkempt hair fell into his eyes and before Ilya could think better of it he reached a hand forward to brush it from his face.

Hollander looked up at him from his knees and blinked, eyes too luminous, and then leaned away from him. It was too intimate, Ilya wanted to kick himself.

“Okay, shirt off. I have some swim trunks we can get you into” Hollander offered as he climbed to his feet and grabbed neatly folded shorts from the counter.

“Do I need help or can I do on my own?” Ilya tilted his head towards the shower, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to control himself if Shane was lingering in the hot room with him.

“I need to keep an eye on you” he said simply. Ilya’s lips quirked into a smile.

“I go naked then” Ilya shrugged, yanking his shirt overhead and throwing it towards Hollander. He grabbed it out of the air and folded it like he was working at a retail shop and put it gently on the counter. Ilya sat quietly, waiting for the next instruction. Ilya had never felt unsure of himself when it came to things like this, but Hollander was different. He didn't react the same, the usual things he'd say or do only made Hollander run. So Ilya didn't move, he waited for him to give an instruction, he watched him quietly and carefully letting him feel his attention.

“Ilya” Hollander’s voice said with a disapproving note, he’d only called him by his first name a few times and it was usually to admonish him like a child.

“Shane” Ilya replied with a smile on his lips.

“It’s not open season to say and do whatever you want just because you’re here now” Shane said simply, his face serious.

“You going to kick me out?” Ilya pouted as he hooked his fingers into the hem of his shorts and pulled them down, leaving him only in his boxers.

Shane was only looking at Ilya’s face, and seemed to be putting in effort to do only that. “I might” and then he sighed, “Don’t make this weird okay” he almost begged.

Ilya sighed, “I stay in boxers for now”. Shane nodded with relief.

“Okay” Shane said, “Stand up, I’m going to help you into the other chair, lean on me if you need to” he said, extending a hand to Ilya and easily lifting him until he stood in front of him closely. Ilya was a few inches taller than him, his lips were nearly at the height of Shane’s forehead. Shane slid an arm around Ilya’s bare waist and gripped his hip firmly, and Ilya’s arm went around Shane’s neck. He hopped on one leg as Hollander gently moved him into the stall and into the shower seat. He didn’t want his hands to leave his skin but they did, Hollander reached up towards the shower head and detached it so it hung loosely at Ilya’s side.

“Keep the water off your leg” Shane directed and dropped a few bottles of products at his side. Shane exited the stall and busied himself in the bathroom.

Everything took three times longer than it should have. It took him forever to wash his hair and his body, but it made him feel much more human. Shane was sitting so he was leaning against the bathroom counter, doing anything but looking at Ilya.

 

The Next Day:
Shane’s Townhouse, Boston

Shane had set Ilya up out on the large plush couch in the living room and in front of the TV as his team came through to visit him in a steady stream. Shane tried to make himself scarce so Ilya had time to spend with his team without him in the way, but honestly, Shane needed a bit of a break. It had been less than twenty four hours with Ilya in his house, and Ilya was making him work for every minute of control.

Shane was a worrier, it was part of who he was. He had Boston’s best player in his house. Ilya was ballsy, and reckless, he was going to do something dumb inevitably and if it was on Shane’s watch it would reflect poorly on him. Ilya was generally difficult to be around, he was always testing boundaries. Shane had set up his own bed up on the couch the night before and left the door to Ilya’s room open so he could hear him. He was so loopy and out of it after anesthesia, he was almost earnest, even when he spoke Russian words Shane didn’t know the meaning of. He’d smiled freely, and it bothered Shane a bit that he’d never seen Ilya smile like that until then.

Shane barely slept last night, he was up checking on him every few hours until he woke up in the night. Shane kept things clinical as best as he could. He wasn’t very adept at reading people but there was something so small and broken about Ilya Rozanov laying in his guest bed, his hair wild. It kept Shane up most of the night thinking. When Shane was hurt, he had his parents, he’d always had them. They may be overbearing at times, but there was never a question of who would be there. It couldn’t have been easy for Ilya to take the help extended to him, or for the insinuation that if Ilya needed Shane, it’s because there was nobody else.

Bigger than just that, Ilya was afraid of something, about being around pills or being alone maybe. Shane wanted to open his mouth last night and ask why, but even Shane knew he shouldn’t. He’d spent a while thinking, there was no disclosure of substance abuse in any of his documents, he had no allergies, it wasn’t a logical fear as far as Shane could tell. Ilya had a look on face like he was about to run. So Shane held guard through the night, he stayed at his post with Ilya’s door open and waited until he was needed. Even Ilya’s attempts at flirting were half hearted and lacked the usual heat. Shane hadn’t slept much and he was feeling it today.

Shane was on edge in his house, his supposed sanctuary.

He'd spent the last hour upstairs in his room in the quiet, taking a break from his vigilance as some of the team sat with Ilya on the couch. But it was time for him to go downstairs and play nice and to check in. Shane descended the switchback staircase into the great room. Ilya was lounging on the couch, his leg propped up on a bunch of pillows and his other leg tossed onto Marley’s lap. Marley looked over his shoulder and whistled low at Shane.

“I am not using my contract money right, nice place” Marley said as he whistled between his teeth and neck craning around Hollander’s place.

“Thanks” Shane said, “Courtesy of the Metros” he said with a small smile. Marley laughed. Ilya leaned his head back to look at Shane as he approached. A greasy McDonald’s bag sat next to him on the coffee table.

“Marley, what the fuck is that” Shane sighed, nodding towards the bag.

“Shit” he said, picking up the bag and running it into the kitchen and tossing it into the trashcan, like Shane would forget it was there.

“He’s on a performance plan for recovery” Shane called after him as he picked up some cleaner and a paper towel and sprayed down the coffee table, he wiped the smudge that looked a lot like oil off of the table. He felt Ilya’s eyes following the motion.

“McGriddle is for mental health Hollander” Ilya said.

“He asked for it, okay? Don’t get mad at me” Marley said, coming back around the couch and flopping onto it. The motion jerked Ilya’s leg who let out a hiss.

“Cliff! For fucks sake. Sit down and don’t do anything else” Shane barked as he went to Ilya’s side, eyes running over his face.

“You good?” Shane checked with Ilya, his hand resting on his shoulder before he dropped it to his side. Ilya was gritting his teeth but nodded yes.

“Drink some water, I’ll get you some pills” Shane directed quietly, nudging a large tumbler of water towards him.

“Sorry, can I help?” Marley said sheepishly.

“Try not to move please, I’m begging you” Shane said as he went into the kitchen. It was a weird day.

“Fuck okay, sorry” Marley called from the couch. Shane made himself busy in the kitchen, he took this seriously. He tossed a sheet pan of vegetables into the oven and went out onto the porch to turn the grill on.

Shane’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

E: Hey, you watching the pats game? Look for me on TV

Shane smiled at his phone.

S: Yep, have a few more guests in my living room than expected but we’re gonna watch

Evan was good, entertaining, kind, and he really liked Shane. The sex was good, they got along, they agreed on almost everything. It was like a breath of fresh air. He was also incredibly direct with Shane about wanting to see him, wanting to talk to him, wanting to be something.

E: Can I join after?

Shane didn’t like people in his space, his space was for him to control everything that happened in it. Shane liked it to be 68 degrees in the house, he liked no overhead lighting, he liked a clean home without smudges and dirt and with everything in its place. He liked clean sheets and no outdoor clothes on the furniture or the bed. Sometimes he had people over anyway when he was a little tipsy and it all didn’t seem to matter as much, and he’d spend the whole next day cleaning the sheets and the floors when it mattered again.

He didn’t have to explain all of his rules to people if he didn’t let them into his home. He didn’t have to explain that shoes came off at the door, and that drinks needed to have a coaster under them, or all the other little rules Shane made that kept him from being an anxious mess. He knew he was particular, it was always easier being on neutral ground like at a hotel or bar, or the other person’s place where he could go when he needed to. Home was safe. He knew his preferences leaned more compulsory than not.

Shane turned his head behind him and looked through the window, Ilya’s blonde curls bobbed as he talked to his friend. He was supposed to be at peace here, not on edge, and yet he’d invited Ilya into his house. A fucking tornado. Evan hadn’t been over yet, Shane was putting it off and now he was going to have to keep putting it off.

Shane’s fingers hovered over his keyboard thinking about what to reply. He was careful to not talk about work with Evan, he definitely didn’t mention a house guest.

Just like the remote had its place in Shane’s house, so did people in his life. Shane liked to organize people into their little drawers where they belonged. Shane was good at compartmentalizing things, it was cleaner that way. Work was for work, and work friends knew about the basics of who he was, work friends didn’t know about who Shane actually was, what he loved, what he hated, what kept him up at night. Sometimes someone would slip into another drawer, like Hayden, who started as just a work friend, but became a friend from work and started to actually know Shane. It made little sense logically, but it made sense to Shane and that’s what mattered. Hookups, stayed hookups until Shane decided they were better in the boyfriend drawer, a rare upgrade and a choice that somehow was always Shane’s to make historically. Evan was a hookup, he didn’t need to be in Shane’s house, or around Shane’s work. He was usually quite good at separating things.

Shane looked at two people who were supposed to be in the work drawer sitting on his couch, both who had broken most of the rules of his house in the past few minutes, and broke Shane’s own rules of separation. Shane was doing a poor job of keeping things separate lately. He could at least keep Evan away. Shane kept it simple.

S: Not tonight, sorry

He took a deep breath of cold air and turned back to the slider. Marley had turned on the game and he and Ilya were laughing about something.

No sooner than Shane’s ass hit the seat did he hear a sharp knock on the front door and the door cracking open.

“Shane, I brought steaks my love” Hayden’s voice called from the front door.

Shit. Hayden, more compartments were about to mix. Another thing Shane Hollander did not do, he never forgot a plan, a doctor’s appointment, a meeting with a friend, never.

“Fuck” he muttered under his breath. Shane and Hayden had made a habit to watch patriots games together, he’d forgotten to text him this week that it wasn't going to work. Shane had also omitted to Hayden his plan of taking care of Ilya. It seemed ridiculous to admit after the amount of time he spent ranting about him to Hayden and Jackie. Shane jumped up to his feet and half jogged to the front door, skidding to a stop in his socks. Hayden was already closing the door behind him.

“Hey dude!” he beamed, it was the best quality about Hayden, his joyfulness. He had a big grin and a shopping bag in his hand as he threw his arm around Shane.

“It’s just me, Jackie got called in for a shift” Hayden said kicking off his shoes, Hayden knew the rules about the house and so did Jackie. They didn’t push, they didn’t try to give him bootleg exposure therapy, they listened and adapted. Shane straightened the massive shoes kicked off haphazardly at the door that must be Marley’s.

“Hey, sorry I forgot to tell you uh” Shane said, a little hurried and a little flushed. He felt anxiety swoop through his stomach and he slammed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through it.

“Tell me what?” Hayden asked, a little concerned, a poorly timed loud laugh echoed behind him. Hayden raised an eyebrow and grinned hard.

“You’ve got a guy over?” Hayden was fucking gleeful whispering to him, and stormed by Shane before he could tell him anything differently. “Am I finally going to meet one of your guys?” Hayden turned into the living room and disappeared.

Shane walked behind him, his work life and personal colliding in his own living room. Shane stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Shane you whore, two guys?” Hayden gasped with the brightest grin he’d ever seen. Shane scrubbed a hand over his face, his eyes flickering to the couch where Marley had the usual vacant expression on his face and Ilya was looking between him and Hayden with curiosity.

“Jesus” Shane admonished. “Hayden, this is Cliff and Ilya. Hayden’” he said motioning to the men. They both nodded at him.

“So did I interrupt a threesome?” Hayden pointed at the two of them.

Ilya snorted, “Hollander is too boring for threesome”.

Shane sighed, this was a horrible mix. “They’re on the Raiders,” he explained, grabbing the bag from Hayden’s hands and bringing it into the kitchen. Hayden shrugged, but nodded in recognition. “Sorry I don’t watch hockey, I prefer a more civilized game” he apologized, “More of a baseball guy”.

“Ah so you are boring too” Ilya said without hesitation. Marley just clicked the volume up on the TV.

“Oh” Hayden said, eyes running over Ilya’s face with distrust. “I thought we didn’t like this one” Hayden said plainly looking back at Shane. It was another thing that Shane liked about Hayden, Shane never had to guess what he was thinking or feeling, Hayden just said it. It was saving Shane years of trying to decode body language, but it also made things awkward here and there. Hayden loved to rib Shane and make fun of him, but nobody was on Shane’s team like Hayden was.

“So Hollander talks about me” Ilya grinned, lolling his head over the pillow so he could look at Shane with a bright smile.

“Just that some Russian asshole was giving him a hard time at work” Hayden said coolly. Shane flicked his elbow and shook his head, letting Hayden know he didn’t need a guard dog.

“Hollander likes a hard time” Ilya said with a shit eating grin. Shane crossed his arms over his chest and let out a breath.

“How’s the knee?” Hayden asked, eyes running over his leg.

“Is knee” Ilya shrugged, eyes flicking to Shane’s.

“You start him on passive flexion motion yet?” Hayden asked, making an effort at some normalcy and he stared through Shane. He knew he was in for an inquisition later. Hayden looked at the couch and then at Shane for permission, Shane gave a slight nod and Hayden sat down on it outdoor clothes and all.

“No, he’s still got pretty good swelling, I figured I’d wait another two days” Shane said, playing with the tab of his soda can. Shit, Shane was a bad host, he didn’t have much practice with this.

“Marley, you want a beer or something?” Shane offered, ignoring Ilya’s eyes burning a hole in his cheek.

“I can get it, if I’m allowed to get up” Marley said nervously, not wanting to get yelled at again.

“Nah I got it, Hayd?” Shane waved him off and jumped back up, he needed to stay busy, he was a little too uncomfortable with the situation and needed something to do. He made up a bag of ice and grabbed a few beers.

“So how did the surgery go?” Hayden asked as Shane was sitting back down.

“Best I’ve ever had” Ilya said, Hayden raised his eyebrows.

“I was asking Shane” Hayden. Ilya blinked, his eyes sliding to Shane in question before he looked back at the TV. This was weird, his personal life and work life on the same couch in his house, like oil and water.

“Good, in and out” Shane said with a nod. “What’s been going on for you?” he asked.

“Jay tore his cchilles the other day, new guy is going to have a fun one fixing that” Hayden said to Shane. “Rehabbing is gonna be a bitch though” he drew out the word.

“At least you’ll be busy and you get to use that fancy degree” Shane shrugged, and remembered it was probably rude to only talk to his friend. “Hayden works for the sox, he’s a doctor of physical therapy there” Shane said. Marley perked up at that.

“Dude we suck so bad at baseball” Marley said, looking over at Hayden. “How are we that bad?” Marley asked with genuine curiosity. It wasn’t an exaggeration.

“I know” Hayden said with a frown, “It’s demoralizing, every Boston team goes to the playoffs except for us. They’re so bad it’s hard to pinpoint what the problem is” he whined. “You guys had a good run this year right?” Hayden asked.

Ilya blew a raspberry and Marley shrugged, “We usually go further but Roz, you know” Marley said.

“That sucks” Hayden agreed and kicked his feet up on the coffee table.

“Hayd” Shane said simply, and Hayden yanked his feet down and sheepishly smiled.

“Sorry sorry” he said, holding his hands in front of him as if to protect himself. “You want me to put food on or wait a bit?” Hayden offered. “I’m not letting you touch that fucking wagyu I got you’ll overcook it trying to get all the fat out” Hayden said. Shane sighed, Hayden was never going to let that go. “Fat is the whole point” Hayden shook his head.

“Marley, are you going to hang around for dinner?” Shane asked. His eyes didn’t leave the TV and his mouth was half open staring at the game.

“Me and my girl were gonna go out tonight, gotta leave around half time” he shrugged.

“Looks like it’s just us buddy, good thing cuz I only brought two steaks” Hayden said, sinking into the couch.

“You starve me Hollander? I will beg on street corner for food” Ilya said, eyes bright. Shane sighed, he was hoping this wouldn’t come up while Hayden was over.

“You couldn’t make it to the street corner without falling” Shane sniped back much to Ilya’s delight.

“Hostile work environment” Hayden muttered under his breath.

“You have no idea” Marley agreed.

“So he’s staying then?” Hayden asked.

“Where else would I go?” Ilya said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“I don’t know, home” Hayden offered, a little too straight forward and to the point. Shane wanted to sigh, he’d primed Hayden a little too much about Ilya and now was suffering the consequences. The anxiety returned, it was the anxiousness of a child who did something wrong in school and was being sent home with a note for their parents. Shane knew judgement was coming from Hayden and it would be coming hard.

“Rozanov is staying here for a bit while he is getting back on his feet” Shane sighed, the longer he put it off the worse the blow back was going to be.

Hayden blinked at him twice, turning his head from Ilya to Shane. “Right” he said, slowly, squinting at Shane with an unreadable expression. Shane felt his face reddening and knew he was going to be in for an inquisition later.

“He’s in the guest room, no stairs to climb. His place has stairs. We’ll rehab here, and I have the gym, you know” Shane over explained.

“Okay” Hayden said with wide eyes, knowing ones, ones that asked Shane what the fuck he was doing. It was what he was afraid of, Shane was already wondering himself what he was doing, but watching it reflect back in his best friend’s eyes it meant a little bit more.

“I can’t interrupt you when you go to Shane’s room tonight with stairs, you are safe do not worry” Ilya said from the couch with a wink. Hayden snapped his head over to look at him. It was comforting to know Ilya’s antagonism wasn’t just for Shane, but it wasn’t going to win him any points.

“What?” Hayden asked, his spine stiff, Marley let out a chuckle from the couch.

“I’m not..” Hayden trailed off, arms crossing over his chest. “We’re friends, I have a girlfriend,” Hayden explained.

“Oh so he turn you down” Ilya nodded thoughtfully, “It happens” he said, eyes flicking to Shane and then back to the TV. Hayden opened and closed his mouth like he wasn’t sure what to say or do.

“Lay off Roz” Marley said around the mouth of his beer bottle.

“Hollander, your friend is upset, either very homophobic or he loves you, only options” Ilya said with a grin. It was almost the same thing that Hayden and Jackie had said about Ilya not too long ago.

“Rozanov, stop” Shane said simply, firmly. Ilya just smiled a shit eating grin

Ilya shrugged, “Okay” and turned away from them both with a smirk.

“I’ve got the grill on” Shane said lamely as he got up and went to the kitchen, trying to take the temperature down a bit. Hayden wasn’t far behind him. Shane grabbed some things from the fridge he’d picked out at the farmer’s market and cleaned them under cold water that made his hands tingle. The loud chorus of fans over the TV carried around the kitchen, and Shane felt Hayden’s stare from the counter next to him.

“Shane” Hayden whispered angrily, they were far enough from the living room he didn’t need to whisper. Shane kept his eyes firmly on his hands, scrubbing. “Shane” Hayden repeated as he moved closer to him.

“Let’s go put the steaks on, yeah?” Shane said at a normal volume, “I’ve got some salmon I want to put on too” he said moving through the motions. He grabbed the salmon from the fridge and Hayden followed him outside to the balcony.

The door snapped closed behind them, and Shane let out a long harsh breath. He waited, for the anger, for judgement, for something from Hayden.

“I hope you know what you’re doing” Hayden said simply, Shane looked at his friend.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, he doesn’t have anyone else. Someone needs to take care of him for a little while. The team is on the road a bunch, I couldn’t just let him be alone” Shane admitted quietly. This was stupid, letting people from their neat compartments crash into each other. Shane also couldn’t in good conscience tell Hayden that Ilya very much was bisexual and interested, and that Shane was barely hiding he was interest back. It wasn’t his secret to tell, it would be betraying Ilya’s trust.

“Shane, he is a multi millionaire, he could have rented a house, he could have hired a full time nurse” Hayden pointed out quietly and gently, like he was trying not to scare away Shane. “He’s an adult, he could have figured something out”.

It hadn’t even occurred to Shane that Ilya could have done all those things, but didn’t, he texted Shane instead telling him he was coming to his.

Hayden looked at him with pity, “I love you dude, I don’t want you to end up fucked up over this. He doesn’t seem like the nicest guy” he told his friend. Shane couldn’t blame Hayden for his opinion. Ilya was off putting.

“It’s professional Hayd, I wouldn’t let anything ever be unprofessional. You know it’s unethical” Shane insisted, reminding himself as much.

“I know buddy, that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about that asshole using whatever you have going on to hurt you’ Hayden said, nudging Shane’s shoulder. Shane exhaled a breath and nodded his head.

“I am stupid” Shane said simply.

“You get to make imperfect decisions Shane, I actually kind of like when you do. Makes you more human. I just don’t want you to regret this, you know?” Hayden said with a supportive smile. Hayden was always trying to tell Shane it was okay to mess up, to make a bad decision, he never did it until now.

“He’s not that bad, he just likes to get a rise out of people” Shane offered.

Hayden rolled his eyes, “You mentioned that” he said. “I can pop by after work this week, if you want a buffer here and there” Hayden offered. He was a good friend and a good guy.

“I’ll let you know, thanks Hayd. You’re uh” Shane started, and lost his nerve, he was never good at telling people what they meant to him, “good” Shane finished. Hayden just snorted a laugh and shook his shoulder with one of his hands.

Marley left just before everything was done, saying goodbye to Shane and leaving his empty bottle on the coffee table and a moisture ring on the glass that made Shane twitch. Hayden picked it up wordlessly, rinsed the bottle and put it in recycling and sprayed down the table and wiped it clean. Shane gave him a silent thank you, and his shoulders fell just a bit further away from his ears. Hayden was good, he was someone in his corner all the time. They just needed to get through dinner.

Dinner with Hayden was interesting. Rozanov smelled blood in the water with Hayden and Shane was out of the hot seat for once. Shane had set the table, prepping the long dining bench for Ilya to stretch his leg out onto, and loaded a plate up for him, placing two pills and some water aside his station. It was quiet, awkward at first.

“So” Hayden started, glancing at Shane if only to point out he was making an effort, “Hockey” Hayden finished.

Ilya snorted and shoveled some food in his mouth. Ilya didn’t answer, he was going to make it harder than that.

“You know Shane played right?” Hayden asked. Shane sighed, loud enough that both of them looked at him. Shane didn’t need to go down memory lane.

“Yes” Ilya responded, “I played Shane, same position” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Was he as good as everyone says?” Hayden asked. Ilya shrugged, chewing for a second before replying.

“Better” he said simply.

Shane looked at Ilya curiously. He was rarely nice about anything.

“Did he beat you?” Hayden’s interest perked. Ilya twisted his mouth up and shrugged.

“Eh” he said dismissively.

Shane felt a smile jump to his face, “Answer the question Rozanov” Shane prompted. Ilya replied in Russian with a quick response, and acted as if they were supposed to know what he was saying.

“Oh bullshit” Shane scoffed. “English words roll right off your tongue now, answer the question” he baited.

“English bad, am immigrant” Ilya said, his accent thicker than usual. Hayden watched the two of them quietly. Shane always enjoyed the banter with him, it showed just how intelligent and quick witted he was even in a second language.

“He beat me, then I beat him in the last game we played. I outscored him in both games” Shane said to Hayden directly.

“I got drafted number one and he went two” Ilya said as he stabbed a bite of steak on his fork.

“Yea” Shane deflated a bit. If he had gone number one or even number three, he might still be playing. He would have avoided Montreal and that fucking training camp. He could be in the playoffs right now, sitting in a hotel bed visualizing the rink, visualizing the goal. He looked up at Ilya and felt like he might be thinking the same thing, their eyes connected for a second before dropping off. Quiet settled over the table again, Shane pushed around a flake of salmon on his plate, not hungry anymore.

“Okay” Hayden said. “Do you have friends, why are you staying with Shane?” Hayden asked, direct, a little nasty even. Shane grit his teeth.

“Yes” Ilya responded, “Are you jealous? He doesn’t let you sleep over like me?” Ilya prodded.

“Stop insinuating that it’s like that with us” Hayden said, his voice a little sharper.

“Insinuate” Rozanov tested the word out.

“It's like suggesting” Shane helped, Hayden narrowed his eyes at Shane. He froze, he didn’t want to be in the middle of this.

“Shane is my best friend” Hayden said.

“By the time I leave his house I will be his best friend” Ilya smiled, he didn’t mean it of course, he was just jamming down on Hayden’s buttons and clearly enjoying the hell out of doing it. Hayden left right after dinner, with a stiff back and a nasty look on his face.

Chapter End Notes

LMK what you think :)

Chapter 9: Bambi

Chapter Notes

Fuck it we ball- mid week update before going into work :/

The Next Day:
Hollander’s Townhouse

 

07/02/2023 8:58PM
From: Greg.Torenski@espn.com
To: IlyaGRozanov@gmail.com; shane.hollander@go.raiders.com; vanya@imagemanagement.com; BostonRaidersPR@go.raiders.com;
Subject: Rozanov-Hollander Comeback Documentary for ESPN

Hello-

I hope this email finds you all well, I’m Greg and I work in the docu-talent department at ESPN.

Our team is very interested in working on a comeback documentary following Mr. Rozanov’s recovery journey after his surgery. We’re glad to hear it went well and wish him a speedy return. ESPN would hope to get footage of Mr. Rozanov throughout the rehabilitation process and film a few days each month through his return to play over the next months to show his dedicated efforts and hard work as he returns to the game he loves.

ESPN is also interested in the angle of Dr. Hollander’s role in Mr. Rozanov’s recovery and would love to discuss and film his day to day work with Rozanov, his personal experiences with injury in the sport, and explore the dynamics of their former rivalry.

If everyone is agreeable, we can get a team out to start shooting next week at the soonest as long as paperwork is in order. Please reply directly to me with your response, I look forward to hearing from you.

Best-

Greg Torenski
Lead Talent Representative
ESPN

 

07/03/2023 0158 AM

From: IlyaGRozanov@gmail.com;
To: Greg.Torenski@espn.com ; shane.hollander@go.raiders.com; vanya@imagemanagement.com; BostonRaidersPR@go.raiders.com;
Subject: RE: Rozanov-Hollander Comeback Documentary for ESPN

We will do it, send Vanya papers.

-Ilya and Shane

 

Shane blinked at his cellphone screen. The clock said five forty five in the morning, he blinked again, it still said the same time. He looked back at his cellphone, wondering how to make sense of what he was reading. ESPN wanted to film a documentary, they wanted Shane to show him working with Ilya, they wanted Shane to talk about his injury, their short lived rivalry. Shane was interested in talking about exactly zero of those things. Even worse, Ilya’s response, speaking for both of them without discussing it with Shane, without a conversation with his management or Boston’s PR team he was sure.

“What the fuck” Shane groaned to himself. He shot Anna the Raider’s PR girl a message apologizing on Rozanov’s behalf and letting her know he had nothing to do with any of this.

Shane stared at the emails again for another few minutes, this was not something he particularly wanted to do. He sighed, and forwarded the email to his mother and followed it up with a text. She was retired from managing him, but she could help him come up with a well phrased invitation decline.

Shane ripped himself out of the bed, determined to make Rozanov pay a little. Shane shucked off his pajamas and threw on his workout clothes, he needed to get some of this energy out. Shane jogged down his stairs, not paying much attention to how noisy he was being, he usually was rather considerate. Ilya had clearly been up and not sleeping at almost 2AM. Shane maybe even bitchily stomped down the steps, hoping the vibrations woke him up. He went into the gym and turned on his music, not so loud to wake up his neighbors, but loud enough he could hear it.

Hockey used to make the world around him fall away, conditioning was a close second. Shane got onto the fan bike, ticking up the resistance and fell into the routine of bike sprints, one minute on, thirty seconds off, one minute on, thirty seconds off. He finished seven minutes of sprints, his arms were tired and his legs burned, his lungs felt cold, and by the time his circuit was over he let himself collapse to the floor. He was breathing heavily and dripping sweat when he felt that he was being watched. His compression shirt clung to his chest from sweat and he tugged at it, frustrated.

Ilya balanced on his crutches in the doorway in a pair of loose shorts and was shirtless. His hair was half matted and sticking up in other areas, and he had the imprint of a crease from the sheets across his cheek. He was glaring at Shane as if he’d declared war on his home country. Shane laughed through his laboured breathing, good, he deserved to be awake. Ilya blinked at him, tired eyes. If Shane was a little less angry, he’d be a little more obsessed with Ilya’s bare chest, and how the ridges of his abs jumped out and the thick muscles at his pelvis were sculpted.

“I did not ask for wake up call” Ilya said over the music, Shane reached for the remote and shut it off. “I complain to management later” he said. Shane wiped the sweat from his face on his shirt sleeve. Ilya had a bit he was doing non-stop, acting as if he was staying in a hotel, he ordered room service, he tried to tip the staff (Shane) with sexual favors, and he was coming up with endless ways to annoy Shane with it.

“Oh you wanted to sleep in? Should have thought of that when you were answering emails on my behalf at two in the morning” Shane hissed at him. Ilya’s brow jumped and a filthy smirk stretched over his lips.

“Ah, you are mad” he said with a nod. If there was one thing he had, it was the fucking nerve.

“You thought I would be happy?” Shane huffed. Ilya shrugged.

“Could be good publicity for Boston” Ilya offered. Shane almost laughed, he didn’t give a fuck about publicity for Boston. He went out of his way to make sure the social media team had totally unusable content with his cursing and raunchy comments.

“So you do it then, I don’t want anything to do with this” Shane huffed, haggard breaths still forcing their way from his nose. “You’re so full of shit” Shane wheezed, laying on his back on the gym floor and letting his chest rise and fall until it slowed to a manageable pace. “You don’t care about good publicity, you’re just torturing me” Shane huffed.

“Maybe I want to document our friendship,” Ilya said with a shrug.

“We’d have to have one to document it” Shane replied. Ilya just smiled, he wanted to wipe it off of his face.

“I don’t want to talk about my” Shane paused, “Me, I don’t want to talk about me” he insisted.

“So don’t” he shrugged.

"You know what fuck you, you’re getting punished. Get on the table, brace off” Shane said simply, nodding to the table behind him. There will come a day where Shane could punish him with bag skates or more squats than he’d ever done in a row, for now he’d do what he could. Ilya followed his direction with a grin that was a little too pleased.

 

Four Days Later
Hollander’s Townhouse

Shane was a torturer, he invented torture. Ilya was sure of it and he was his fucking hostage. Shane was a talented torturer, some government agencies would probably like his skills, especially in America. Ilya didn’t think they had torture in Canada, it was too nice there.

Shane’s torture was multifaceted, it was calculated, it was coming at Ilya from every end.

Shane worked out in his home gym without a shirt, a backwards hat stuffed on his head, and tight little shorts. He snuck downstairs early in the morning, or sometimes late at night when he thought Ilya was sleeping. Ilya was moving better now, not in horrendous pain anymore that made him want to sink into the mattress frame. He still crutched around, and he was bored. The thing that was the most boring to him (Hollander) was somehow the most entertaining too. Ilya liked bothering him, forcing interaction that Hollander hadn’t planned out in his head ahead of time. lya found him a couple times in his gym and he watched uninvited from the doorway. Like yesterday after Hollander yelled at him and he’d stripped his shirt off and kept working out. Hollander’s back was slick with sweat, tan skin, freckles on the backs of his shoulders, a Raiders hat brim rested between his shoulders as he slowly lowered himself from the chin up bar. Hollander glided, slow, controlled, and bottomed out into a controlled hang before pulling his body back up easily. The muscles in his back jumped as he went up for another rep. Ilya left with a dry mouth, as fast as he could on two fucking metal sticks and went to his room. Embarrassingly, he palmed himself quickly and quietly like a teenage boy sharing a bedroom wall with his parents. That wasn’t the only time he’d done something like that, sometimes it was only eye contact and that little smile on his face, or the ways his eyes shined when he couldn’t help but laugh in the middle of one of their arguments that had Ilya making a b line towards a locker door. Sometimes it was sitting on the couch from him, only a cushion's distance away and watching his tongue jump out and just barely touch that full bottom lip of his. It was torture for Ilya, a violation of the Geneva convention even.

Hollander tortured him in other physical, more literal ways. He had lugged a big machine into his bedroom, heavy and mechanical and with a strange cradle on it of fabric for his ankle and leg. He’d explained it was an aid to get his knee working right again, all Ilya had to do was lay or sit back and let the machine run. Hollander carefully lifted Ilya’s leg into it and turned it on. Ilya hadn’t cursed like that in years, maybe ever. The machine manually bent his knee, flexing it to a predetermined degree before slowly sliding it back into a straight and painless line, before doing it all over again. This was Hollander’s torture tool, he at least had the decency to look at Ilya with sympathy. He’d patted him on the shoulder gently once or twice and promised the first few hours were the toughest. Hours, he’d said hours. True to his word, Hollander had him lay like that for hours, every single day, he tried to offer distractions and promised it would feel better soon. Soon hadn’t happened yet, and Ilya was convinced such torture would have freed even the most dedicated war criminals of their secrets at Hollander’s hands.

Hollander tortured with calm, gentle touches. Sometimes Ilya didn’t think he knew he was doing it, other times it was so deliberate it was almost more confusing. Hollander had totally legal and above board reasons to touch Ilya, he used his hands to check his knee for swelling, he rubbed oil into his scars, he gave muscle massages for recovery. Shane’s hands manipulated his leg to heal. He also touched him at times where there was no logical explanation, a hand on his shoulder from behind the couch to get his attention before he passed him a can of soda or a dinner plate, fingers wrapped around his wrist when Ilya leaned over to try to grab the remote and Hollander didn’t want the channel changed, a hand on Ilya’s elbow that never went away while he walked even after Ilya became almost masterful on the crutches. He didn’t know who it was for, if Hollander was doing it for Ilya or at his expense. Without fail when, Hollander touched him without necessity it put Ilya on his ass every time. Ilya tried to reciprocate, but Shane would look at where their bodies touched, and flee. It was all psychological warfare, he wasn’t even sure Hollander knew he was waging it.

Hollander tortured him in showing Ilya something he knew he couldn’t have, not after this strange truce between them fell away back into obscurity when he was healed. Hollander was kind, caring, and attentive. He anticipated what Ilya needed before he even knew, food, water, bathroom, air, some kind of stimulation. Everything he did, he did with intensity. Ilya watched him cook, some nutritious supposedly body healing meal three times a day with produce from the farmer’s market. He wiped plates before serving meals like he worked in a fine dining restaurant, and rearranged things to look the most beautiful before serving it. It was dumb, but it was like so much of Hollander, endearing. He watched for Ilya’s reaction for food, he smiled when Ilya was satisfied. Hollander was built to care for people, it was clear. Ilya was built to hurt people. Hurt people aren’t usually cared for, it was foreign and it was so incredibly nice it made him feel sick.

Hollander had a sense of when to push Ilya and when to leave him alone, he’d texted Marley a few nights ago without Ilya knowing and he showed up with a pizza and some extra things from his apartment. Hollander disappeared into the background, letting them be. Sometimes Hollander sat with Ilya with some nature documentary about underwater life that Ilya got embarrassingly engrossed in playing on the TV. Ilya showered without supervision now, still slowly and on a chair. By the time he’d emerge his bedroom would be clean, windows open pushing fresh air inside, clean sheets neatly tucked in and new folded towels on the bed. Hollander did his laundry, folded his clothes, placed them in the drawers of his guest room. Hollander just did it, never asked, never complained, he just did it.

Hollander focused on him, giving his body the time and energy it needed. Pushing him an inch further than he thought he could go with calm and confident hands, easing the aches from his muscles with touch. Ilya spent more hours than he cared to admit to himself thinking this must be what it felt like to be actually cared about and doted on. It was an uncomfortably foreign feeling that made his throat feel scratchy and his skin feel a little too tight. Mostly, because of how badly he wanted this.

Ilya always knew he was tough, he was splintered, calloused, cracked, but he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be putty in someone’s hand, he wanted to be cared for, he wanted to be loyal to someone. He didn’t know how. It stung a bit to realize although Ilya was the subject of Hollander’s care at the present moment, Hollander would likely be showing the same attention to anyone staying in his home who was injured. He anticipated what his friend needed, he was kind, he was in tune with people’s needs. Ilya was not special, Ilya was temporary so he had to suck it all up while he could. There were probably people who could just bask in it, knowing they’d get more every time, Ilya had seen the way Hollander acted around his friend, Hayden.

Ilya frowned, Hollander let the man touch him on his shoulders or touch him with a bump of his hip. He didn’t tense up, or find any reason to run like when Ilya touched him. He’d leaned into it, let the man into his space, raised his hand and mussed his hair back. He smiled, joked easier.

Hayden clearly knew Shane, while Ilya only knew Hollander. Of all the ways Hollander tortured him, surely this was the worst. He’d had a small sample of what it might feel like to be cared for by Hollander, and he’d never know just how much care and love Shane might have to offer. He wished he was deserving of it.

Tonight was a Saturday night. Years ago, Ilya would be in a see through shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel and in tight pants in a club. He’d be grinding up against some woman, whispering in her ear and chasing his words with his tongue. He’d get very drunk, take her home, he’d have rough sex because it was what he knew how to do and it kept things impersonal. It would be a fun distraction, for a few hours.

Tonight, Ilya was in loose shorts, a sweatshirt, and had a blanket around his shoulders that wasn’t his. It was soft, and he pinched the tufts of faux fur between his pointer and thumb. He felt like a tamed house cat. Hollander had flicked the fireplace on, and left him downstairs as he disappeared upstairs to safety.

Ilya realized he liked looking at the fire, he liked the way the flames jumped around, even if they were artificial and not as wild as a real fire. Ilya was learning to live in the quiet, he was used to silence, being alone most of the time. Maybe that’s why he was enjoying it, he wasn’t really alone. Not when only a ceiling and floorboards separated him from someone who would be back in a matter of minutes. Ilya was alone, but not by himself.

Ilya heard the ring of a cellphone echo down the staircase and the quiet murmur of an answered phone. “Hey, I’m good, sorry I've been busy.” Hollander's voice was soft and a quiet laugh followed a short silence. “Feels much longer than that” his voice said smoothly, Ilya perked up at the tone, almost flirty. Another gap in silence.

“Oh yea? As nice as that sounds, I’m going to have to pass for the next few weeks. I’ve got some stuff going on at the house I can’t really get into” his voice said, Ilya replayed the words in his head, looking for any indication of regret in those words or disappointment. He didn’t hear any but he wondered if it was because he really didn’t want to hear any.

“No, not anything you could help with” he laughed gently. “Thank you though” he said politely. Another few seconds of silence, Ilya didn’t move out of fear he might miss it.

“Well tell them I said hi and I’ll catch them next time, they both owe me a beer since I guessed that box score right” Hollander said, he could hear the smile in his voice. “Bye” he said.

Ilya wondered if he was being rude listening in, he definitely was. He shifted on the couch. He knew of course that he wasn’t the only one in Boston with eyes, Shane Hollander was a gorgeous man, he was also a good, smart, humble, and strikingly earnest. He was a rare combination that made people flock to him, even if he didn’t really seem to notice it himself. Ilya’d seen him charm that guy at the bar months back, and Hayden’s comments when he was over suggested Hollander might be seeing someone. People loved Hollander. It didn’t sit right with Ilya.

He heard the quiet steps down the staircase before he was really ready to hear them. “Who was that on the phone?” Ilya asked before he could stop himself. He turned his head and made brief eye contact with Hollander over his shoulder.

His eyes widened a bit before he tried to train his expression into something neutral. “A friend” he shrugged, coming to a stop in front of the couch, only a few feet from him.

“Ah” Ilya said, clipped, short, not buying it.

“What?” Hollander challenged.

“The stuff going on at your house can go away for a night” Ilya offered, one of those offers you really hoped someone never took you up on.

“Oh yea?” Hollander asked with a tilted head.

“Is your house. Hayden can come back for sex” Ilya winked. He wasn’t sure why he was encouraging this.

“That wasn’t Hayden, and I don’t think so” Shane settled into the couch, leaning back against the cushion and looking at the ceiling.

“You are embarrassed of me” Ilya assumed, people always were. It stung in a deep section of his chest. Shane leaned his head back even further with a groan.

“Could you blame me? You don’t always make it easy” Hollander said with a simplicity that cut.

Ilya felt the familiar need to lash out after he was hurt, because he was hurt. He bit on his lip. Yes, he liked Hollander when he snapped back and challenged him, he really did. Ilya wanted Hollander to see behind his defenses, that this was just a way he kept people out, he wanted him to figure out the puzzle without being told the way to solve it. He silently begged for him to try, to keep trying.

“No” Ilya replied, honestly. It was what he was best at, running from the people accusing him of being bad, angry, mean, horrible and then doing everything in his power to prove them right. There was a heavy silence between them, and Ilya’s eyes fell back into the flames of the gas fireplace.

“I’m not embarrassed, I just don’t know how to explain what’s going on here to anyone” Hollander said honestly. Ilya shrugged, it was fair. He didn’t want to feel any more jabs of pain tonight so he did what he knew best, minimized and distracted.

“That I am staying in your house, so what?” he dismissed. Shane sighed.

“Yea, that someone who only argues with me is in my house. That I invited you here. We’re not even friends” Shane said, and it made Ilya’s fingers twitch. He looked away from the fire, and straight into Hollander’s dark eyes. They widened a fraction at Ilya’s attention.

“So we will be” Ilya said, he could be friends with Hollander. There was no way it could be more painful than nothing at all.

“What?” He asked.

“Friends, we are friends now” he shrugged as if that made it official. Hollander sputtered in a way that made Ilya’s lips twitch.

“That’s not how that works” Shane argued.

“Why not?” He challenged with an upward tug of an eyebrow. “How do you make friends then?” Ilya asked.

“I don’t really” Hollander shrugged. Ilya rolled his eyes.

“Oh my god Hollander you are so boring” Ilay whined. “You and I will talk tonight, until we are friends”

“That’s it? That simple?”

“Simple for me” Ilya shrugged.

Hollander laughed with exasperation and Ilya watched him quietly. He ran a hand through his dark hair and pushed some of the longer parts behind his ear. Ilya’s eyes followed the path his fingers so desperately wished to take.

“Tell me something” Ilya shrugged, he wasn’t even sure how to go about it. He had a million questions he wanted to ask him, but if he asked them too soon, everything could fall apart.

“That is the worst possible question to ask someone” Hollander huffed and kicked his feet up from the floor, wrapping an arm around his knees. Ilya just sat and waited.

“Laugh at me” Ilya told him. Hollander’s face screwed up in confusion.

“What?” Hollander’s mouth shaped around the word rather than said it out loud.

“Laugh at me, answer the question, play along” Ilya shrugged. The confusion in Hollander’s face melted into a warmth and a smile that slowly bloomed over his face. He let out a puff of breath that turned into a soft laugh.

“Humor me, it’s humor me” Hollander corrected with a smile and bright eyes that was so pleased it didn’t sting that he was being laughed at. Ilya would make a million English mistakes if it would make Hollander look at him like that. Ilya smiled back, a real one because he couldn’t help himself. Hollander blinked at him and settled back further into the couch. “Sorry, I don’t want you to think I’m making fun of you. Your English is very good” Hollander told him.

“You speak anything else?” Ilya asked him.

“French, my parents put me in a french only elementary school” Shane explained. God, he was just getting hotter. Ilya wanted to complain. “I know the smallest amount of Japanese, my ear is better than my mouth” Hollander said with a shrug.

Ilya’s lips lifted into a suggestive smirk, “I don’t think that’s true”. Hollander’s cheeks flushed a pleasant shade of pink.

“You know other languages?” Hollander asked him.

“No” Ilya replied simply.

“Do you speak Russian much now?” Hollander asked him.

No, nobody on the team was Russia. He spoke on the phone with Svetlana in Russian, but it’d been a while. It wasn’t like he talked to anyone from home. There wasn’t anyone to talk to.

“No, only when getting food and sometimes on phone” he replied simply. “You?” Ilya asked.

Hollander shrugged, “DeMarlier is from a french Canadian province, sometimes we talk in french but not often”.

“Your family is in Canada, yes?” Ilya asked him. Shane nodded, eyes drifting off and around the room. “And” Ilya prompted.

“And what?” Hollander asked.

“Tell me about them?” Ilya asked like it should be obvious.

“Um well, there’s my Mom and my Dad” Hollander replied, and Ilya had to hide his mouth behind his hand.

“There usually is if there is child, yes” he said from around his palm. Hollander narrowed his eyes at him but his lips lifted at the edges.

“My Mom is a lot, in a good way. She managed all my stuff for hockey, she was going to manage me. I guess she’s briefly out of retirement because of your stupid email” Hollander said. “She was the world's biggest Metros fan, now she doesn’t have a team so she says, but she still watches their games. She’s very, um, spirited” Hollander said. Ilya stayed quiet, letting him talk.

“My Dad works for the government in Canada, he mellows my Mom out. They are a good balance” Hollander said, smiling. It was extremely clear that Hollander had a good relationship with his parents. Ilya knew from his wikipedia page he was an only child. Ilya wondered what it was like to be loved by both parents.

“You miss Canada?” Ilya asked.

“I miss Ottawa sometimes, we have a family cottage outside of the city in the country. It’s quiet and near a lake” Hollander replied. “Do you miss Russia?” he asked.

It was inevitable Hollander would ask him something like this, something with a complicated answer he didn’t want to give. Ilya realized he could lie, he could joke, he could distract with a sexual comment that would take that open look out of Hollander’s eyes and close him back off. He could say the words that would keep them both safe from whatever unknowns they were walking towards right now. Ilya wanted so badly to say no or yes and leave it at that.

“Russia is difficult, not good for me I think” Ilya said, it wasn’t a simple answer he wanted to give, but also not a totally revealing one. Hollander paused for a moment, Ilya liked that he could see what he was thinking on his face before he opened his mouth. Hollander was deciding whether or not to ask him.

“Tell me about your parents” Hollander asked, he asked a worse question.

“New question” Ilya said immediately, a bit harshly. Hollander only nodded, taking it in stride.

“When did you know you were good enough to play professionally” Hollander asked, it was only a matter of time before the conversation turned to hockey.

“Maybe fourteen? I was invited to Russian national camp a year ahead of my group. They started shitting on MHL extra to me after, said it wasn’t real hockey” Ilya said.

Russian propaganda started early. In Russia, everything Russian was better, the hockey, the people, the country. Ilya had his criticisms in America of their culture and people, but it was far and away a better country, he breathed easier here. There were things Ilya missed about Russia, he missed the way that Moscow felt under his feet, the history. He missed living in the memories he had with his mother, passing the bakery she used to get him Russian cookies from while walking him home from school, visiting her burial site. He missed art and culture. He didn’t miss the coolness, the bad choices around every corner and their memories, or the scorched earth. Hollander didn’t seem to have the same struggle with his home country.

“Do you like living in America?” Ilya asked.

“I like Boston” he nodded, “If it was up to me I wouldn’t live in a city though” he said. “If I was going to stay in the States I think I’d maybe move to New Hampshire or maybe Vermont in the country”.

“It is up to you, you did not get traded here” Ilya said with a blink. As they talked, some of the tension in Hollander seemed to release from him, first it was his knees he was hugging to his chest, his legs slowly dropped until they were on the couch. Ilya’s feet were only inches from his.

“I guess, I could go work at some rural hospital or commute a long while,” Hollander shrugged.

“But you don’t want this,” Ilya asked, trying to understand him.

“I like being around sports and competition, if I worked at a hospital and ignored the sports and competitive side it might die out and I might not get it back" he shrugged, “I don’t know” he finished.

Ilya didn’t say anything. That part of him died out for hockey a while ago. It was probably nothing to a normal person with a normal job and a normal life. But they weren’t normal, they were two elite athletes who gave up everything to be good at their sport. When the sport gave up Shane, he threw himself into something else.

Ilya just watched him, how the complex emotions rolled over his features like a wave, through his dark eyes, the set of his mouth before they washed back away.

“And” Ilya prompted quietly.

“And, that’s it” Hollander said, looking away. “It’s probably time for meds” Hollander said, posing to get up when Ilya leaned forward and grabbed the exposed skin of one of his ankles, his finger swiping over the skin there.

“No, don’t need them” Ilya shook his head. Hollander was staring at the position of his hand on his ankle.

“What is it with you and pills? I need to know if there’s something going on so I don’t give you something I shouldn’t and I can put it in your file” he said carefully. Ilya flinched, his hand went to the pendant around his neck.

“I don’t need them” Ilya said quietly, “Don’t like them” he said.

“Okay” Hollander said. That was the end of their conversation, the one that was supposed to build a friendship, which Ilya self sabotaged as usual. Ilya wouldn’t give up so easily though, he was determined to know Shane, he just wasn’t sure if he could let Shane know Ilya.

It became a habit, every night, before bed when the day was winding down. Ilya sat on the couch and patted the space next to him, Shane never sat there. He always sat a respectable distance away, and as they talked, Shane got closer, never close enough.

 

One Week Post Operation
Hollander Townhouse

 

“If you didn’t play hockey what would you be doing?” Shane asked him. Ilya was sitting on his couch in what had in only a matter of a week had become his spot. His hair was longer than Shane had ever seen it, golden and well formed curls that curled around the back of his ears. He had a Raiders hoodie on, and one of the strings was between his lips. His eyes were so clear, and followed Shane’s every move.

“I would be in Russia” Ilya replied with a shrug.

“Doing what?” Shane asked.

“Probably as police” Ilya offered.

Shane raised his eyebrows. “My brother is police, my father was police” Ilya said in explanation, like that was enough of an answer. Shane didn’t know he had a brother, he never spoke about his family aside from saying they were dead.

“I couldn’t imagine you doing a job like that” Shane said, watching Ilya tilt his head and his face harden a bit.

“Too boring” Ilya agreed, “More for you than me” he said.

“Too serious, for you” he corrected him, Ilya shrugged.

“I can be serious” Ilya said, widening his eyes comically. Shane scoffed. There had hardly been a serious moment since he’d been here. Shane was unfortunately getting used to being around Ilya, he was getting used to cleaning two plates, he was getting used to their nightly chats, and going to bed with the space next to him feeling empty but wanting it to be full. He imagined himself padding down the stairs and pushing open Ilya’s bedroom door and taking up the space next to him. They didn’t have to kiss or touch, Shane was fucking fantasizing about just sleeping in the same bed.

They were, maybe, tentatively friends now. Maybe.

They’d talked, more than they were quiet now, and the silence that remained was companionable, it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t always attacks back and forth, there were questions and answers mixed in. But the tension, the desire was still there.

Shane felt it, when he touched Ilya’s skin for professional reasons, the need to touch more, to see his hands running over his skin, the dips and ridge of his muscles under Shane’s fingertips. Shane wanted to slant his mouth over his, swallow his Russian words, and feel the intensity of his eyes on his bare skin. Shane was more than a bit frustrated.

“You would be upholding the law?” Shane asked, his mouth a bit dry, the concept so foreign to who he knew Ilya to be.

“Maybe, it is what you do in Russia, you do what your father did. It would have been chosen for me” Ilya said. Shane’s eyebrows pulled together.

“You wouldn’t have been able to choose”, a statement rather than fact. Shane didn’t realize at the time how all encompassing that sentence was.

“Nope” Ilya popped the P loudly, “Everything there is family’s choice. Not America, not free or whatever they say. My father would have chosen for me, I would have hated it” Ilya said. Shane considered it for a moment. Ilya had given context to his life, even just a crumb, but Shane couldn’t help but feel as if he let on more than he intended. If everything in Ilya’s life was chosen for him when he was in Russia, did he want to play hockey? Would he have chosen to be the man he was today?

“Do you go back?” Shane asked, he pivoted so he was facing him on the couch. Shane knew he was being obvious, that he was staring at Ilya, stealing touches, hanging on his every word.

“Yes, I have work visa. Must leave to renew. I go there in summer, I come back. I have waiver for struggle this time” Ilya said with a sigh.

“You don’t like going back” Shane assumed based on his posture, slightly rigid.

“No. You ask too many questions” Ilya told him.

“Just trying to get to know you” Shane replied.

“Well stop,” Ilya said plainly. Only he would tell Shane they were going to talk, be friends, and shut down every attempt to know him.

“You’re the one who insisted on being friends” Shane said, a touch more defensively than he wanted to. “Friends know things about each other, I’ve told you all sorts of things” Shane said, irritated in his tone.

“Your friendship isn’t what I am after Shane, we both know this” Ilya said, plain, simple, turning to face Shane straight on. They didn’t use first names, not like this. Shane may have turned his name over in his head a few times, not like this.

“Why do you say things like that?” Shane asked, his voice low, just barely holding his feet in place.

“Because I want you, you want me too. Nobody has to know” Ilya offered, his eyes a little dark, a little too dangerous.

Shane blinked, he wasn’t going to be some secret, skulking around and doing the wrong thing. Shane didn’t know what to say, if he opened his mouth, he’d say something he regretted. He stood up from the couch, he grabbed his cellphone, and he made some excuse about needing to go shower. Shane jogged up the stairs where he was safe. Ilya’s physical limitations had at least made it impossible for him to encroach on Shane’s bedroom; thankfully, two sets of stairs separated them. It was still a sacred space.

Shane paced for a minute before he flicked on the water in the shower. He needed to get out of the house. Ilya could survive on his own, he was well enough, he could be gone for a few hours.

Shane slid open his texts with Evan, they’d been slower than usual. Shane’s attention was elsewhere, it wasn’t sustainable.

S: You around tonight?

The reply was almost instant.

E: 141 Pearl Street, two drinks deep you’ll have some catching up to do.

Shane showered quickly, he dressed quicker, and within fifteen minutes was jogging back down the stairs. He hadn’t thought about what he’d say to Ilya, he hoped maybe he’d go back to his bedroom for the night, but no such luck. Shane didn’t let himself stop, he moved down the stairs quickly, if he stopped moving he’d do something stupid.

“I’m going out for a few hours” Shane said simply, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen and throwing it over his shoulders.

“You need anything before I go?” he asked in a hurry. There was no response.

“You are always running away” Ilya’s voice carried as Shane continued down the hall, grabbing his keys from the wall and shutting the door behind him. It was warm outside, and in the fresh air he could think a bit more clearly. He thought he had moved on from running away, but he guessed he hadn’t.

Shane drank, it was rare, but he did. He went drink for drink with Evan until his smiles came too easily and it was easy to forget whose hand was rising higher and higher up on his thigh. By the time they left their bar stools and went back to Evan’s, Ilya’s words and that longing look in his eyes was in the back of his mind. He wouldn’t let it to the front. There’d be no questioning looks if Shane was with Evan, no hiding behind closed doors, no speed bumps like public perception. He wasn’t Ilya, and that’s why Evan wasn’t enough.

Shane liked to look into Evan’s eyes, he liked to pretend he felt that same sensation he did when he looked into Ilya’s. Ilya eyes were like existing in that weird state of half asleep in your bed when you’re out of control and you feel yourself falling but really you’ve never been more grounded. It was scary, it was human. It was more than just attraction.

Shane let himself get lost in the hookup, in hands that weren’t the right size, lips that weren’t the right shape, eyes that were the wrong color. He didn’t feel better after, he didn’t feel like he’d left behind any tension when he stumbled out of Evan’s apartment just after 3am, no longer drunk but tipsy.

He tried to open and close the door to the townhouse quietly, kicking his shoes off and arranging them at the door, he crept inside the house. It was quiet, and the flicking light of the TV was still on in the living room. As he rounded the corner, he saw Ilya sprawled on the couch, his face unlined and soft with sleep. It made a wave of something ride through Shane, and he suddenly felt rather sick. Ilya looked young when he was sleeping. Shane collapsed onto his side of the couch and stared at the ceiling, Ilya’s soft breaths coming from aside him. Shane was left wondering where the night would have taken him if brave enough to stay and close the distance with Rozanov instead of running like he always did.

 

Five Days Later
Boston Hockey Complex

Shane ignored the fifth call on his cellphone, his Mom wasn’t getting the message. He was sure she wanted to wish him luck and ask another million questions he really didn’t want to answer. He can’t fucking believe he let Ilya talk him into this.

Shane was nervous, he didn’t want to do this. Ilya was side-eyeing him most of the morning, he dragged them both out of his house early so they’d be here before the camera crews came by. Shane meticulously cleaned the training room, and planned through his daily treatments with Ilya. Ilya told him it was just a normal day, but it wasn’t, if it was a normal day they’d be at Shane’s house in his gym, not here.

Shane’s work with Ilua at this point in time still didn’t consist of much, some really small and basic flexion and strength building, and some stretching. Shane read Ilya the riot act in the car about being professional and not making comments, he’d nodded and rolled his eyes, but Shane couldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him when it came to something like this.

“You look pretty” Ilya said with a small smile from the table, Shane had stacked a few bags of ice on his knee. His head was propped up on a few towels and his eyes tracked Shane.

Shane stuttered in his step, “I just brushed my hair, shut up” he muttered to Ilya.

“What are you freaking out about?” Ilya sighed.

“I’m not” Shane sighed. “I just need you to be careful about what you’re saying, okay? We’re going to have microphones on. Don’t fuck around” Shane said under his breath.

“Okay. It’s fine, relax. I’m a professional” Ilya insisted. It made a smile crack on Shane’s tense face. Ilya was the picture of being relaxed, arm slung behind his head, lazy smile on his face. He could not be anymore of Shane’s opposite.

The crew that arrived was small, three people, one with lights, one with sound and the other with a camera. They introduced themselves and set up their gear, and put microphone packs on both of them. Shane went through the expectations of him in his head again, he just needed to do his job, and maybe explain what he was doing on a basic level. That’s it.

Shane took the bags of ice and tossed them into the sink. He worked slowly and methodically like he did anything else, he didn’t put on a show intentionally. He was just explaining more than he usually did.

Sometimes the crew asked him a question, or were clearly zooming in on his hands. But most of it was about Rozanov, as it should be and to Shane’s relief. Ilya was on his best behavior, still Ilya, still saying things he shouldn’t, but nothing that would get Shane in trouble. As the day went on, it got easier for Shane to forget they were being watched, he got sucked into Ilya too easily, like he always did.

Easy joking, sharp humor, smiles that lasted a little too long with eye contact that was a bit too intense.

“Okay, let’s get you over to the bike” Shane said, tilting his head towards the stationary bike.

“Really?” Ilya asked him.

“It’s going to be slow, let’s see if you can pedal a full circle, it might take a few days” Shane said and Ilya scoffed.

 

Two Months Post Op
Boston Hockey Training Facility

Shane squatted next to him, ripping the strips of Velcro until the brace came off of his leg. His feet dangled off the table and Shane gave him a reassuring nod.

“Go ahead, slow. Just stand” Shane directed him, “Full weight” he said with an encouraging nod. Ilya placed his barefoot onto the floor and shifted his weight from one leg to the next. Ilya stayed standing, he didn’t know what he expected, to fall into the floor or for his knee to give out but it held firm. Ilya looked up and Shane was smiling and nodding.

“Good” he said. “Take a few steps, no pivoting, just straight” he encouraged. The whole scene was rather ridiculous actually, Shane stood by with his arms extended like a mother about to catch his toddler if he needed to.

“I feel like baby” Ilya pouted as he stepped forward.It’d been months since he walked on his own, no crutches, no nothing. Shane lowered his arms and nodded his head.

“You are walking like one” Shane said, his eyes bright. He kept a careful watch on Ilya as he stepped forward a few steps, it felt out of practice but strong. “Don’t pivot, walk backwards slowly, only four steps back to the table” Shane directed, watching his leg slowly.

Ilya did it, without question, slowly and stopped in front of the table.

“Well done” Shane smiled. “Just because you’ve taken a few steps doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want, your knee is the weakest it will ever be for the next two months. Stick with the program” Shane cautioned him. Ilya looked up at him and beamed, it was too easy to think they were the only two people in the room.

“I’m going to go for run when I get home, maybe do box jumps, maybe go to Canada and ski black rectangle trails” Ilya shrugged, trying not to think about how he called Shane’s place his home. He’d been wondering for a while when Shane would send him back to his own house, he didn’t need constant supervision anymore.

“Black diamond” Shane corrected like it was second nature, “I’ll kill you with a gun if you try” Shane replied, arms crossing and a sneer on his face.

“You don’t have a gun” Ilya said in a sing songy way.

“We’re in America, give me ten minutes” Shane muttered under his breath and Ilya chuckled. It got a laugh out of the corner of the room, the small camera crew that was too easy to forget existed when Shane was looking at him. Shane stiffened, he turned over his shoulder.

“I like America and like having my visa for work, for the record. I do not own or wish to possess any firearms” he stumbled out as Ilya snorted. Shane got stupid around Ilya.

“Rozanov, how do you feel” someone called from the corner of the room.

“Like little deer, what's the baby deer name? Cartoon deer” Ilya turned his head back towards Shane asking him for help.

“Bambi” Shane said with a smile.

“Ah yes, like bambi. Very sad, very embarrassing” he said towards the camera.

Shane approached the table and patted it. “Up” he directed. Ilya carefully lifted himself on top and stretched his legs out. Shane's deft hands passed over his skin, and he sat on his stool and grabbed a pot of balm that was always Ilya’s favorite part of the day. Shane scooped a generous amount into his hands and Ilya laid on his back. He rubbed it between his hands so it wasn’t too cool and gently worked on his knee and his sore quad, the back of his hamstring over and over, fingers digging in, gentle circles, soothing him.

“Shane, what are you doing right now? Explain it” the camera man asked.

Shane’s eyes flicked up to Ilyas and then back down to his knee. “It’s a basic sports massage, Rozanov’s been working hard to stabilize the knee and that includes training the muscles around it. Massaging after activity helps move the swelling around, encourages blood flow to the area to promote healing, and breaks up scar tissue” he explained professionally. His fingers ghosted over the small marks there.

“Are lower level care and day to day treatments like this not usually handled by athletic training staff?” the camera man asked.

“That’s where working with a team changes your job description a bit, you become a swiss army knife. If I was just working in the OR of a hospital, I would never be doing this. But I’m not, I’m a team doctor of a hockey team that’s in the off season. There’s minimized staff in off season, and staying connected with day to day activities with Rozanov helps me understand where he is at. I’m ultimately the one who will be clearing him for activity and can evaluate how he’s doing” Shane explained.

“I also told them I only work with Hollander, need to show him I could still beat him in workouts even with one leg” Ilya said with a smirk. Shane rolled his eyes.

 

Two Weeks Later
Boston

They go on walks now, like an old married couple. Ilya laughed at the suggestion the first time, but now it was just part of his day. Wake up, breakfast with Shane, workout with Shane, ice his leg while staring at Shane, lunch with Shane, more working out with Shane, afternoon walk with Shane before dinner, shower thinking about Shane, couch and conversation time with Shane, before heading to bed to stare at the ceiling. Ilya wished all he felt was sexual desire, there was a time when that’s all that was there, but it wasn’t anymore. He liked him, he liked being with him, he liked who he was more when he was around Shane.

Ilya was smiling more, a little too easily, sometimes he caught himself looking at Shane with a little too much warmth instead of heat, a too gentle smile on his face. Ilya found himself talking too much, answering questions he didn’t think he would or could, but he did it anyway. Shane sometimes responded exactly how he’d anticipated, with kindness, sometimes the things Ilya said caught him so off guard he was clumsy. The more Ilya opened up, the more Shane stopped running.

Tonight, Shane had found a nature preserve only thirty minutes or so from the city. Ilya couldn’t hike quite yet, he could only walk for twenty minutes or so at a time, and on a flat surface. His knee felt fat and stiff afterwards but it was worth it. It was nice being in public with Shane, Ilya was recognized more often than not, and Shane let himself fall into the background quietly. Ilya wondered if it could be this easy, out in public with a man only instead of walking near each other, they held hands or kissed. If it could be easy he wanted it with Shane.

They continued their walk and Ilya’s phone buzzed in his pocket, he pulled his phone out and sighed at the name on the screen. He declined the call and put it back in his pocket. After their father died, Alexei stopped contacting him as much. Ilya threatened him after all, cut him off. Ilya knew better than to answer any phone calls. Maybe once a year his phone rang from his brother, and it yanked him into a piss poor mood. Ilya sighed, he felt Shane’s eyes on the side of his face. Of course his brother would call him now.

“Everything okay?” Shane asked astutely. No. It never was, and Ilya wanted to tell him as much.

“My brother” Ilya said simply, glancing at his side where Shane stopped walking. Ilya raised an eyebrow and Shane fell back into step with him.

“Tell me about him” Shane asked. It was an open ended question that Shane often provided him whenever he asked him about his life outside of hockey, Ilya could say no, or he could say something more.

“He is older than me, police. You would never know how he acts” Ilya said, eyes scanning around the tall trees and the filtered light on the path. Shane didn’t say anything. “He does cocaine, is married, has small daughter” he said, “shitty husband” Ilya continued, wanting desperately to feel lighter that someone else knew his family and how they were always trying to drown him, dead or alive. “I gave him money for a while, lots of it, he calls sometimes begging for more” Ilya said simply. “He is not good man, too much like my father”.

They took a few more quiet steps on the soft earth trail before Shane cleared his throat.

“I met him once, your father” he said, and it was Ilya’s turn to stop walking. He stared at Shane with his mouth slightly open.

Shane nodded, “It was before the draft, I was coming out of the bathroom and going to the seats”. His stomach felt heavy.

“What did he say to you?” Ilya almost demanded.

Shane shrugged, “That you were going to be drafted first and my hockey wouldn’t have turned any heads in Russia”. Even though Shane said the words in his voice, Ilya heard them in his father’s tone. Even now, dead, he was still embarrassing him.

“He should have not said this” Ilya mumbled as he continued walking. Shane shrugged, a small smile on his lips.

“He hated you, knew you were biggest competition” Ilya said.

“It was no worse than some of the things you said, I figured your whole family was just into shit talking” Shane told him. That gave Ilya pause, he did shit talk, he did criticize players, to their faces to demean them and minimize them and give him the competitive edge. But that was on the ice, not in a draft hall moments before the biggest accomplishment of someone’s life.

“I am not like him” Ilya said, he knew it was a lie. He was like his father, he had the same darkness that he had, it came out of him in different ways. “I’m not” Ilya insisted firmly. “I hated him” Ilya said.

“I hate him too then” Shane said quietly, his fingers brushing the back of arm just above his elbow until Ilya looked at him, was it sympathy? “I’m not saying you’re like him”. Ilya felt the need to prove it. His hand went to his necklace and he squeezed the pendant.

“I’m more like her” he said before he could stop himself. Shane dropped his fingers and trained his head straight ahead, giving Ilya space to think, feel, let emotions flit across his face without Shane seeing them.

“What was her name” Shane asked softly, so quietly the chirping frogs near the pond they were rounding almost drowned out the question.

“Irina” her name almost choked him, the same image was conjured in his brain as always when he thought of his mother. Blonde curls spilled across the bathroom tile, a cold hand outstretched towards the door Ilya was standing in like even in death she was reaching for him. That cold memory came first, then the memory of her smile, her fingers twisting the curls on his head, her hand running over his back when he was sick. Her smile, wide, but eyes sad.

“Tell me what she was like?” Shane’s voice was a whisper, almost like he knew that if there was anything louder Ilya might run, he might shut off. Ilya shuffled to a wooden bench that faced the pond and he sat in it, staring at the water’s edge, his hands in a pile at his lap. Shane sat next to him, quietly.

“She was beautiful, and so sad. I loved her” Ilya’s voice was quiet. Shane didn’t ask anymore questions, he didn’t seek any more answers, and Ilya was too tired to talk anymore. A few minutes passed in quiet before either of them spoke again.

“I bet you look like her, you didn’t look anything like him” Shane said, eyes still fixed on the water in front of him.

Ilya’s lip twitched at the corner. Ilya had his father’s eyes, everyone had said it his whole life, he had his father’s jaw and nose. Everything on his face with father’s, he only inherited his mother’s softness and her blonde curly hair. Anyone who’d seen his father would know that, it was the kind of lie someone who cared about you told to make you feel better, and maybe Ilya would accept that.

“We should head back, i’m getting bit by mosquitoes” Shane said with a sigh and stood, extending a hand to Ilya. Standing up was still difficult, Shane knew it, and Ilya grabbed his hand and let him help him, even if it was just to his feet. He let himself grasp his hand for another second before letting it fall at his side.

They drove home in silence, not uncomfortable or unwanted, just in the silence of two people who maybe knew each other enough to be okay with the quiet. Ilya felt lighter, and he kept sneaking glances at Shane who was focused on the road. If he wasn’t careful, he’d tell him all of his secrets. Part of Ilya really wanted to.

Something changed between the car and the house, suddenly, Shane was as far away as possible. Busy, not looking, not talking to him. Ilya wondered if his honesty had driven Shane away. It didn’t make sense, it seemed like that’s what he wanted from him, to know him. Ilya wasn’t sure if Shane was running, or if he was just in one of those weird moods until he came downstairs after Ilya ate dinner alone, dressed like he was going out.

Shane said he’d be home later and left, and it sunk into Ilya again that Shane was running, and he was running from him. Every time Ilya had been open in his life, shared a part of him, it was a disaster. It made people flee, see him for the broken person he was. He’d done it again. He opened up, hoping not to be alone, and ended up alone anyway. Ilya turned to the best coping habit he had, alcohol. Ilya stayed on the couch all night, wanting to know exactly what time Shane returned and in what state he did. The longer he waited, the drunker he got.

 

03:07 AM
Shane’s Townhouse

Shane pressed the door closed quietly, arranging his shoes as always and hanging his keys and jacket on the hook by the door. He didn’t feel any better than when he left the house. How could he? He’d tried to fuck his feelings away, tried to diminish that look on Ilya’s face and in his eyes into a passing nothing. It wasn’t, none of what was going on with them was nothing, and that’s why Shane had to stay moving.

He crept forward quietly, not wanting to wake Ilya wherever he may be inside of the house.

“Who is it you go see and leave me alone in your house?” the words were a bit slurred, called from the couch where Ilya was when he left.

Shane didn’t want to do this, not now, not in the morning, never. Shane froze, and wondered if he should continue walking towards the stairs or if he should turn around and face this. It was all bubbling up to a conversation like this at some point, a conversation that needed to happen. Something or someone had to give.

Shane turned his head, and could see a bottle of vodka on the table on top of a coaster just over Ilya’s shoulder. Things like that killed him, Ilya was drunk and had even considered Shane’s table. Ilya’s hair was a mess, his eyes were glassy, and his lips were pressed into a thin line. Despite the glare he was sending Shane, he looked vulnerable. Shane itched to soothe him.

“Alcohol isn’t on the performance plan” Shane sighed. Ilya groaned.

“Fuck your plan, answer” Ilya said. Shane hesitated for a moment too long, running from Ilya Rozanov wasn’t that easy anymore now that he was walking. Shane heard him go to his feet, Shane’s body started moving before he even made the decision. He was running, always running.

Shane climbed the stairs to his bedroom two at a time, feeling like he was being chased by a rabid dog. Running seemed like a good idea until there was nowhere left to go, the top floor of the townhouse was an open suite, there was no door to lock except for the bathroom but that was just childish. He shouldn’t have to hide in his own home. On the top floor, his room was the only space Shane had left that hadn’t been ruined by Ilya Rozanov.

Shane heard the shuffling of steps, the slow climbing, the slowest chase ever, but it had his heart hammering in his chest. Shane ran a hard hand through his hair as if that would prepare him

“I have been wanting to come up here” Ilya said from behind him. Shane didn’t have it in him to fight. Something Russian slipped from his mouth in a long sentence that made Shane’s spine stiffen. He didn’t know what Ilya was saying, but he didn’t need to, and he didn’t need to hear his low voice in another language, not right now.

“You’re drunk, go to bed. If you want to talk in the morning that’s fine” Shane said tightly. He couldn’t do this, not when he still had another man’s closeness on his clothes and his body. Ilya looked at him like he could see it all, like he was a traitor.

“Who is he? I won’t leave, I need to know” Ilya said, a playful smirk on his face but it didn’t reach his eyes. Shane didn’t answer. “I think I'll lay in your bed then, wait until you answer” Ilya said, strolling towards the bed.

“His name is Evan” Shane said, he couldn’t let Ilya ruin the last sacred ground in his home. If he ever got into that bed, Shane may never let him leave it. Ilya turned so his whole body faced Shane.

“Why does Evan get you? Did he wait twenty years instead of thirteen?” Ilya asked, a low laugh chasing his words. Shane just stared at him, unsure of what to say, so he said nothing at all. Ilya seemed to have enough to say for the both of them. The admission was too big and not freely given, it was plucked from his brain and spewed at Shane’s feet by his inebriated mind.

“Can I tell you something Hollander”, Rozanov asked in a faux whisper that was louder than the volume he usually spoke at. His cheeks were ruddier than they usually were and his gaze was slightly unfocused.

“I think you should go downstairs now” Shane said simply.

“Shhhh shhh shhh Hollander, Shane” Ilya waved a hand around sloppily in the air, “I need to tell you something” Ilya whispered, somehow louder than his talking voice. “I’m glad I got hurt” he said, and gasped like it was a surprise to even him, making his eyes cartoonishly wide.

Shane’s eyes narrowed, he felt the thick crease between them.

“I get to see Hollander’s house” Ilya whispered, “Up here is secret though, only for people he likes I guess” Ilya switched to some russian mumbling.

“Time for bed” Shane said, he couldn’t watch anymore of this.

“If you wanted sex, I was on couch you know” Ilya slurred, he stumbled a bit, and Shane steadied him. There was no way he was going to get downstairs safely. “If it was more, not just sex, I have” he mumbled.

Shane sighed, he felt the urge to cry. He led the wobbling, too strong, and too closed off man to the edge of his bed, and gently sat him down. Shane had crossed the last boundary, Ilya had forced his hand, but Shane told him to sit.

“Lay down Rozanov” Shane said firmly.

“Ilya, Ilya” he repeated, thick in his Russian accent.

“Lay down Ilya, go to bed” he directed him. Surprisingly he laid down, he flopped onto his back into Shane’s bed and he stopped talking. Shane stood at the foot of the bed for thirty minutes, just staring. He went into his closet, collecting clothes on auto pilot and moving into the bathroom, pulling the door shut and tugging the lock. He showered, he scrubbed, he changed, and he refused to look at Ilya in his bed as he padded down the stairs.

Shane was tired, too tired, he needed to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling until sleep pulled him under. Shane’s feet carried him to Ilya’s room before he thought any better of it and he fell onto his back into the sheets. The room smelled like him, the blank slate guest room was filled with him, his mismatched socks in a ball on the dresser, a baseball hat on the nightstand. Shane would never be able to see this room any other way again.

Chapter End Notes

LMK what you think :) I thrive off of comments

Chapter 10: Hangman

Chapter Notes

A few people commented that my fic is on a reddit recommendation page which explains the extra comments/views lately! Welcome and thanksss to new readers and whoever among you recommended this<3

I went to check Reddit out (as a curious girl does) and found out from a comment that I have bad grammar. I went back and read this fic and…I do have fuck ass grammar and a bunch of typos and use too many commas. Lmao,,,,,,,my bad. I have gone back and done some cleaning up of the prior chapters and will continue to do so as I have time. We stan helpful criticism.

A few things for this chapter- there are talks of suicide in this chapter.

Also- I REFUSE to write about a character named Galina Molchalina...really Rachel gurl, you couldn’t come up with something that didn’t rhyme? SMH with that Dr Seuss ass name.

Later that Morning
Shane's Townhouse

Ilya went from asleep to aware of everything in an instant. It was like someone flicked a light switch of awareness.

He felt like hell, maybe he was in hell? His mouth was too dry and his head ached. He became too aware too quickly of the night before and that he wasn’t in his usual room or on the couch in Shane’s place. He was in Shane’s bed. He’d thought many times about being in this bed but never was he wearing last night clothes or in it alone. It was a tragedy really.

The top floor of the apartment was almost all windows and the late summer sun streamed inside casting prisms of light on the expensive everything of Shane’s bedroom. Any other morning it might’ve been beautiful or even peaceful, but not today. Today all the sun did was illuminate the horrible decisions he’d made the night before. Ilya was not so fortunate to forget his misbehavior. In fact, he remembered everything. None of the things he said to Shane were things he’d only figured out last night over one too many vodkas. They were things he’d turned over in his head, looked at the angles of, and willed himself not to say. But holding the words back was too much for him last night. It wasn't an exaggeration, thirteen years he'd known Shane Hollander and wanted something from him. The something changed a bit here and there, but it mostly stayed the same. Shane said nothing to him, but Ilya saw the intake of air, the stuttered breath, and his eyes darting towards the exit. He'd spooked him like a little shelter dog. He'd moved too fast.  

Ilya rolled over so he was face down in the sheets. Nice sheets that smelled good and clean and were probably a billion thread count. He listened for sounds in the house like he was listening for an intruder in the night, hoping a floorboard creaking or plates being cleaned loudly might clue him in on how hard his life was about to become. He didn’t hear anything. He moved to stand and swayed on his feet a little, not because he was still drunk but because his body detected danger. His knee was stiff but he’d become accustomed to that. He hissed a breath between a tight jaw and clenched teeth.

He was much too preoccupied the night before to look around the room. Now, in the light of day and with nobody to distract him his eyes darted around the room trying to suck up all the information he could.

Who was Shane when nobody was looking?

Ilya slept on top of the bed, too tired or drunk to venture under the sheets. The corners of the sheets were tucked in tightly like a hospital bed. Like everything else, Shane’s room was neat, orderly, and had minimal personal details. His hand was reaching for the bedside table drawer before he thought better of it, that was probably too far. His fingers closed around a photo frame on the table as he pulled it to his face to examine it. Shane was smiling, wedged between his two parents in dimly lit stadium seating.

Shane was so young in the photo, and the setting and his suit was so familiar it took a moment for Ilya to place it. It clicked in his mind like a gas stove right before the flame lit. It was draft day, all those years ago. Ilya was maybe ten feet out of the frame of the photo. His stomach turned, the young boy in the photo had the world ahead of him. He still had his full childlike cheek bones and his hair sat on his forehead like a shelf. Shane’s parents were both turned looking at him in the photo. His mother touched his tie and his father grinned at the two of them. It was what a family should be. Shane looked like his mother.

Ilya was glad he wasn’t in the picture somewhere in the background. Even the back of his head would have ruined such a joyous thing. He set the picture down carefully, as if the people in the photo might shatter instead of the glass of the frame if he didn’t handle it with enough care. If he had a family like that, he would handle it with care.

A pair of glasses were on top of a paper back book on the nightstand, different than the ones he usually wore. The second bedside table closer to the window was empty, but the top was dusted. Ilya walked to the other side of the fireplace that split the large lofted bedroom from the large bathroom. It was clean with only soap on the counter and a soft hand towel. His shower had three products that were neat and in a row. His closet was large, and Ilya almost laughed at how few clothes were in it. The room was almost more Shane than he imagined it could be.

The only thing that was missing was him. He’d driven him out of his own bedroom. The bedspread beside where Ilya slept was unwrinkled. Shane probably laid on the couch last night and regretted inviting him here the whole time. Ilya was a horrible house guest, probably a horrible person too. Ilya couldn’t stay up here forever in Shane’s tower, he was going to have to face what happened. He descended the stairs slowly, taking in new angles of the apartment that appeared each step like a soldier clearing the threshold of a room for threats. The kitchen was empty, so was the living room. The clock on the stove read almost eleven thirty. Ilya’s cellphone sat on the kitchen table and he swiped it open and saw a pair of messages.

                                                                 S: Do bike workout 3 and workout sheet 6 before I’m back. Drink water.

 

                                                                 S: I’ll be back for dinner. We need to talk later.

 

No amount of water was going to take away the sourness in his mouth. Ilya wasn’t sure if Shane was knowingly torturing him. He’d come downstairs this morning primed for a conversation maybe a fight. He deflated when he realized Shane wasn’t here. Not only was Shane not here, he hadn’t slept on the couch. Ilya felt it the second he walked into his bedroom. He felt that while he was drunk and passed out in Shane’s bed and so undeserving of that privilege, Shane was downstairs in his bed wrapped in sheets that smelled like Ilya.

Ilya smelled him in the room, he could almost imagine his shape in the sheets that he’d tucked in the corner the same way he made his own bed. 

Ilya fought through the motions of the day, dragging a heavy chain behind him that felt a lot like regret everywhere he went. He didn’t do the workouts, he didn’t give a shit about them. He’d done all the rehab and workouts and bullshit with Shane because he asked him to. He did it because it was a way for Ilya to feel his attention, his hands on his skin correcting form or trying to heal him. Ilya hardly cared about returning to hockey.

There was a slow clock in his head, ticking like an old windup kitchen timer. Ilya knew the better he got, the more he’d be alone again. There were only so many more weeks where he needed observation. He was walking now unassisted, he could go up steps. There were no remaining reasons for him to be sitting at Shane’s dinner table, taking up space on his couch, sleeping in his bed, and asking him questions. He could be at home. Ilya was stealing minutes of his day and greedily hoarding them. Soon he would be back in his too cold apartment, too alone again. He didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay here and continue this torturous dance. When the timer went off, he would go. He was content with waiting, it was inevitable.

Ilya had to fuck it up because that’s what he did. He should be walking on egg shells and hoping Shane didn’t notice he was getting better. He should be staying in line, not giving him reasons to wash his hands of him. He was stupid last night, emotional. He was too emotional when he shouldn't be, not emotional enough sometimes, like a broken clock. 

It wasn’t just not wanting to be alone anymore, Ilya wanted to be with Shane. But Shane didn’t want to be with him. He was out with some man last night until the early morning hours, maybe that’s where he was right now. Maybe he was complaining to him about a stupid Russian hockey player he mistakenly agreed to help. Maybe they were laughing at him.

The wait was excruciating, every minute was another he was guarding himself and the next he was splitting himself open again. He’d almost forgotten how alone he was in all of the distraction. He spent hours planning what he was going to say to Shane when he came in, he’d explain it all away as he was drunk and saying non-sense. He edited that, he was drunk but it wasn’t non-sense. Edited again, why don’t you want me too? He went through a thousand iterations, each one more pathetic than the last. He considered leaving and never discussing the previous night and sending a text that he went home.

He went through arguments that hadn’t materialized and got angry at a figment Hollander conjured only by his anxious mind. He found it in him to forgive the figment minutes later. Someone might institutionalize him if they knew what he was doing. By the time the front door opened, he was hours into the spiral and waiting for the floor to drop from under his feet.

Any plans he had evaporated. Ilya Rozanov was not known widely for control, but hell he could usually scrape something together. All the control he had in his body was falling through his fingers like sand, and at Shane’s feet.

“Where did you go?” It was an innocent question and it sounded too accusatory coming out of his mouth. He said it before Shane even stepped around the corner into the living room. He sounded like a suspicious wife who’d found one too many lipsticks that weren’t hers in the family car. Ilya always knew the right thing to say but lately everything was coming out wrong. The quiet steps faltered for a moment before continuing forward.

Shane stepped around the corner in a pair of shorts and a short sleeved shirt, his eyes were tired and his body was coiled like a spring threatening to snap. His eyes passed over Ilya but they didn't lock with his.

“Sober yet?” he asked as he passed the couch and headed towards the kitchen.“I went to the rink”, he still hadn’t looked at him. The silence was unnerving, it felt like his angry father’s raised hand was about to come down on him any moment.

“What do you want for dinner? I have chicken thighs or we can do tofu bowls” Shane asked in a bored tone as he opened the doors of the fridge. Ilya was rarely surprised, in all of his calculations and planning on how this conversation would go, none of it involved his dinner preference.

“Dinner? Really?” Ilya said, suddenly the aggressor.

Shane still hadn’t looked him in the eye. His hands stilled, and his back tensed. He should approach this with care. He should be grateful, he should be calm. Instead, he was angry. He wanted Shane to be angry too, because when they were snapping at each other Ilya felt something. He felt that spark that used to just live in him. He wanted to cup his hands around it and feed it until it was a flame but he never could manage it.

“Fine” Shane relented, Shane sat at his kitchen table at one end of the rectangular table. Ilya rose to his feet and pulled out the chair at the other end. He needed the distance as much as he hated it. 

“I want to talk to you about something you said last night and I need you to be honest” Shane said. It was firm and certain. It made Ilya’s spine go straight. Was this it? Was Shane finally going to send him away? Ilya sat like he was waiting to hear about some terminal diagnosis with his hands clasped on the table and his chin was low. He waited patiently for the words to leave Shane’s mouth and to teach him the acceptable borders of the conversation.

“Do you want to get better?” It was a simple and well intended question. Ilya glanced up, his eyes meeting dark shining ones brimming with curiosity for the first time since his return.

“What?” It wasn't as much of a question as it was a curiosity. Of all of the things that Ilya told Shane last night this is what he wanted to talk about? It set him off. He scoffed, “This is what you want to say to me” it was almost a shout, almost.

“I, was there something else you wanted to talk about Rozanov? You said last night you were glad you got hurt”. That was all he cared about. He didn’t care about him. He didn’t care about their questions at night, sharing a the couch, and Ilya opening himself up to him. He didn’t care about their shared smiles. All he cared about was work and fixing his project.

“You can’t just pick and choose what you heard Hollander I’m not fucking stupid. Neither are you”.

Shane’s lip curled into a sneer. “Answer the question, are we doing all of this for nothing? Do you even care about getting better and going back to hockey?” Shane said firmly.

“What do you want?” Ilya asked him. Deflect, be angry, call him a name, say something you know will cut and you’ll never recover from- his instincts whispered to him. If you hurt him he can’t hurt you first. It was what Rozanov men did when they felt backed into a corner. Ilya pressed his lips tight so he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be his own hangman today even if he felt the weight of the rope in his hands.

“I want you to be honest”, Shane said firmly.

“No, you don’t” Ilya laughed humorlessly.

“I don’t want to argue with you about everything” Shane said simply, “We don’t have to fight, we can be, fuck, at least civil right?” it came out of his mouth tired.

“I don’t want to be civil” Rozanov said.

Shane let out a groan of frustration and one of his hands smacked the tabletop. “Then I think maybe it’s best to get you another person to work with because if we can’t even talk then it’s time to move on. I can’t help someone who won’t talk to me” Shane relented, firm and resolute.

Ilya felt exposed, too bare. Surely the pain he felt was visible all over his body. He felt like Shane was digging his fingers into a new bruise in his chest. Everyone always left, he always drove them away. He opened his mouth to ask him to stay. He could try to be better for him. The words died somewhere behind his tongue. “You give up then?” his voice was smaller than he wanted it to be.

“It’s not about giving up. If I’m not the right person for the job or for you, I’ll find someone for who is” Shane said simply, like it was logical. An emotionless endeavor to cut him off entirely. 

“You would not be mad?” Ilya asked. Shane rubbed both of his hands over his eyes, his shoulder caved in towards his collarbones.

“None of this is about me or how I feel. This is about what is best for you. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do is what was best for you” Shane said firmly. “I’m not your enemy here but I feel like you want me to be”. 

A beat of silence settled between them.

“What if I don’t love it anymore?” Ilya asked. It slipped out before he could help it. Shane blinked slow, processing. He looked him over and tried to decide if he was joking or not. The longer Ilya looked at Shane the more details jumped out at him. Ilya swore he could see the thoughts running through his eyes like a film reel. He knew that Shane noticed that he played like a man going through the motions and not someone who lived for it. Shane knew it, he was already carrying the secret. This was just naming it out in the open.

“You still get to be healthy even if you’re done with hockey” Shane said factually. His face was blank. He was probably judging him under that cool facade, he was probably jealous of him too.

“You think I am asshole” Ilya said.

Shane huffed in frustration, “I know you’re an asshole” he said. “I think you’re burnt out and afraid to say it” he continued, even and non accusatory. “I think it’s easier for you to be an asshole because nobody makes you explain yourself” Shane said heavy with accusation.  He was bad, unlovable. He was a box with damaged goods that was returned to the sender because nobody wanted him. Shane knew it. Maybe he didn’t know all the people who had cast him aside, but he had an idea of why they may hhave. He might as well show Shane who he really was.

“You are mad at me because I have a chance to come back and you didn’t”. Ilya said. It was a cheap shot, one meant to hurt and make Shane stop looking at him and digging into him. “You are jealous. You can’t let it go. Always hanging around team, watching games, trying to pretend it’s you”. Shane went to his feet, the chair clattering back a few inches behind him. He hit a nerve, a nasty one. 

Ilya felt tightness in his neck and the phantom burn of rope around his chin, he was his own hangman after all. He was suspended. Helpless at this point in a situation of hurt of his own making. He didn’t want to be. He wanted Shane to lower his feet to the ground and save him. He didn't deserve it though.

“Do you really believe that?” Shane asked with glassy eyes, a ribbon of something too vulnerable to be hidden threaded in the words. “When have I ever given you any reason to think any of this is about me or something selfish?” he demanded. “Everything I’ve done has been to try to help you” Shane’s voice faded out to nothing. That’s the thing about being self destructive. Ilya felt no relief from the hurt in his voice, only more pain. “Do you believe that or are you trying to hurt me?” he demanded, it sounded like it mattered what he thought. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tell him to never care about his opinion and he didn't deserve one

“Hurt you” Ilya replied. The answer revealed that Ilya knew the worst thing to say to someone, and he was willing to say it instead of being vulnerable. It was a defect in him, a break that no amount of surgery or braces and exercises could make right in his body. There was something bone deep wrong with him.

“Well you did it” Shane laughed without any humor. Ilya didn’t know what to say or what to do. If there was anyone who deserved whatever patch work kindness Ilya could quilt together it was Shane and he couldn’t give it to him. Shane pushed his chair back from the table to stand, he was washing his hands of him. Ilya opened his mouth, he wanted to beg him to stay and forgive him. To explain that a beaten dog will always bite first when backed into a corner. Shane was turning to leave, this might be the last time they talk like this.

“I’m not sure I can handle this any…” Shane was in the middle of his sentence, a sentence Ilya knew how it would end. He couldn’t let it end.

“I don’t have anything else if I quit” Ilya said suddenly, cutting off Shane. ”Nothing. Empty life I think” he said. Shane’s mouth was still open as if the last few devastating words might still fall. His lips pressed together after a few seconds before opening again. Those other interrupted words were abandoned, a second timer was set in his head for a time they might be finished.

“There’s more than you think”, Shane said softly. “Happiness doesn’t just show up though, you have to find it and work for it sometimes” Shane said. “I’ve watched you play for over a decade. You used to play like you had something to prove, you don’t smile anymore when you play” Shane told him.

Everything he was saying was true, Ilya had reached the summit of his hockey career and there was nobody there with him, just the people below him. He was motivated by winning, by being unbeatable, and he was. He didn’t hear the fans yelling for him or booing him anymore, he didn’t play for his teammates. He didn’t even play for himself. Hockey was a game that was chosen for him. Ilya’s father chose this game for him, his mother never saw him play.

“I have a contract” Ilya said lamely like that would end the conversation. Shane raised his eyebrows, eyes dark and glittering.

“You have an agent. That entire job is figuring out how to get people into things and out of things. You also have a medical retirement option” Shane said, turning now to face him but still standing.

“You need reason to retire, paperwork, a doctor saying so” Ilya said flatly. Medical retirement had to be legitimate.

“I will never lie and it will take some creative writing but I will do it if that is what you want” Shane said simply. “You get to choose Ilya, this is your career and life. Nobody else's" but it wasn’t really. He was a product. When had he last skated because he wanted to and not because it was expected of him as a captain, a star player, a son, or a moneymaker? Maybe it was the bag skates with Shane months ago, and when before then? He couldn't say. 

“I did not choose to play this game” Ilya said. He hated it at first when his father enrolled him. He hated his mother being gone, he hated his father shoving him into another adult's care so he didn’t have to look at him. He hated hitting people with his body and being hit. His mother always told him he was her soft boy and Ilya was soft. He hated that emotionally he bruised like overripe fruit under the pressure of a thumb. Hockey in Russia was brutal, and quickly he was unable to relax at home or any minute he spent on the ice. Ilya hated that he became good at the game his father forced him into. It felt like being under his thumb. 

“After my mother died, my father made me go so he didn’t have to see me” Ilya explained quietly.

Shane, who was still standing as if he still may turn and walk out of the room grasped the back of the chair with his two hands before sliding back into it.

“It was another place I had to be perfect and was never enough” Ilya muttered, picking his nail at the wood edge of the table. “I was good. My father became worse” Ilya said. “When I get drafted he does not hug me or congratulate me, he tells me MHL is a disgrace to our country and I must not embarrass him” he continued. He tilted his head and shrugged. "He spends all night telling Boston I am lazy" Ilya remembered looking down on the top of Hollander's head a moment later from the balcony. 

“I get contract, I send my brother money for years. He hates me more. I used to take phone calls from Father where I am told I am nothing for playing a game he forced me into. When he died, there are others I cannot let down who take his place” Ilya said. “I never had a choice, never” he said firmly, his eyes flitting up to meet Shane’s.

“You get to choose now” Shane said quietly.

“I can’t” he replied quiet. He wouldn't know how to make a choice if he even could. 

“You owe it to yourself to slow down and actually think about what you want. Weigh the options. Don’t come up with roadblocks or reasons why you can’t do something” he told him. Shane looked at him not with sympathy or empathy but with something stronger. Something that didn’t pity.

“I am not citizen here and I can’t go to back to Russia if I leave” Ilya said simply. “Is not safe for me there if anything came out about relationships with men” Ilya could see the wheels turning in Shane’s head.

“You can apply for asylum” Shane said simply. “You can apply for citizenship here. You can go to a team out west or in Canada, somewhere with no connection to Boston. No captaincy or obligations. Somewhere you can be challenged. You have options for whatever you chose” Shane suggested. It sounded so simple when someone else said it. “There is always a way Ilya” Shane shrugged.

Late afternoon sun beamed through the glass windows and cast over Shane’s body. He was radiant in the sun. His dark hair was like ink, his eyes unfathomably deep. He glowed from behind his head like the stained glass figures in the Orthodox Church his mother used to bring him to. Ilya wasn’t illuminated, some building blocked him from feeling the warmth of the sun and he found that fitting. He was the darkness, Shane was the light.

“I” Ilya started, something thick in his throat. He wanted to be in the sun and have it run through him. He wanted to be good, better.

Alarm bells went off in his head, anything he said may be used against him to hurt him. But that wasn’t Shane Hollander, that was only Ilya who thought of information like artillery he was handing to an enemy soldier. Shane hadn’t said something horrible back when he knew enough that he could have. Shane was insulted by him and stayed, he wasn’t planning on harming him.

It was enough encouragement for the words he'd never told anyone to come out of him and fall onto the table like vomit. A hot, involuntary rush of sickness.

“I think I am ill” Ilya said. Doctors fix broken things all the time, maybe he could fix him. Shane’s eyes darted around his face, cataloging him.

“What are you feeling?” his brow folded in the center.

“I think, maybe in my head, like my mother” Ilya responded, the anger from minutes ago washed off of his limbs and sitting at his feet in a crude puddle.

“Your mother” Shane echoed, his face was soft.

“She was very sad, very lonely” Ilya said, looking far off. Ilya had said too much, he always did around Shane. He needed to take it back. “Nevermind” he dismissed.

“No” Shane countered, “What do you mean?” he pressed. Ilya couldn’t find any more words to say.

“I think maybe sometimes I am sad like her and maybe there isn’t enough happiness to fix me” Ilya said quietly, eyes fixed on a wood knot on the table’s center. “I am too much like her. Maybe an accident might happen to me” he said, and felt the foreign burn in his eyes that proceeded tears. He blinked them away and hung his head.

Accident.

An unfortunate and unexpected thing. Not something that was planned, carefully executed while her family was out. An accident wasn’t overcoming a child safety lock on a medication bottle, an accident wasn’t filling a glass and going into the bathroom. An accident wasn’t putting on one of her favorite dresses and leaving him forever. But that’s what is was in Russia and to everyone in Russia. Ilya hated that he’d been convinced into using their language instead of calling it what it was, suicide.

“Ilya” Shane’s voice said carefully, “What accident?”.

Blue open eyes, cold tile, a hand extended out like she was begging him to come with her flashed in his mind. “She accidentally swallowed an entire bottle of my pills” he murmured, fingers running along the seam of the table leaf. There it was the ugly truth laid out between them on the dinner table with Shane at one head and Ilya at the other. Ilya watched Shane's quick brain clicking the pieces of his horrid puzzle together, the picture of him taking shape. Ilya was tired, worn down, he needed someone to help shoulder some of the weight.

“Do you want there to be an accident?” Shane asked simply, quietly.

“No” Ilya’s response was immediate, “I’m just worried one day there could be”. He worried all the time about it. He worried nobody would notice or care if an accident happened. He worried if heaven was real that he may not see his mother again. 

“I’m sorry about your mother” Shane told him, sincerity all over his face.

“I found her” he told him, now that he’d started it was like the information was falling out of him.

“Irina” Shane tried the name in his mouth, he didn’t roll the R quite right but it sounded soft and safe there. He remembered her name. He cared enough to remember his mother's name. He could have sobbed. 

“Irina” Ilya repeated nodding. Quiet sit between them for a few beats. Ilya’s fingers pressed into the necklace, and Shane’s eyes followed. Another puzzle piece clicked. 

“Who do you talk to about things going on in your life? The difficult things?” Shane asked him. Ilya didn’t respond, that was the answer. Ilya just blinked at him.

“After I got hurt, my parents made me go to a psychologist” Shane explained. “I wasn’t eating and barely sleeping. They dragged me there and I sat and didn’t say a word. They gave me antidepressants” he continued. “It didn’t help me, I thought it would be a quick fix but they weren’t. I felt worse” Shane said. “My parents were afraid to let me be alone. They were afraid of” he paused, “An accident or something” he finished, eyes flicking to Ilya’s. “I wasn’t going to, but they didn’t know what to do” he shrugged.

“What happened?” Ilya asked. Shane was well adjusted, he had friends and he seemed happy.

“I went and talked to someone, I answered the stupid questions they asked. I put the effort I always put into keeping my body into my mind. It didn’t go away, I just changed maybe” Shane said unsure. “I made myself leave the house, I made myself be someone real until I actually was again”.

“And you are happy?” the question was raw. Ilya needed to know the answer. Was Shane happy? He deserved to be happy.

“I am” Shane replied with a small smile, “I’m not afraid anymore, not like I was when I got hurt or even before then. I’m not hiding who I am. I have things that fill me” he said with confidence. He paused a beat before he spoke again, “I think you should talk to someone” Shane said simply.

“Russians don’t..” Ilya started. It was Shane’s turn to interrupt him.

“What? Deserve to be happy and feel listened to? Bullshit” Shane directed simply with a small smile. The smile lasted a moment before it dissipated. “I’ll listen to you Ilya, but I’m not a mind reader and I won’t accept being treated like a punching bag. If you want a friend, I can be that for you but you have to stop trying to hurt me when things get tough” Shane said simply.

“I don’t want to be like this” he replied.

“Then we’re good” was Shane’s only response with a small smile. Shane asking him to leave his house never came. He cooked them dinner, they ate quietly, sat on the couch and watched some documentary Shane picked and then said their goodnights. Ilya watched Shane climb the stairs to his bedroom knowing he never deserved to see it again, and that Shane hadn’t given up on him yet.

 

*
Two Weeks Later
Brookline Medical Center, Boston

 

Shane’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel in a gentle pattern, no specific tune as his left hand extended out of the car window and tapped on the outside of his car. Summer was cooling off, and training camp was starting next week. Shane would have more responsibilities outside of Ilya with the new class coming in. He still remembered the adrenaline of walking into the pro complex his first day of camp, skating on the ice with the Metros logo and feeling like everything was falling into place. The group of guys coming in might have that same feeling.

At this time in the summer he should have been at the cottage with his parents, somehow he didn’t feel like he’d missed out on anything. He should call his Mom, it’d been two weeks since they last talked. Their conversations were short lately because Shane had nothing to talk about that wasn’t related to Ilya Rozanov. He couldn’t very well tell her he was housing a grown man like he was a billet. He couldn’t tell her about the short hikes in the woods in New Hampshire because Ilya was walking beside him. He couldn’t talk about watching a pre-season game of the Sox without mentioning Ilya and Marleau being with him. It was lying by omission. His mother knew him, and it would take her about two mentions of his name to sniff out what was going on. Shane couldn’t hear it right now, he knew he was an inch of water away from drowning. He didn’t need to be told he was about to drown. Hayden covered that and then some.

Ilya was progressing well and getting strong, he was due to start running soon. Nothing crazy, straight line running and maybe some body weight squats. It was nothing his body couldn’t handle but now his mind would need to be bought in. Too many athletes became cautious after their injuries and caused themselves more issues. Ilya had enough on his mind. Shane kept waiting for him to pack up his bag and go home, but he never did. The crutches were shoved into Shane’s coat closet, forgotten and useless for how well he was moving. He could climb stairs without issue. He could have been home a week ago. Shane didn’t say anything, neither did Ilya.

Shane looked towards the building entrance but didn’t see him, he checked the clock in his car. He was fifteen minutes over his appointment time. Ilya found someone he was willing to talk to, some doctor Shane declined to know the name so it would never make it into the Raider’s medical system. He couldn’t help but be distrustful. There were teams across professional sports that cared about their players, and had environments where their players could be open and accepted for their differences. Shane didn’t know if the Raiders were an organization like that. He was going to protect Ilya until they showed him they were worthy of honesty.

After spending so much time with and living with Ilya at this point, Shane felt as if he’d seen most of the sides of him. He’d never seen him nervous before. Ilya slammed the car door behind him sixty five minutes ago, looking back as if he was marching to the guillotine as he walked through the glass door. Shane promised he’d stay right there parked in a spot by the entrance. He told him there were no expectations to talk about the appointment or any of the other appointments Ilya booked out. Once a week on Tuesday mornings for the next month at least. It was just another thing they would do in their daily tasks together, separate but together. Shane’s whole days were centered around Ilya and he knew it was too much. He knew he should take a day off and go see Hayden and Jackie, or he should call Evan again who he hadn’t seen since the night Ilya told him he’d waited thirteen years for him.

Shane hadn’t forgotten, it was almost all he could remember at any given moment of the day.

That information was buried between them after a night of heavier confessions about Ilya’s life took priority. Shane was glad it was buried, it was a conversation he wasn’t ready to have. Ilya has seemed a bit lighter lately. He still brooded and sometimes stared off with his eyes fixed on nothing in particular and his fingers around his necklace. He still had no clue what he wanted to do with his life. He decided that until he knew, he wanted to keep training with Shane as if he would return to hockey. Shane didn’t push, he didn’t check in and ask if he’d made a decision. He let himself be there. Sometimes Ilya would say what he was thinking about, sometimes between jokes he would drop information about his life that was so heartbreaking Shane excused himself to the bathroom so he wouldn’t see him cry.

Ilya didn’t bare his teeth at Shane, he didn’t try to hurt him. They joked, they talked, and Shane found himself seeking out ways to touch him all too often. He glanced back at the clock again, twenty minutes over the appointment time now. Shane was doubling up on workouts with Ilya and would probably try to make it some kind of competition tonight.

The car door swung open and Ilya threw himself into the front seat. Shane turned his head and glanced at him through the polarized sunglasses lenses.

“Hey” he said.

“Lets go” Ilya said impatiently, a small leather bound journal was between his hands. Shane made good on his promise, he wouldn’t ask for any information. He would be there quietly waiting and if he wanted to talk they would.

“This was weird, very American. Lots of feelings” He muttered, looking out the window. Shane glanced at him for a moment and then stared out to the road. He was nothing if not a careful and courteous driver.

“Can be” Shane shrugged. “Did you like her or him?” Shane asked.

“Hard to know. I think I will keep going” he replied simply. “She speaks Russian, it was nice to do that for a while” he said thoughtfully.

“Good” Shane responded.

“She gave me book, I’m supposed to write things down about hockey in it. Goals for life” Ilya said, flicking through the pages quickly like it was a deck of cards.

“Okay” Shane replied, trying to not pry despite wanting to ask a million questions.

“Okay” Ilya did a poor Canadian impression, Shane came to a stop at a stop sign and glanced over at Ilya who was smirking.

“You are extra boring today” he groaned, reaching a hand over and mussing Shane’s hair. Shane smacked his hand away and made it neat again.

“Fuck off, I’m trying not to pry” Shane said.

Ilya rolled his eyes, “I will need help with book I think” he said. He leaned his head back against the seat, the gentle wind from the open windows tousling his golden curls. Shane was trying not to look at him much, Ilya was in a black cut off tank top and his arms were making him rather sick.

“What are you supposed to write?” Shane asked.

“She says pros and cons list, and goals I want” he said. Shane hummed an acknowledgement.

“You want food first or the walk first?” Shane posed, he frowned at a car that rolled through the stop sign ahead of them.

“McDonald’s is around the corner. We bring it on walk, burger fits great in pockets. I bring book” Ilya said, pointing ahead.

“We’re not eating that shit” Shane said.

“Hollander, come on. My life my choice right? I get to choose, that is what you told me. I choose delicious burger” Ilya nearly begged, Shane couldn’t keep his eyes away from him. He was so charismatic sometimes it was unfair. His eyes were a shade lighter when he was happy and one of those tough to earn smiles was on his face now. He was dirty using his own words against him like that.

“I fucking hate you” Shane said, turning his wheel towards the ugly stand up sign he could see from blocks away. He supposed some positive reinforcement was deserved for Ilya.

“No you don’t” Ilya said happily from the passenger seat.

“Go through drive thru” Ilya flicked his finger towards the entrance. “I will order” Ilya dismissed Shane, and yelled too loud through the window and ordered the slop. Ilya passed his card to Shane who raised his eyebrows.

“You are poor, I am multi-millionaire” Ilya nodded towards the window. It was fifteen dollars worth of food, Shane wasn’t going to fight over it. “You are not poor actually, I notice this. How are you not poor?” Ilya asked after a second of thought. Shane snorted.

“I invested every cent of my endorsements my Mom got me, then saved most of my Metros contract” Shane shrugged. “I paid for some stuff like school and bought a few rental properties. The Raiders pay pretty well. I’m no salary cap killer though” he said. Shane thanked the worker and grabbed the greasy bag with a squint and handed it to Ilya. “Don’t eat in the car”.

They parked the car a few minutes later and headed out onto the walkway. A few teams rowing crew passed by as they walked to a bench, Ilya flopped down on it and eagerly opened the soft paper wrappings of burgers and passed one to Shane. Shane grimaced down at the gray meat flopping over the squished bun. Ilya wasted no time, he ate a burger in nearly two bites and went for another.

“Gross” Shane commented as he licked his fingers clean. Ilya smiled with half chewed food in his mouth. Shane took a hesitant bite, and just like he thought, trash. He shook his head and shoved the burger at Ilya who took it in his hand and demolished it. Shane picked at a few fries but knew he’d be eating leftover meal prep tonight. He was content to just be outside.

“Okay so the book” Shane prompted after a few minutes of quiet. He heard a page rustle.

“How do you write pro and con chart?” Ilya asked, Shane grabbed the pen and journal from his hand and drew a long line down the middle of the page and wrote a small plus and the word “stay” and minus on the other side with “go”. He tried to hand the journal back but Ilya shook his head.

“You write” he directed. Ilya looked out onto the river, the side of his face caught the sun and his firm jaw. The wind blew an errant curl on his forehead as he squinted into the sun.“I like winning” he said. Shane wrote it neatly. “I hate losing” he said again. Shane hesitated. “Write it” Ilya said, turning his head towards the page and nodding. It wasn’t how Shane would fill out the chart but whatever, it wasn’t his. “Less injuries if no hockey” Ilya said, “More time off” he followed.

Shane paused, “Is that something you want or don’t want?” Shane’s pen stilled.

“Both” the reply was simple.

 

*
Three Months Post Operation
Boston Hockey Complex

 

That stupid red light blinked on one of the cameras, reminding Ilya of that prize pig feeling. It felt like a laser on a gun now, with its red dot resting on his forehead. He couldn’t see it, but he felt the anxiety of being in the cross hairs. It asked him to perform, to be the best hockey player in the world and the character that was Ilya Rozanov. They were asking him questions about how much he missed the game, how much he wanted it back. Having named his doubts now to Shane and a psychologist, he felt like such a liar when he said he was excited and missed the game.

He was in the trial period as Shane called it. The time where he was rediscovering himself and if he could be Ilya without the sport. His obligations didn’t stop while he was thinking, and neither did this stupid fucking documentary he agreed to like an idiot. He’d never admit to that, Shane would look at him with that pissy expression and say he told him it was a bad idea. Ilya would never let that happen.

He wryly considered if it would be a better comeback documentary if he quit the sport in the middle of filming, it sure would give a plot twist. Ilya felt a bit of nervous energy he hadn’t felt about anything involving athletics in a very long time. He was going to run today. He felt strong, but there was a small part of him that wondered if his leg would buckle under him and he’d have to start all over. Shane picked up on it before Ilya even did, because of course he did. 

Thirty minutes later he had his answer, he was on a treadmill jogging the slowest he'd ever run. It could have been a walk. He felt stupid, especially as Shane yelled encouragements at him. He ran for two minutes and tried not to look at the stupid camera. Two minutes, that's all he was allowed. Shane dragged him into the gym when he was done and ran him through body weight squats, and new exercises to build on the small stuff they were doing. It was hard not to buy in. Shane was so excited that he was making progress and passing healing benchmarks that his cheeks were flushed as he talked and his hands were moving around in the air with animation. 

Ilya thought of another positive to write in his little book, Shane Hollander. 

Chapter End Notes

This was a very dialogue dense chapter but I think it was necessary.

I'm a whore (for comments/criticism)

Chapter 11: Russian Roulette

Chapter Notes

Giving my boy Shane some love, don't be mean to him or else. This one is a little short but things will be coming to a head soon.

*
One Week Later
Boston Hockey Complex

 

Shane Hollander was a rule follower first and a man of discipline second. Shane knew he was a good guy. You could trust him to house sit without snooping or stealing anything. You could leave your drink with him at a bar and he would guard it like it was the motherfucking pentagon. He didn’t make snap decisions and he didn’t make bad decisions. Shane knew control over his choices was the only thing he was guaranteed.

He knew better than to think that he could control his life and every little thing that happened to him, that was Shane from over a decade ago. He matured enough to understand control existed and was defined by choice.

He chose to be a good person, to stay in line, to follow traffic laws and stay away from anything risky or troublesome. Sometimes he felt like he was flat, two dimensional. Like if you ran your fingers over him it would feel like lined paper and margins on a fresh notebook page.

Shane excelled in concrete concepts. It was part of why he liked surgery and medicine so much. Everything in the body had a job and worked harmoniously to execute a task. When one piece of the machine faltered, it made another drag or work too hard to compensate. He felt like he was a mechanic sometimes more than a doctor. Surgery was like lifting up the hood and tinkering until it was better. He had precision on the table. His hands were steady and he was confident from thousands of hours of training. It felt a little like playing god but for the right reasons. He was self aware enough to know he’d traded one obsession for another.

He was still the good boy, the role model, the model citizen. Sometimes he wished he could throw the rule book out and just do what he wanted. He held his pen between pointer fingers in his hands and his eyes were stuck on a framed piece of paper hanging on his office wall. He’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to get it, years of his life suffering through work and tough hours for it. It had formal lettering in bold UCLA blue with a fat golden sticker seal just below his name. Dr. Shane Hollander. His medical school certificate. 

Shane was used to titles, he’d spent his whole life chasing a title. It was something short that summed him up and packaged him neatly. Hockey player was one, captain another, first round pick, retired. He always wanted a better title. He’d sweat, cried, and bled for all of his hockey titles. He’d cleaned up the broken bits hockey left him in for the medical ones. Shane could count on one hand things that he wanted that didn’t relate to hockey. These days they all had something to do with Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya had wormed his way in a while ago, but Shane had given him the space to do it.

Shane wanted to be weak, to not overthink everything and over analyze. He ached to be normal. If he was a normal man, months ago he would have slid a hand into his hair and pressed his body into Ilya's until there was only the air in their lungs between them.

But…ethics. Fucking ethics and rules.

Ethics were an important part of medicine. Shane took so many ethics classes in med school and he hated all of them. Right and wrong was always right and wrong. No matter how many instances and examples people posed a question, the right thing to do always jumped out at him like it was a neon sign. It pissed his classmates off when they would get in heated debates, because the context really didn’t matter and he was never the devil’s advocate. The choice did matter, and for Shane the right choice was always easy to make when he remained level headed and unemotional. The duty to make the right choice and his oath to do it was the only thing stopping him from chasing Ilya.

Shane didn’t need to research it to remember that relationships with patients was a clear breach of professionalism and could subject him to a host of licensing issues including never working in medicine again. It was wrong, it was against the oath he swore to.

He was faced with his own dilemma, like the stupid med school workbooks. The choice was simple- leave his job and pursue Ilya, or stand firm and stay in his job. A thing he’d used to mosaic his broken life back together. The little chipped and too sharp edges of him that belonged somewhere else that he took time spackling into place and into something solid again that he was proud of. It would be like dropping it onto the ground from his townhouse balcony from the second story. It would break again, in different pieces that would crumble and would bounce into the storm drain or crumble to dust. All of him wouldn't be recovered. 

Discipline, it was a word the sports world loved to use and was always in a sharp correction or an overused quote from a coach. “Discipline today, freedom tomorrow” his juniors coach used to say, but it was a paradox. The next day was never that 'tomorrow' where you got to enjoy freedom, it was always ‘today’. It scrambled his logical brain the first time he heard it. Shane figured out after too long mulling it over that there was no freedom and there was no tomorrow, every day was today and every day required discipline. That he responded to, a simple order to follow. If he let himself break today, how many more times would he let himself break his restraint in the future? How many more times could he glue fragments back together until the bottom fell out permanently?

Shane drew his own pros and cons chart in his mind and wanted to laugh at himself.

He was back around hockey, and as much as it sucked at times it felt like home. This wasn’t a chance that opened up frequently, if he left there was no guarantee of ever working for another hockey team again at this level. He could find an ortho job in Boston and stick around to see what happened with Iyla but it was a gamble. There wasn’t anything between them aside from the thoughts of what could be. Was this only attraction for Ilya? Did he want something more like a relationship or were his drunken half sentences something that were just that, drunken and half of the truth? Was it only the draw of Shane turning him down that made Ilya want him physically?

Was Ilya going to stay in hockey? Was he going to come out? Maybe he would quit hockey and the problem would cease to exist. Could this thing have legs or were they burning so brightly they’d both be incinerated after initial ignition? Shane built his career from the ground up, he loved it and deserved to keep it. It was Shane’s entire life hinging on this questionable thing with a barely there man who was always too close to him. There were too many questions and not enough answers. 

It was like standing at a roulette table with your life savings on the board and some other force that has no sympathy for you deciding if you won or lost. Ilya was a gamble, Shane was not a gambler.

Shane thought about options all too often. Another option was to drop Ilya as a patient, but he could never really drop him. He was the team doctor, Dr. Brown was on his way out. Shane didn’t want to drop him, Ilya was starting to trust him more in ways that mattered and would continue to be important to his recovery. Nobody would fight for his recovery or his time off on his behalf like Shane would.

For the first time, a dilemma wasn’t easy to solve because for the first time Shane let himself become emotionally attached to the problem. He knew the right answer, but it didn’t stop him from hating it. It was a lot more difficult to be high, mighty and moral when you just wanted to be weak and feel like a human being.

Shane felt locked up, closed away, and hidden in a way that was foreign and familiar. It felt like being a closeted young man all over again, hopeful or what could be and aware it might not ever be. Shane knew what could be on the other side of that hope, trusting blue eyes that were soft now more than they were sharp in the comfort of his home, theirs even. Shane knew himself enough to know he would fall into him, it wouldn’t be just a hookup. Who knows what Ilya would do, either way- Shane would never recover.

Sometimes Shane thinks he should have been a salesman. He had a talent of selling himself unhappiness like a kitschy infomercial and it was a limited time offer. He was tired of parts of his life being taken from him, and wished he was nothing but average. If he was, maybe he would have been in Boston for a work conference. Maybe he would have bumped into Ilya on a run or in a sticky dive bar that he liked so much. Maybe Shane would have brought him back to his hotel room and Ilya would press him against the plastic fire evacuation map on the back of the door until it cut into his back.

Shane was sick of maybes.

There was a tantalizing third option that was trouble in every way. The third option, do it anyway. Say fuck it. Know in your heart and mind and bones that you were doing something wrong by breaking a rule, and that it could all end in disaster. Decide to do it anyway.

Would it be like hockey if he lost medicine? What could he do next? Could he hide this without imploding? Would the guilt of doing something wrong keep him awake at night with an empty bed and the knowledge he let himself down? Or would the expanse of his bed be filled with warmth and a fullness he always thought he wasn’t deserving of wrapped in light curls and blue eyes. The cons were too heady. He would persevere another day, discipline today. Discipline tomorrow. Pretend like it was nothing but simple friendship and part of his job.

The pen between his pointer fingers dropped like his fingers were rejecting the thought, and skittered off the table and onto the floor halfway across the room. Great, he couldn’t even control his fine motor skills.

Shane opened his desk drawer in search of another. It was neat, and had long neat sections and little square dividers where he’d selected just the office supplies to live in the shallow walls. From one of the longer sections he selected another pen, the same brand as the last, the same everything.

It was like his life. Clean little sections with parts of himself tucked away so they wouldn’t rattle or escape and so they couldn’t touch. It was clean, orderly, and so easy to maintain if you just stayed within the confines of the little box. Shane didn’t want to look at his drawer (himself) anymore.

He pushed the drawer to close it. Something caught. He couldn’t see it, somewhere in the back there was something holding strong enough to overcome the easy slide of how things were supposed to work. He shoved the drawer again with frustration and it didn’t budge.

He couldn’t even close a drawer right, a thing built to open and close with a glide and nothing else.

He fished his hand through the gap trying to find the offending cause. Something was between his fingers and he yanked it out. A bent paperclip, well it was bent now from the force of trying to right the wrong of the drawer. It must have jumped out of its compartment without his notice.

“You losing battle with desk” the voice he’d be able to place anywhere called from his office door.

Shane narrowed his eyes. He looked down into his palm at the silver metal paper clip all warped and out of shape. He could bend it back into place with just the pressure of his fingers and probably use it again but it wouldn’t be perfect. It was thin and malleable, but strong enough to cause the drawer (and him) disruption. He looked up at Ilya who stuck only his head through the office door and muttered under his breath.

Shane’s life was a smooth drawer closing, planned for. Ilya was his fucking paperclip.

He threw the clip into the trash to make a point more to himself. “No, I’m not losing anything” Shane replied, arms crossing against his chest defensively.

“Right” Ilya replied, and disappeared back into the hallway.

Shane rose to his feet and followed shortly afterwards and headed to the team gym. Shane stayed in the corner, out of the way from the players who were going through their sets, laughing, and changing the song on the sound system every thirty seconds. He was monitoring Ilya from afar, letting him work on his strength surrounded by his team.

He’d earned it, and Shane trusted him enough that he wouldn’t do something out of what was prescribed but it was his job to verify. He’d only been back at team lifts for the past week, and last night Ilya had opened his book and added “Team” into the pros column. He was joking, he was giving them all a hard time, he was leading the team with an ease not many others could replicate. Even if he wasn’t aware of it, it was clear he was missing this over the past months. He was good at this, and he seemed happy.

 

*
Three and a Half Months Post Op
September
Boston

 

Pros (Stay)

• Winning
• Money
• Citizenship
• Good at it
• Fame
• Fills up time
• I don’t know who I am without it
• Not alone
• Boston is good city
• Don’t know what to do if retired
• Team

 

Cons (Go)

• Hate losing
• Less injuries
• Rest and sleep late
• Time off
• Fills up time
• Reminds me of my father
• I never chose this
• No challenge

 

Goals:

• Have a family
• Be happy
• Feel loved

 

Shane’s eyes stuck to the line struck through the three rows of words in Ilya’s handwriting. He’d written those lines on his own when the notebook wasn’t between the two of them. The line through the three bullet points wasn’t straight, it was wobbly and hesitant like Ilya was unsure if he deserved it or was afraid to set such an intention before quieting the words for good.

It was a slip of subconscious on the page, the short requests written in his handwriting before he denied himself of it. It was begging for something and deciding you didn’t deserve it so you couldn't be disappointed if it didn't happen. Shane wasn’t a psychologist, but it was telling. It punched him like a kidney shot he hadn’t thought to block.

Love was power instead of poison, the desire to feel love shouldn't be crossed out like a misspelled word or a wrong calculation. It wasn’t something that needed to be earned. It was something kept and carried.

Growing up in a small house with his mother and father there was never a minute Shane didn’t feel love. There was never a time he wondered when that love would be taken away or used against him. In fact, sometimes he was smothered with it by his mother. 

He thought of watching his Dad at the stove cooking while his mother’s arms wrapped around him as Shane looked on from the living room. Or during board game nights that were loud and competitive but full of smiles and laughter. He felt it when he was falling asleep with his head in his mother’s lap and her fingers were gentle in his hair. His mother’s diligent separation of food on his plate because she knew he liked it that way. His father’s warm laugh as he let Shane mess up his weekly crossword puzzle with stumbling guesses even when he knew the right word. Those things lived in Shane, they made him soft and they made him strong. Shane would always know he was loved long after his parents were gone. Not everyone was so fortunate

Shane has never been in love though and like anyone else he wanted it. To love and be loved back with the fervor of movies and TV shows that made you expect things like ripping someone’s clothes to shreds instead of taking a minute to unbutton their shirt and making teary confessions in the rain. No, Shane didn't think that was love. It was manufactured for screen and clicks, for fans to obsess over and for corporations to make money. Or maybe it was real, maybe those things were inspired by real people with concrete emotions.

The love Shane knew came in small acts of being seen. How Hayden and Jackie always have his favorite soda in the fridge, how they collapsed themselves to fit into his rules to make him feel calmer. How his parents sacrificed everything for their only child and would do it again in a heartbeat. When his grandmother spent hundreds of hours quilting a blanket for him with arthritic hands before she passed away. These things Shane could testify were real, and everyone deserved those things.

If Shane died only ever knowing the love of his family and friends, he’d lived a full life.

 

Have a family
Feel loved
Be happy

 

Three things Ilya had given himself permission to think of before deciding against it. It was a list the man two feet away from him ached for. Maybe he crossed the words out because he didn’t think he deserved it, or it wasn’t attainable. Shane struggled to find another possibility. The small list in sloppy handwriting on the page in front of him was a list of things Shane already had and he was so fucking lucky. His fingers twitched towards his cellphone and the need to hear his mother’s voice was almost overwhelming. He needed to thank them, to tell them he loved them. Later, tomorrow maybe at a reasonable hour, he promised himself he’d call.

Ilya trusted him in handing him the notebook tonight, he knew Shane would see those things written and unwritten. He was probably studying his face for his reaction to what he was seeing. He wasn't going to give him one. When Ilya shared about his life and sometimes objectively bad things in short bursts he always stared at Shane. Looking maybe to see if he could be trusted, or if it was too much. Shane listened, and trained his face into a neutral expression. 

Shane’s hand hovered over the notebook page, the pen tapping against it. He was trying not to look at it too much. Their handwriting was intimately mixed on the page, a tangible thing showing that he and Ilya were existing in the same intimate space in a way that wasn’t just physical. The words were emotional, vulnerable, it was more than just calling each other names and pushing physical limits of the body. It was Ilya’s choice to open himself for Shane to see even in the spine of a notebook, even if it was just for a moment.

Shane wrote neatly in mostly capital letters, Ilya wrote like he was in sixth grade. Just another difference between the two men. Shane’s eyes ran over the occasional Russian word he didn’t know that was indented into the page in the margin where Ilya pressed the pen too hard. He wondered what was hidden in the unfamiliar language and how significant the word was that Ilya chose to hide it. Shane could take his phone out, use a translator, and satiate his curiosity. But he never would, Ilya trusted him and Shane trusted if he wanted to talk about it he would.

“You need a goal, something small or superficial. Something” Shane said in a calm and quiet voice, he shouldn't push and should only prompt. He needed Ilya to have a goal, something to hold onto.

“I am out of ideas” Ilya said quietly from the other side of Shane’s knees that he had drawn up on the couch. Caring came naturally to Shane, he’d been nurtured with it. He was given love so freely, maybe he could give it back in small ways Ilya could accept, maybe. In a friendly way? It would have to be camouflaged though, or it would send him retreating. Gentle pushes backed by presence, patience, and thoughtfulness.

“Keep thinking” Shane said and moved to his feet, leaving the book behind on the couch. 

He could start with a blanket. Even if Ilya didn’t know the meaning of it, Shane did. Shane could care quietly, without risk of disturbing this too thin truce between them. Control, precision, balancing on a wire between too much and not enough. He went to the linen closet in the hallway and removed the carefully folded blanket that he hadn’t used in years. It smelled like dryer sheets. The colors were faded from washing and it wasn’t the softest thing he owned, but it was proof of love in his life. His grandmother on his father’s side had chosen several green fabrics that didn’t quite match and some might think looked foolish. The sight of it lifted the edges of his lips into a smile.

Love could be a blanket thrown over someone’s legs to shield them from the cold while they struggled to find meaning in their life. For today it wasn’t romantic love. Shane didn’t love Ilya like that, not yet. It was a progression, like Ilya’s return to play protocol inching further down the line until his knee and body could be tested and healing until he was whole again.

There was a certain inevitability Shane recognized in it. Shane wasn’t ready for the finish line yet, but it didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a day where he might be. That realization came as he settled into the couch and threw the blanket over both of their legs. Ilya eyed the fabric on his lap as if it was alien.

“This thing is ugly” Ilya said, pinching the fabric between his fingers and raising an eyebrow. Maybe it was ugly, maybe that’s why Shane kept it in the linen closet until he was reminded what it actually meant and how fortunate he was. The ugly blanket that was thrown over them to keep the cold out and their body heat in. Their heat which would exchange somewhere in the middle of the space between their bodies like those places where oceans meet, turbulent and slow mixing.

Shane ran his fingers over the squares stitched together. It was ugly, jagged, and patched up, but it was his and for right now it was theirs.

“Yeah, it is” Shane said fondly. Ilya fell asleep on the couch that night with the little journal on his chest, face scrubbed clean and innocent. The book was open against him like it was a novel he didn’t want to lose his place in, and the ugly blanket thrown over him kept him warm by generations of heat from the Hollander family. Shane didn’t wake him, he smiled to himself, stealing a moment before going upstairs and trying to talk himself out of thinking about Ilya anymore.

True to Shane’s word, he called his mother in the morning while on his balcony with a mug of coffee. The view he should be admiring of the sun striking off of the Charles River was just beyond the balcony railing, but he found himself turned and looking through the glass window back inside his home.

Ilya mulled around the kitchen behind him separated by only glass in a pair of sweats, a tight shirt, and bare feet. A carton of eggs was on the counter with the shells messily resting on the counter top. Shane wanted to sigh, he wanted to be angry, it was messy and dirty and he’d have to clean the counter four times before he felt better. But Ilya’s shoulders were loose and not up around his ears, and he moved through Shane’s kitchen like he belonged there and was safe there.

“Shane” Yuna Hollander answered warmly after two rings, and gently called away from the phone for his father to come join her.

“Hi” Shane replied, with gratitude.

“We were just talking about you. We’re heading to that bog trail with the boardwalk you like in a few minutes” his mother told him.

Shane loved Ottawa, it was where he was himself the most. It was where he played pond hockey, and went to school, and became neurotic and everything he was.

He felt guilty sometimes over leaving, but that was always the plan. The odds of being drafted to Ottawa were next to none, and when Shane continued living life after his injury, America made more sense. There were more professional sports teams in America than in Canada, more medical schools and programs to match to. Shane found himself in America, but he was built in Canada. He was never more at peace than at the small cottage not far from the lake, he missed the french road signs and being there long enough his mind started thinking in lazy French instead of English.

One day he would go back, and he would settle on the edge of a lake in a house with a back made of glass and watch the sun rise and set over the water for years. But today he’d be in Boston, homesick for the people and the house with his childhood trophies and outgrown t-shirts in his drawers.

“I do love the bog” Shane said wistfully.

“Hey kiddo, how is pre-season going?” his Dad piped in. Shane smiled at the word kiddo, he was in his thirties.

“Pretty good, they’re looking good. They picked up a decent defender I think will probably get some good minutes” Shane said.

“They’ll need him until Rozanov can get back, he takes up a lot of space on the ice. I’m stopping myself from asking about his progress just so you know” his mother said with a slightly annoyed tone that told him she was really putting in effort. They knew Shane was tasked with monitoring his recovery, but no idea how closely Shane was doing so. Shane and his mother were

“You know I can’t say anything Mom” Shane laughed indulgently. She groaned a sound of dismissal.

“How’s the filming going for the documentary?” she asked instead with interest. Shane shrugged, it wasn’t a total disaster. There were times he forgot himself and his eyes lingered a little too long on Ilya’s or his smile was a touch too bright. Shane only hoped it didn’t translate onto the camera and that nobody noticed how he was not the consummate professional he usually was.

“I don’t know, fine I guess? It’s mostly just doing basic strength exercises now, hours they’re going to cut down into a second or two” Shane replied. It felt like performing, and then forgetting and trying to perform to cover up when he forgot. It felt like being closeted. It was tiring.

“Well we’d love to come to a game, Boston is coming down for Ottawa’s season opener next month. Are you going to come down with the team?” his Mother asked hopefully. He was overdue for a visit, and Ilya was well enough he could care for himself.

“Yes, I can request some tickets for you guys. Maybe we can get dinner?” Shane proposed.

“That would be great son” his Dad said fondly.

“Maybe you could take some time off too” his mother offered.

“No” Shane said too quickly, eyes flicking back through the glass window behind him where Ilya was watching him. He tilted his head and looked away. “No, I think I have to be back here right after the game” he said dismissively.

“Okay, well we’re looking forward to seeing you Shane” his Mom said.

"I love you guys" Shane said, and he meant it. 

Chapter End Notes

I stole a few things from the comments, I love hearing from people who read because you all bring my attention to different things. One comment pointed out Shane felt a bit two dimensional and I thought OMG, great point. It also got me thinking that Shane would think of himself as two dimensional too and would feel two dimensional when everyone else was just a 'normal' person. I stole your comment and worked it into the chapter, hope you don't mind.

As a fic reader, I know it's always easier to read a completed work. Thanks for taking the time to interact with a work in progress, it keeps me motivated!

Chapter 12: Borrowed Time

Chapter Notes

Thanks for reading and your feedback :) I'll meet you at the end

One Week Later
Boston

 

Ilya jogged down the stone steps from Shane’s place and tugged on his shoe laces. It was still too warm in Boston, and Ilya had passed on wearing his shirt. Marley sighed as he looked at him and stripped his shirt off too, muttering “Show off” under his breath.

Ilya shook his legs out and they started their jog. Shane lived in a nice neighborhood on the waterfront. There was a long and carefully paved walking and running path that had become a place for Ilya to push himself just a bit. He wasn’t limited to just a few minutes here and there of running anymore, he could run distances now and he could sprint a little. He was still restricted from changing directions. He felt better than he thought he would

Shane mapped out thae perfect five mile running course that required no directional changes, because of course he did. They were running together every other morning now. Jogging in step, breaths even and synced with the other. Ilya even tried to match his controlled breathing. They moved like one body instead of two. Shane always wore shorts that were almost too short, and sweated through his shirt often. Ilya wanted to lick him… it was a whole thing.

Ilya never liked running, it was a means to conditioning and there were better options to be in shape for hockey. It was growing on him though. It was a time to look around, to observe, to feel his body. He started thinking while running. He liked it now. Like most positive things in his life now, Shane was involved. His therapist approved of his runs. Ilya felt uncertainty settle in his stomach like a bad meal. Ilya was improving. His mood was better, he felt motivated and he wasn’t as stifled. His therapist was pleased with him sometimes but stern with him mostly. He hadn’t mentioned Shane. All he wanted was an outsider’s perspective on the situation, but he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t talk to anyone about it. If she knew, who else would know? Ilya couldn’t just call him a friend, he couldn’t talk about how he lives his life around him and pretend they’re just coworkers. He was good at lying but he couldn’t do that.

The team was winding down pre-season. Boston added a rookie defender who had promise and picked up a new backup goalie, but the rest of the roster stood firm. They’d traded away a few non-factor players. Marley was whining about Ilya not playing. Ilya let him complain and he listened, and kept running.

Ilya liked being back around the team, even if he was having a day where he was cold on the inside. There was a camaraderie with his team that he wasn’t sure he’d ever find if he left hockey. Laughing came easier. They looked at him like he was important and he meant something, even when he wasn’t going to be scoring a goal for them any time soon. Ilya was starting to feel like he had value. He’d always known he did, his fucking fat contract showed him exactly how much he was valued by Boston. But he was feeling it now instead of looking at the zeros. That was on his pros chart.

At the turn around point of the run Marley came to a stop to catch his breath. Ilya stretched and shook his legs out and waited for his friend to stop sucking air.

“You’re still staying at his place” Marley said cautiously. Ilya responded with a glare. It was the thing both he and Shane were ignoring but Marley was unwilling to.

“What?” Marley said defensively, “Aren’t you?” he followed up.

Yes, Ilya was.

Yes, they worked out a lot, they trained most of the day. It was above board despite Ilya’s efforts. But it used to be a necessity, and now it was simply convenient. It was an easier pitch to Marley instead of the more difficult to explain other thing.

The team knew Ilya was into women, they only knew he was into women. The past few years he’d slowed down from taking one (sometimes more) woman home from the club. He’d slowly stopped going to clubs and having meaningless sex. Ilya had almost fucked enough for a lifetime, but not quite yet. Things that used to turn his head haven’t for too long. Ilya was not concerned that Marley had sniffed his bisexuality out like some LGBTQ detection dog. He loved his friend, but he was maybe not the most observant person in the world. He also had a reputation that insulated him. His reputation was so well known across the league that girlfriends and wives were hidden from him at All Star Games.

Ilya was cool, calm, and closeted. He wanted it to stay that way. He never seriously considered telling anyone about his bisexuality if he wasn't pursuing them. It was just another thing to throw in his face. Even if his gut told him Marley would never do that that to him.

“Just trying to figure out if you’re trying to replace me is all” Marley grumbled at his side.

“Replace how? There is no man uglier than you in Boston. You stay number one” Ilya breathed, he listened to his steps on the pavement.

“As your best friend, fuck head” Marley said.

He supposed he was his best friend, at least in Boston. Svetlana knew him more, but she wasn’t here. Shane knew him the most maybe, but he wasn’t exactly a friend. He was something else.

“Eh” He made a noise of uncertainty. “Shane is not friend” Ilya replied honestly. He felt Marley looking at him from the side.

“So what is he then?” he asked.

Ilya didn’t know, that was the problem. “Coworker” he said diplomatically and he felt Marley's stupid beady eyes on him.

“Just don’t get his hopes up okay, he’s a good guy” Marley replied, as if Ilya was some kind of dangerous animal. It was Shane that was dangerous to him. Ilya glanced at him and raised his eyebrows.

“It is not like that” Ilya replied, a little stiff. 

“Not saying it is, you just have a habit of making people love you even if you’re objectively the most annoying motherfucker I know” Marley said. Shane would never be a coworker.

Shane was like basking in the sun. Warm, careful, trusting. He brought out the best in Ilya. Shane cared for him, smiled at him even though he could see him trying to fight it off. Ilya was the reason for some of those smiles and that flash in his beautiful eyes.

Logically, Ilya knew he was safe from being found out unless he fucked up something major. He wouldn't fuck up though because there was still Russia. His passport cover was still red instead of blue. There was also the homophobia that lined his chest cavity like sandpaper, put there by his father and brother. He felt it more lately, when he was inhaling when Shane leaned close. The feeling of yes- this is right, and no, Ilya is terribly wrong. 

Ilya never thought poorly of someone who was gay for being gay. But Ilya believed his family’s words in a way that only applied to him. Ilya was unstable, Ilya was weak, Ilya was the one that was disgusting. It was hard not to believe it when you’ve been told it thousands of times. Even in the absence of the people who poisoned him with the words it was always there. He never thought those horrible things about other people, and never about Shane. Only he was the one with an invisible disease.

The biting words of his family was enough all those years ago to make him stop seeing Sasha. It was never love between them or anything even close, it was only ever lust. Something new and exploratory that felt good in a way that meant what he was doing was bad. Sasha was the first boy he’d ever kissed and fucked. They were young, and it wasn’t until maybe he was seventeen that his father’s words made him hesitate the next time Sasha approached him hungry for something Ilya couldn’t give anymore.

He’d had a few more hookups since then with men, usually when he was almost too drunk to go through with it during road games. He’d get off on doing something his mind told him was wrong, and then fucked his way through a sorority house to prove to himself he wasn’t all the way gay. He could be what was expected of a hot, rich, athlete at the top of his game. Ilya hadn’t felt the need to run out and fuck the phone book in a while. Maybe he should be wanting to.

There was more than just sexual tension when it came to Shane. Ilya felt a connection, and a desire to know and be known by him that he’d never felt with a woman. It didn’t feel wrong, it didn’t feel like betraying a country or a bloodline when he was near Shane. How could something that was supposed to be weak make him feel strong?  He didn't think like this or feel like this when it was just the two of them, it was as natural as breathing. But the slightest suggestion from Marley sent Ilya into the deep end of the shame pool. What would it be like if everyone knew? What would they say about him? What would his team do? Ilya was more afraid of what he may do. He always had a way of proving his father's words about him right by self destructing.  

His mind had run away from him, and Marley kept talking without noticing at his side. “Well you seem like you’re in great shape for someone with no knee cap or whatever” Marley commented.  Marley spent the next three miles home convincing Ilya to come out with the team for drinks to celebrate the end of pre-season. It was a tradition, and unfortunately Ilya’s well of excuses dried up now that he was moving around. It was part of his job as a captain to do it. So he did, Marley invited Shane who laughed loudly before realizing he was serious. Shane declined.

Ilya went out, dressed more casually than usual for a club and made no attempt to stand out. He was in jeans and a well fitting t-shirt. Usually he’d be in something his teammates called euro slutty. He wasn’t advertising himself tonight. This used to be a place he lost himself, he could shuck away the poor sad life and family and be the person everyone thought he was. He could prove to himself he was wanted, even if it was just physically. He was alive then only to enjoy the pleasures of life as often as possible.

Nobody in this club or in any other club he’d ever been in would think that maybe Ilya Rozanov wanted to be cared for.

He grabbed a beer from the bar and tucked away in a booth with some of the married guys. He was uninterested in dancing and exchanging sweat and breaths with people he didn’t care about. He made the beer in his glass last an hour with slow sips between arguing with his teammates and telling stupid stories.

He showed his face to everyone there, being a good captain and paying for several rounds of drinks for his team while he hadn’t even finished one. When he drank the last gulp of beer it was room temperature. He slid out the backdoor thirty seconds later. His team would assume he went home with some woman but he was going back to where he didn’t have to pretend. He walked home, it was several miles but it was nice and it was just for him. He wanted to air out before he got back. He didn’t have to be anywhere particularly fast. It was rare to be alone these days. It was a feeling that used to drop into him like poison, slowing him and killing the parts of him that functioned still.

He enjoyed solitude tonight. He didn’t feel like a parched man in the desert clawing his way through, he knew where relief was if he wanted it. He knew where it lived and he was walking home to it.

This thing...this strange shaped thing with Shane was gouged out of his body like spaces between ribs. The peace Ilya felt was being borrowed because it was inevitable something would go wrong. He was taking out a loan on himself. He was borrowing happiness from the version of himself who may have to face consequences because of it in two weeks, maybe six months, or maybe longer. The longer he ignored it, the more he’d pay. That version of him would curse him today, happy and walking home full of hope as he suffered. Today he was giddy because the word home meant something. Maybe when the time came he’d look in the mirror in some shitty hotel somewhere in America and he'd curse himself for believing anything good could happen in his life.

But he wasn’t that guy today.

No.

Fuck that guy.

That guy wasn’t here right now thinking about cautious dark eyes he’d worked at for months until they softened like melted chocolate. That guy didn’t understand Shane Hollander like he did. He hoped he was wrong on all counts, that the man he’d be in six months was happier, that he knew more about Shane than he could conceive. Maybe he’d be a man who deserved to be loved back. But hope never helped anyone to prepare for disappointment and negativity protected you.

Fear still was in the core of him, like a too large pit overtaking the flesh of a stone fruit. Fear he wasn’t enough in the ways he should be, fear he was too much in the ways that were all wrong. Fear that he was put on this earth to disappoint and disappear, never to deserve.

It was hard to believe that someone could live a life outside of wanting, that someone could just have without consequence.

That life existed somewhere. It lived far outside of a townhouse in Boston, or a stupid running path. It didn’t live in a gym with too many mirrors that reflected flushed cheeks, labored breaths, and a face that came alive with the push as much as the pull. Ilya let himself think of the pull and where it could lead as they ran home. Sex, likely to be an enjoyable experience for both of them. Why not more? Something just theirs that is protected from tampering. Secret, and held safe.

Maybe a future Ilya was investing instead of borrowing. Maybe a version of him would walk into Shane's house and past the guest room that still smelled of yearning with none of his possessions inside of it. Maybe he’d climb the stairs to their room and Shane would have his glasses on and a paperback book on his lap in bed. Maybe Ilya would shower because Shane wouldn’t appreciate outdoor clothes on the bed. Ilya would climb on top of Shane, book forgotten and let his face rise and fall on Shane's chest as he breathed. Maybe Shane wouldn’t run, and maybe Ilya would let himself feel, honest and deep and unafraid.

 

*
Three Days before Season Opener vs Ottawa
Boston Hockey Complex

 

The vibration of his phone in his pocket yanked him out of watching the power play drill on the ice. It was bothering him anyway, the team was not connecting on timing.

He didn’t need to look at his phone to see exactly who was messaging him, Shane’s parents were texting him every day gushing about his visit. It was going to be a short one, dinner after the game and maybe dessert. Shane would have to leave early the next day for their flight back to Boston. He wouldn't complain. He was lucky that instead of feeling dread or a sense of obligation when it came to his parents that he was excited to see them. They were the two most important people in his life, and he felt a child like giddiness knowing that they’d be at the game tomorrow. He felt a little stupid, it’s not like he was playing, he’d just be watching the game like they would be but it felt familiar and nostalgic. Shane believed his mother’s opinion was the gospel, she was cunning and straightforward. Shane’s father was always there to soften the blow, something that came naturally to him. He never wanted to disappoint them, and they told him every chance they could how proud they were of him. He loved them.

Shane was not perfect. He got mean when he was overwhelmed, he was obsessive. They always took it in stride.

The Hollanders were a hallmark family. Shane’s father bought them matching christmas pajamas every year. They did family therapy together after Shane’s injury. They took vacations together even with Shane as a grown man because he wanted to see the beauty of the world with the people he loved most. They cooked through a cookbook together. They had a family cottage in the woods that had no cell reception, it was nothing special and it was everything special.

Shane was obsessing over the possibility of his parents meeting Ilya.

Ilya was for all intents and purposes just another player on the Raiders. He wasn’t even playing. His parents knew him like everyone in the hockey world did, but they knew Rozanov. The chirping and too confident man who played with apathy and lived a flashy life they’d all criticized over the dinner table at one point or another. Shane was obsessed with his parents maybe meeting Ilya. It was a different man. He had that soft face when he closed his eyes and tilted up towards the sun. Ilya paced his eyes when he said something personal like he was looking around for someone who might use it against him. Ilya laughed and his nose wrinkled and his grin made his top lip disappear. Rozanov was as real as a man on a billboard sometimes. He wanted them to see Ilya, the man who clutched onto his mother’s necklace and spoke quiet fond Russian.

Shane was lucky and he was loved, and he was missing someone next to him in the Christmas card the way his Mom was next to his Dad. Ilya was missing a family that actually cared about him. Shane decided he wouldn’t make any introductions, and he wouldn’t run interference. If they happened to meet, so be it. There were worse things that could happen.

Shane didn’t reach for his phone, he could leave his mother in suspense for a few more minutes. Knowing her, she’d already picked out a restaurant and made reservations.

The power play unit ran another rep and it looked worse than it did a minute ago.

“Nyet!” Ilya barked from a few feet away, a little more dissatisfied with what he was seeing than Shane was. Shane turned his head towards the penalty box. Ilya had taken up station inside the box and was shouting corrections to the guys. He reminded Shane of a hyperactive dog wearing a cone around his head as he paced around the small space.

Although they talked through pros and cons of hockey more days than not, Ilya hadn’t made a decision about hockey. He agreed he would come back, play in his first game and decide afterwards what he wanted. Shane saw subtle changes though. He was engaged in the locker room now. He was watching with sharp eyes, he had that competitive something in his eyes that used to make Shane skate harder and dig deeper. Ilya was enthused, giving notes during practice to their rookie who looked at him like he hung the moon. He was making jokes, he was radiant. Shane knew better than to say anything or point it out, but he could admire from the bench over from him.

Ilya looked like he was enjoying himself.

 

*
Four Months Post Operation
Two days before season opener vs Ottawa
Shane’s Townhouse

 

Shane flitted around the house in the same way he always did before traveling. Shane was neurotic, he was particular, and incredibly organized. Ilya was smirking while watching him and making it clear he was enjoying the show. He didn’t care if Ilya was staring, he was going to fold his pants over and over again until they were right. Shane thought that luggage said a lot about a person. Shane’s was immaculate and kept in a dust bag. He checked to make sure his passport was still valid three times just in case he forgot that it expired. It hadn’t.

He packed his bag over and over again until he was satisfied and carefully zipped it up, placing it by the front door with a backpack so it was staged. They were both leaving for the Ottawa game tomorrow. Ilya was able to travel again and was back on road trips with the team. I

It would be nice to get out of the house, and it would admittedly be nice to be in a hotel room by himself without having to be on edge all the time. Because he was, always on edge and controlling himself.

Shane loaned Ilya a suitcase, it was in the guest room where he’d watch him yank it open and throw a pile of clean clothes into it while Shane tried not to twitch. Shane also tried not to think too hard about how he’d caught Ilya bringing in a backpack with more clothes from his apartment here last week. Shane had looked away, he chose not to ask him where he was or what he was doing. He didn’t remind him that he had a perfectly good apartment he could go home to. He said nothing. Ilya was the one to bring up that he’d gone to his apartment. He talked about how the clock on the oven was blinking from some power outage and then the topic shifted to something about the team and it was gone.

Shane thought too hard that night about how the power outage could have been from the night before or from four months ago, nobody was in Ilya’s apartment to notice. Ilya was here with him, glancing at Shane’s oven clock to tell the time and leaving smudges on his stainless steel appliances.

Shane was trying to keep the doors open for Ilya to walk through if he wanted. It meant biting his tongue sometimes. Ilya’s openness came in bouts, sudden like unexpected rainfall that came and went in minutes. Sometimes it was a childhood memory about his mother, or something horrible his father said. Sometimes it was about what he wanted from life. Last week in the middle of dinner he told Shane he was diagnosed with depression and then moved on to talk about a strange cheese aged in a cave he saw at the grocery store. Shane did what he usually would when Ilya decided to be forthcoming, he waited quietly for him to be done. He waited like Ilya was a nervous dog. He waited until he approached.

Tonight, Shane sat on the couch and was intently watching some movie he’d put on with the quilt on his lap. Ilya had taken a liking to it a few weeks ago, and had even gone looking for it tonight in the laundry room and pulled it from the dryer. He didn’t know the significance, Shane didn’t bother telling him.

The room was dark, and the only light was the blueish tint of the movie’s lighting. It flickered on Ilya’s tan skin and on the surface of his eyes. His profile was all straight nose, cut jaw, and long eyelashes. Shane knew he was staring. Ilya knew he was staring too. Ilya was watching some movie, fuck he didn’t even know what it was about, but he was watching it intently. Shane decided to look at the dumb screen too.

“Hollander” Ilya said as he stretched his leg into the open space of the couch between them.

“Mmm?” Shane he hummed his response, glancing away at the screen and towards him for a brief moment.

“Knee hurts, can you massage?” Ilya hadn’t ever asked him for it before.

“In what way does it hurt?” Shane’s eyes snapped to him, alert, his routine of staring at the screen forgotten.

“Just sore, you overwork me” Ilya dismissed.

Shane looked at him for a second and nodded. Shane fetched the container of massage balm and scooted closer to Ilya, patting the top of his own leg. Ilya moved so his knee rested over one of Shane’s firm thighs. They were close. Shane didn’t look away from the TV, eyes focused as his fingers gently mapped the space on Ilya’s leg. 

His fingers moved slow. Gently pushing and prodding. “What is the muscle here, sore one” Ilya asked as Shane's fingers pressed deeply into his skin.

“Do you actually care?” Shane hummed a response without looking at him. There was no way he wanted to know. Sometimes Ilya asked him questions like this, some ploy to get Shane talking or something.

“Maybe, probably not” Ilya replied.

“Vastrus medialus” Shane replied, his thumb angling and digging gently in the muscle above his kneecap and gliding his fingers around the side of it. “It stabilizes the knee while you’re straightening it like this” he said absentmindedly. At some point Shane’s hands slowed, and the intentional pressing of his fingers moved into more of a gentle rubbing as his attention drifted away. It was calm, it was easy. Long, even, and he absentmindedly stroked over Ilya’s leg. It was soothing for Shane. It was easy touch, comfortable, a repetitive motion for his hands while his mind wandered.

It was proof they could be good together if Shane just felt instead of calculated. It had been months of this, months of slowly moving around the other, poking, prodding. Ilya was trying, he was telling Shane about himself, he was trying to be more of a man Shane might consider worthy. Ilya was making a slow and deliberate case that he didn’t just want sex from Shane Hollander, he wanted this. Shane hadn’t connected those dots yet.

What Shane did know was that he wanted to sit on the couch with his hands on Ilya’s skin, and their bodies close existing in the same place quietly. He also wanted the arguments and how alive Ilya became in disagreement. He wanted the moments that Ilya was still practicing honesty in.

There was no logical explanation for what was going on here other than they both wanted the same thing. 

“What do you want, what is a goal for you?” Ilya asked, his head was tilted towards Shane’s now.

“Hmmm?” Shane hummed in response, sparing him a glance before his eyes fixed on the next thing he could find in the room. Ah, the coffee table.

“You don’t have book you write things in, I want to know one” Ilya said. Shane’s hands stilled on his leg and his spine stiffened, as if he just realized what he’d been doing. Shane went to move his hand back, and like Ilya had read a fake on the ice, he intercepted his hand. Ilya’s fingers closed gently around Shane’s wrist. He sucked in an involuntary breath and held it.

“Answer the question, yes?” Ilya almost groaned.

“I don’t think I should” Shane replied quietly but didn’t move. There were exactly seven seconds of silence. Ilya was giving him the same silence and space to think that Shane often gave him. But Shane wasn’t Ilya, quiet and space made him overthink. Emotional intimacy was foreign to Ilya, and Shane noticed that sometimes Ilya seemed to be mirroring others like a child copying their mother instead of understanding when and why to do something. Shane was coiled like a spring. Silence was way too fucking loud right now.

“Stop” Ilya said, his finger tapping his knee. “One answer, real one. I will not make joke” Ilya promised quietly. Shane made no move. What was he doing? He’d stopped massaging minutes ago for sports medicine reasons, he was too close, too unprofessional. This was bad, this was horrible.

“Speak Hollander” Ilya directed him. Shane turned his head and blinked. There was too much in his head, and Ilya wanted more.

“I have what everyone wants already” Shane said, quiet and a little thinner than usual.

It would be easy to make a joke out of it, or Ilya to call him the golden boy and turn what was meant to be a connecting thread between them into nothing. Shane waited for it to come, the jab, the feeling in your stomach of a big hit coming your way and nowhere to escape to.

Ilya’s face was void of laughter or joking, he was serious and his eyes tracked everything on Shane’s face. They moved around with rapt attention like a lifeguard at the deep end of the pool looking for signs of drowning.

Shane took a breath in and let it out. He wasn’t drowning. It was a question, one he could brush off or one he could trust Ilya with the answer to. Shane asked Ilya to trust him a thousand little ways since he’d known him, Shane needed to reciprocate. He was okay, he was breathing, he knew how to swim. Shane pushed out another breath and let his posture slump some.

“Explain this, what everyone wants" he directed him.

Shane’s hands started moving on Ilya’s leg again, flat palms and fingers, lazy circles, thoughtless activity. Ilya let him drag his wrist still trapped by his fingers for a few circles before he released Shane’s wrist. His hand settled at his side, fingertips brushing the side of Shane’s leg. It was the most contact they’d had outside of the connotations of healing and sports. Although Shane had already touched Ilya’s skin thousands of times, this felt different.

“My parents, they’re the best people in the world. I don’t deserve them” he shrugged, “I have a job I love, I will never have to worry about money” Shane listed. “I have all the things people want already” he said.

It was insight someone who had it all couldn’t have. It was an observation only someone who had lost something important knew. It wouldn’t feel so hard to say it if he was explaining it to Jackie or Hayden. It seemed like Shane was born with all the answers to Ilya’s biggest problems, it felt like he was pointing them out and holding Ilya’s head in place to see it.

Shane’s life was the missing parts of Ilya’s, and the part of Shane that he’d put to rest unfulfilled with hockey came easy to Ilya. He supposed they would always be rivals in one sense or another each missing what the other had. Shane knew he wouldn’t trade positions with Ilya for a moment though. He loved his family and the life he built for himself.

“What do you want?” Ilya asked again, something about his tone told Shane he wouldn’t ask a third time. If Shane chose not to answer he’d let the conversation die. He’d sit on the couch for a few minutes more and retire to his bedroom to replay this conversation like it was game tape. He’d figure out the flaws and be better next time. He could watch the tape, or he could just answer the fucking question.

“What everyone wants, to be happy” Shane said simply. Ilya barked a laugh of incredulity. 

“You do not hear me, I do not ask what everyone wants. I ask about what Shane Hollander wants?”. Okay, Ilya asked the third time. But maybe this is what Shane needed, a firm shove to get somewhere meaningful. His mouth twisted, his eyebrows drew together with tension and his eyes were tight at the edges. He glanced up at Ilya who had leaned forward, he looked annoyed.

“I don’t need to be interrogated by you” Shane’s tone had taken an edge of defensiveness. No, not tonight, he didn’t get to do this tonight. Shane’s hand stopped on Ilya’s leg and before he could remove it Ilya laid his hand on his fully. His palm was a little dry, warm, and a bit bigger than his. Ilya dragged his thumb over Shane's. 

“Why aren’t I good enough for you?” The question was so sudden it sounded like Ilya hadn't meant to say it. “I mean” Ilya said, starting to retreat.

Shane’s mouth opened and it closed again, eyes assessing him. “Are you drunk?” It was the wrong thing to say, but it seemed like the only time Ilya was forward with him like this was when he was drunk.

“Fuck you” Ilya almost whispered, it lacked the heat he wanted it to have and it sounded pained instead. He released Shane’s hand and pulled his leg off of him as if he was getting up and leaving. 

“No” Shane protested, and this time it was his hand that grabbed onto Ilya, gently trapping his leg with gentle hands and an apology in his eyes. “Fuck” Shane muttered. “I’m sorry” the apology was fast and stuttered, and sincere enough for Ilya to let him finish. This was usually the part where Shane ran. But he was still there. Instead, Shane was holding Ilya in place with a warm palm resting just below the hemline of his shorts “I just don’t, I don’t know” Shane stuttered, dark eyes too wide.

For as gorgeous of a man Ilya was, he was devastating to look at like this. He was clearly afraid and uncomfortable, posed for rejection and another hit like he was cornered in a boxing ring. It was like Ilya was begging for Shane to tell him that he wasn’t enough, like hearing the words might give him some relief instead of just imagining Shane believed them too. It nearly split Shane’s chest in two.

“You are, god. Of course you’re good enough, you’re too good. I don’t know what I’m doing” Shane said, his cheeks flushed and eyes watering. Relief carried it’s way over Ilya’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and smoothed his face for a moment before it hardened again. His muscle memory kicked in to not trust. 

“What have we been doing here?” Ilya asked firmly.

A shuttering breath ran through his chest. “You think I know? You think I’m happy about this?” Shane asked. They were close to each other now, their eyes were locked and nothing else existed.

“Do you want me or not Hollander?” Ilya said, voice almost breaking. Shane urged himself not to think or do calculations, and to stop searching for reasons why he couldn't want him. Ilya needed this, Shane needed this. He needed to know even if it ended up destroying them both tomorrow.

“Of course I want you Ilya” Shane said, it started to sound like a question he was asking.

Ilya moved, his legs swinging off Shane and moving so they were tucked to his side until he was closer to Shane. Ilya’s eyes were bright, his lips only just parted. He was looking at him with poorly concealed surprise.

“We should talk” Shane whispered, eyes dropping to his lap. Every excuse in the book was printed in the folds of his brain ready to be for the retreat. 

“Stop” Ilya almost begged him, moving closer to Shane with lips curled gently upwards. Ilya’s hand ran up his skin from his wrist up to his shoulder. Warm skin and quiet rustling of a shirt that was in the way. Ilya’s hand found its way to Shane’s chest, his palm splayed possessively over it and riding the rise and fall of his nervous breath.

“Stop what?” the words were barely audible, Shane whispered. Run now Shane, if you didn’t run now you might never run again.

“Thinking” Ilya’s hand ran up to the juncture of his neck as he said it. His thumb ran over Shane’s collarbone.

Shane had nowhere else to look, he couldn’t look anywhere else if he tried. Ilya was close enough to yank forward and fall into, and close enough to shove away. Shane never had to think about what to do before. His brain usually had him turning to run before his body knew what he was doing. But right now, with all of the bravado wiped clean from Ilya’s face, he had no choice in leaving. Shane leaned in as Ilya had, their faces were only inches from each other. Ilya’s thumb was still rubbing his skin through his shirt. Seconds passed where neither of them moved, close enough to take it a step too far and not far enough.

Shane waited, he was a patient man. What was a few more seconds when he’d agonized over this moment for more than a decade? This choice was made a long time ago, maybe even outside of the shitty rink in Saskatchewan when they had their whole lives ahead of them. Shane just had to stop thinking. He let himself live in another second of anticipation, knowing things were only complicated from here. He remembered all the times he’d run away. Ilya’s eyes cataloged him and seemed to understand what he hadn’t said, and closed the distance until warm skin pressed warm skin.

Shane never really liked kissing, it was messy. He didn’t like spit. He didn’t like wetness smeared on his face or the way someone’s mouth tasted. That wasn’t this. Ilya’s hand was firm at his jaw, holding him in place like he may bolt but soft enough that he didn’t feel trapped. His other hand wrapped around Shane’s back and gripped him like a lifeline.

Shane in the past kissed because it’s what people did and what was expected. This was something else, he wanted it. He needed a different way to communicate to Ilya just how desperate he’s always been for him because he surely couldn’t do it in words. He needed to say it this way. 

The kiss was slow, unhurried, and even chaste. They lingered until Ilya’s tongue darted out to brush Shane’s lip and he could have groaned. There was a reverence there that probably scared them both equally, it was unnatural and the easiest thing in the world. Shane opened his mouth to him, and even then it wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t sharp inhales and gasping. There were no hands clawing at clothes like they might tear from the desperate need. This was intentional. Organic, like dripping honey.

Shane's skin felt warm and glowing in that way that always accompanied the body as a sun burn was developing on the skin. Shane was sure if he looked at himself that Ilya was leaving those temporary white fingerprints in his too red skin. He selfishly hoped they bruised so he could remember them days from now.

It was intimate in a way Shane had never been before. Ilya’s hands held him like he was fragile, maybe he was. Shane let his mouth mold around Ilya’s, he nipped at his too full bottom lip. Ilya groaned softly into his mouth and smiled, and Shane let his fingers tangle into the mess of curls in his hair. He wasn’t sure how long they lazily kissed before Ilya pulled his head back just enough to leave a small space between their mouths. 

Shane’s chest was rising and falling quickly. It wasn’t about possession or attraction. It wasn’t the end to a long and miserably slow burn between two people. It was something that felt a lot like a declaration, like words you said in a stable relationship between two people with mutual respect. It felt like something that wasn’t given freely, but earned. Shane swallowed, it felt like a heavy realization that maybe someone else owned you more than you owned yourself. Shane looked into Ilya’s bright blue eyes. A kind man who wanted to be soft and gentle and convinced himself he didn’t know how. He was capable of it, Shane should tell him that.

Shane wondered if Ilya knew that he owned him if he wanted to. That his fingerprints were under his skin too.

Ilya’s eyes flicked back and forth rapidly between Shane’s. Ilya was searching for something in Shane, maybe regret or disappointment. Whatever he found, it made the edges of his lips turn up in a soft smile, one Shane had never seen before. He didn’t see it for long because his lips were back on his again and Shane was devastated all over again.

They did nothing more than kiss, breathing into each other’s open mouths and exchanging air. Their hands roaming never below the waistline, mostly over faces and chests. Ilya pulled Shane into his lap at some point, maybe hours ago. Then Shane pushed Ilya to the couch on his back, carefully settling on top of him.

Nothing ended it exactly, they just pulled away for a moment, looked at each other and stayed long past the credits rolling on the movie neither of them could describe the plot of. Shane’s head found Ilya’s chest and he tucked into his side with an arm draped around his waist, and tryed to slow his brain and his hammering pulse.

They didn’t speak. Ilya’s hand drew lines on Shane’s arms in slow sweeping motions.

Shane was about to do something stupid, he was about to say something that would make his life infinitely more difficult. Shane opened his eyes and tilted his head up to look at Ilya. None of this had solved the problem, or made their situation less impossible. Ilya’s eyes were still closed, his lips were pink and swollen. They were open and parted as if offering the option to return to them. Ilya’s face was void of tension

It wasn’t fair to see something and feel something so right and know it could never work.

Shane knew it was temporary. The burn of these minutes had to be enough. He somehow knew that this would be the only time in his life he could feel this. He could try to replicate it with other men, but it would never be like this. It would never be a man he’d known since he was a teenager with a sharp mouth, a quick wit, and desire to be good and a need to prove it. Shane would have to live life knowing that at one point in his life he felt seen and desired for a few minutes with a man he cared too much about. He should be grateful to have felt this at all.

Shane wasn’t supposed to live a life this full, it wasn’t in the cards for him. You lived, you worked, maybe you found something you loved, and you settled after it crept away from you.

People always settled.

It was needless at this time to pretend that Shane was anything but in love with Ilya Rozanov. There was no medical explanation for the quickness of his pulse he caused or the fullness he felt in his body. Shane would undoubtedly settle in some relationship years for now, happy enough but never like this. Ilya would find some woman who was as gorgeous as he was and as patient as he needed her to be. She would bring out the best in him and he would fall for her. He would marry her, and move into a house and get a dog and have all the things he deserved. And it was okay, the idea was even a happy one. Shane had found another thing in his life that he loved but could never keep, he knew it. He wanted to tell Ilya and own the words outside of his head even if it was just for a moment. His mouth opened.

“Stay” Ilya’s voice gently pled.

The words in Shane’s mouth died, and the word he didn’t expect fell out of his lips like they weighed a thousand pounds. “Okay”

“Come to bed with me” Ilya said, “So I know you will not run” he chased the words with a gentle press of his lips with the hopes it may influence him. “Just to sleep” he amended.

“Your room” was the only response Shane could muster, because he loved him. Because he could have one night in love with this man. He would lay in Ilya's bed, so maybe Shane could survive in his own when this was all over. Clothes stayed on, and Ilya dragged the quilt from the couch onto the bed with them. He wrapped himself around Shane and settled curved up against him. Shane didn’t sleep, he cataloged time that was temporary, borrowed.

He let his brain remember every detail about how Ilya held onto him, how they didn’t speak, how he mumbled something in Russian in Shane’s hair before he fell asleep and the vibrations of it in his chest.

Shane thought of a time years from now when Ilya was in his picket fence house sleeping soundly, Shane would be reliving this moment until he couldn’t remember who he was anymore.

Chapter End Notes

A few things....

-These boys still can't communicate, but I liked the idea they both had the same thought of borrowing the other and the idea of permanence is so out of the realm of possibility for them both right now for different reasons. For Shane, his life would implode, he would be burnt up. For Ilya, he thinks he'll sabotage it, or someone else will.

-A note on Ilya's self-homophobia. I have to think he worked so much of that out in the series while he was meeting up with Shane over the years in scenes we never saw and with a lot of reflection. But these boys didn't have those hookups in this world. Ilya's still not giving himself permission to be who he is fully because he's haunted by the family judgement still. He wants to squirrel Shane away for winter.

-I started writing fanfic (when I was probably 14) many many many moons ago. I’ve always been obsessed with a slow burn and a relationship that was earned between people. Because of that I think I’ve always been better at writing the build up than I am at writing the payoff. I hope it gave what it needed to give?

LMK what you think and thank you

Chapter 13: We Should Talk

Chapter Notes

Computa... make these guys supa gay and horny

Ilya rolled in his sleep and met resistance. It was unfamiliar and jarring enough for his eyes to open. A folded blanket under his face was undoubtedly leaving an impression on his cheek. There was heat behind him and his hand was closed around fabric. He loosened his fingers and moved, an arm tightened around his waist.

The owner of that arm seemed to realize Ilya was awake, and went limp in a poor showing of acting that made Ilya’s lips turn up into a smile that was too sleepy to show teeth. The man behind him tried to breathe evenly like he was in deep sleep and it almost made him laugh, almost. But it wasn’t just a man behind him, this was Shane. Shane Hollander. The man who broke him down in more ways than he could fix him under the lights of an operating room or on a leather couch in his living room. Ilya always acted first and thought later. He'd acted last night, maybe they both had. He was wondering if right now what the dreaded later.

His mother used to read to him in an affectionate voice from a Russian fable book of simple warnings when he was young. “Любишь кататься — люби и саночки возить” was one of the lessons. It was a simple Russian phrase that meant simply ‘If you like to sled, you have to like hauling the sled back up the hill’. Russia was a country as beautiful as it was skeptical. It was a country where happiness was not chased, and the pursuit of it was looked down on. For every dream there was a reminder of what it cost. A man’s choice to seek pleasure was followed by a reminder that he must be willing to suffer as well. Ilya was always better at riding the sled than he was at climbing the hill, always more inclined to wring out every ounce of pleasure possible and prolonging the inevitable suffering. Ilya's hill lay behind him pretending to be asleep but not pulling away from him, not yet.

Ilya hadn't planned last night any more than any other night he broke down and said something that revealed too much. So he hadn’t planned this moment either. The inevitable reckoning.

The room was too dark. The city wasn’t awake yet. He didn’t want to move and check the clock. Darkness gave him some cover, to think and feel as he wanted without the expression on his face giving too much away. The darkness meant it was likely still night, or sometime in the early morning. It was probably somewhere between two and three in the morning. Ilya wondered what the best course of action was at this point.

He could pretend he was asleep just as Shane was until he actually slept again, or he could stay like this until one of them decided to be awake for the other. Ilya could turn around, talk, and open himself to stabbing disappointment. Or he could take another ride down the hill, maybe. Maybe he’d only climb back up a little, the ride would be shorter but still enjoyable. Ilya always chose pleasure. He was selfish, lazy, hedonistic. 

He turned so he was facing Shane and he did it quickly like he was trying to catch a child reading a book under their covers after bedtime. He rotated so that Shane’s arm remained in place at his waist but Ilya’s face ducked into his chest. He felt the stuttered breathing against his cheek and he inhaled. Ilya groaned a small noise of satisfaction as his nose brushed across Shane's chest.

Shane always smelled clean. He smelled like sleep now. A little stale, a little sweaty from the excess body heat of two men, and he smelled like Ilya a bit too. Ilya’s lips twitched into an involuntary smile. He pressed them against the wrinkled fabric of Shane’s shirt and between his pecs. It was too dark to see Shane in any kind of detail, only the shape of him.

Now he just waited to see if Shane would resist, pretend, or run. Shane did none of those things, his other hand settled in Ilya’s hair and the arm on his waist tightened. His nails gently scraped his scalp and Ilya let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure and tangled his feet into Shane’s legs.

“Hey”, it was almost whispered, like it was a secret. Shane must have said it for him, because nobody else was around to hear it.

“Mmmm” Ilya replied against his chest and was rewarded with a gentle rise of Shane’s chest and a puff of air between his lips he knew was Shane’s laugh.

“Should sleep” Ilya murmured.

“Yea” He agreed softly, pressing his palm into his hair and threading his fingers in it. Ilya needed to touch him, one last touch before he dissolved in his hands. Ilya rested a hand on Shane’s waist. It was a good waist. It nipped in just above his hip bones, all tight and athletic. Ilya grabbed it, his thumb angled down to his hip bone and his fingers splayed on the thin sliver of skin where his shirt rode up.

Ilya pressed his lips again to his chest and then slowly moved his face up closer to his neck. Ilya liked this shirt, it was one of Shane’s house shirts. They'd stumbled into his bed last night wearing the clothes from earlier, not worried about anything other than being close to the other.  Shane didn't wear house shirts to bed, they weren't clean enough to wear to bed, but not as dirty as his outdoor clothes. It was old, cotton washed a million times and the neck was a little stretched so it showed more of his chest and collarbone than it covered. Ilya wanted his mouth on that collarbone, even if his mouth tasted bad from hours of being zipped shut and sleeping. He needed it.

So he moved, gently and quietly, until his mouth hit skin and his lips lifted as Shane took in a sharp breath that made the cords of muscle in his neck jump out. Ilya licked the cords, kissed them, and dragged teeth against them. He was trying to be a gentleman last night, as much as he could be given his nature.

He tried reciting the English alphabet backwards while Shane gasped against him on top of him or when Ilya was pressing down on him, all joined at the mouth and hands. Everywhere but the where they both wanted to be touched. It was inevitable though, they were humans and Ilya felt Shane against his leg more than once and Shane no doubt felt Ilya. Ilya kept things chaste. A few hours ago was an opening to a conversation, one that couldn’t be and shouldn’t be rushed into anything else.

But right now, Ilya was in a too warm bed that smelled like the two of them with only street lights coming through the parting of the window curtain. They were wrapped around each other, and the darkness in the room gave him a false sense of security. He was operating only on feel, on the intake of Shane’s breath. Shane for all of his rigidity couldn’t have been any more pliant under Ilya’s hands and mouth if he tried. He was almost boneless. Shane was soft, he dissolved into him. Kissing him wasn’t a battle against the boards or a fight for dominance. Ilya led and Shane chased after him.

Ilya made his way around his neck until every inch of his skin there was kissed and moved to Shane’s jaw next, soft skin and the smallest amount of invisible stubble scraped his chin. Ilya pushed Shane’s chest with one of his hands so he rolled onto his back and he crept over him and caged him between his body and his arm on the bed. Ilya had more room to touch him now.

His hand skated over his chest, a finger tracing the line down his abdomen through the wrinkles of his shirt as his mouth continued to work. When Ilya’s fingers traced the hem of his shirt and slipped underneath just as his lips ghosted over Shane’s, he gasped.

It was so good, too good. Shane was too good for him. Ilya laughed, throaty, desperate and glad to know he wasn’t the only one affected. He flattened his palm against Shane’s firm stomach as Shane opened his mouth to Ilya’s kiss.

It was objectively gross, probably. They hadn’t brushed their teeth. Ilya didn’t notice it, he just noticed Shane’s hand grabbing his neck and pulling him into him, his lips firm but yielding. It was different than a few hours ago. Earlier meant something like I want to be good enough for you. Now, it simply meant I want you, badly.

He knew they would be compatible like this. There was no way Shane Hollander would burn so brightly everywhere in his life but not here, it would be nonsensical. There was more passion in their bickering than in most of the sex Ilya had in his life.

Somehow the man in front of him was so different than he was, but he was a mirror image too. They were made of the same stuff. Fear, passion, desire to please. They just existed in different quantities and in a mix that was different enough to compliment the other or blow it up entirely.

Shane pulled Ilya on top of him totally, until both of his arms were on either side of Shane’s head. Ilya's hips hovered just above Shane’s. His hands ran up the hard muscles of his arms until he grasped Ilya’s shoulders, Shane bit his lip hard enough that it stung. Shane’s hands went for the hem of Ilya’s shirt and he pushed it up so his hands slid underneath. His shirt was discarded somewhere and he fell on top of Shane.

Ilya traced the band of his pants with a finger. He was greedy, he wanted more of his skin, all of his skin.

“You want?” Ilya asked, his nose smashed against Shane’s perfect face as he kissed him hard.

He wasn’t going to assume, he wasn’t going to influence, he was going to ask every step of the way. Shane gave a decidedly non-verbal answer. Shane just kept moving his hands and chasing Ilya’s mouth. Ilya made a tutting sound, like you’d make to a misbehaving cat and Shane nearly whined. He grabbed a small tuft of body hair just beneath Shane’s waistband that was low on his hips and tugged it gently. Shane groaned.

“Yes or no” Ilya said, sounding much more in control of himself than he actually was. He was starving for him, but he wouldn’t do anything until he heard the word. Maybe he was moving too fast, maybe he should slow down. He couldn’t see him, and Ilya desperately wanted to turn on the light so he could look in his eyes.

“Yes” Shane said, “Please”.

Ilya needed no more permission, his palm slid into his pants and around Shane who tilted his head back and fed Ilya his throat. He wasn’t one to turn away a gift like that. He nipped, bit, and tongued at his neck as his palm put pressure on Shane.

“Fuck” he hissed sharply.

This Ilya could do without second guessing himself. He scooted slowly down the bed, kissing his way down Shane’s body that was flexing and fluttering under him. He yanked down Shane’s pants and threw them to the floor, and Shane took his shirt off. Ilya let his hands roam across his body, fingers scraping the small patch of chest hair between his pecs before moving south. 

“Can I?” Ilya asked, lips pressed against the patch of skin Shane’s jeans button would usually sit on, tongue darting out to lick the skin.

“Yes” Shane almost curse, it was all he needed to hear.

This was easier than words, it was always easier to show someone how much you cared about them instead of explaining it. Ilya tried to pour all the complex words into Shane, into his reverence of his body. The words he spoke turned into Russian, murmured against his skin and hiding the meaning in a language Shane didn’t have an ear for.

Ilya dipped his head and moved his mouth. Shane responded in every way he could have wished for. Soft hands in his hair, groans that encouraged Ilya and made him wonder what else he may be able to get out of him. Ilya was a giving lover, he always has been. But there was never a time he was satisfied with just giving and not getting his in return.

Now, with Shane’s hands on him and his gasps filling the room he didn’t need anything other than this. He wanted to see Shane’s eyes, he wanted to see the want for him even if it was just in this way so he could remember it, but it was too dark as if Ilya was undeserving of seeing it.

“Ilya” Shane muttered in encouragement and almost accusation as his mouth moved.

Everyone said his name wrong outside of Russia. Shane did too. He’d come to accept it over the years that nobody said it like people at home. His father used to say it like it was a curse, his brother like it was an inconvenience, his mother said it like it was a laugh. Although Shane didn’t say the vowels correctly, he said it with a need so sincere and earnest that tears sprung to his eyes.

Ilya wasn’t a crier, and he definitely didn’t cry when he was finally skin to skin with no physical barriers between him and someone he’d fantasized for years about. But Ilya would be lying if this was only about living out a fantasy, it wasn't. Shane was much more than just sexual stimulation, a person who gave him a spare room, a friend, a coworker. Shane was everything, he was everywhere all the time. He is stable, challenging. He was kinder than Ilya deserved and more patient than was earned. Ilya had only ever known love as a weakness, something to be held over your head and exploited by others for their gain or his pain. He didn't want to name it, not here or now. He couldn't think in terms of love, it would be synonymous with loss. So he didn't think, he felt. He felt Shane's chest rising and falling, he felt his pulse in his wrist, he felt his body writhing against his. Ilya took everything he would give him like the selfish man he was. 

They touched each other for hours, gasping, cursing, calling the other man’s name. Trading touches, and gasps, and mouths and fingers exploring the other’s body. They moved between the bed and the dark bathroom with no light but the bathroom skylight. Ilya was careful to stay in the dark where they would be less likely to spoil from the light. Ilya wanted Shane close and safe. They stumbled back to bed and fell into it again. Ilya wasted no time pulling Shane up onto his chest and it was only minutes before he fell asleep again. Shane didn’t run, and Ilya didn’t know what to do now that he had what he wanted. Ilya worried until he fell asleep.

 

Ilya’s phone vibrated on the bedside table, the stupid happy jingle ringtone that he yanked to his face and answered without looking.

“Da” he said, eyes still closed and Shane’s warm body against his side. The sun was up and the room was bright.

“Bro are you still sleeping?” Marley’s voice called from the phone. He groaned as he stretched. 

“Nyet” Ilya replied. “What do you want?” he asked, voice thick. 

“I’m stopping at that coffee shop you like with that caramel coffee thing, you want me to grab you a coffee or no?” Marley asked.

“Yes, yes, very good” Ilya replied, yawning into the phone.

“Get up dude, we have a bus to catch soon” Marley laughed and ended the call. Shane hadn’t moved at his side yet and Ilya blinked his eyes open and looked at the phone. They’d slept in, they had to be at the rink in forty minutes to head to the airport. Ilya looked down at his side.

Shane was on his stomach with his face tucked into the mattress and Ilya’s side. He could see him now, he could see his body and all the places he'd mapped last night with his hands.His skin was smooth and tan and perfect. He had freckles on the tops of his shoulders and down the middle of his strong back. The sheets pooled just below Shane’s ass, and it was a beautiful thing to see in the daylight. Ilya ran a hand through his soft dark hair and down to his lower back, and pushed a fingertip into one of the dimples on his back. He had several puckered areas of skin there too and a large patch of scars. He brushed his fingers over them carefully. 

“Shane, we have to leave very soon” Ilya said as he stuttered awake and opened his eyes. He wished he had more time to watch him wake up, because it happened slower than he thought it might.

Shane blinked his eyes like he was animated, eyelashes brushing his cheeks that were covered in freckles. Then his eyes flicked up to Ilya’s. He hadn’t seen those eyes in hours and he’d missed them. Shane’s eyes widened and mouth opened as he looked at Ilya leaning on his side next to him. Ilya didn’t bother putting on clothes last night after their shower and neither had Shane, and his body was attentive to the things he’d missed in the low light of last night. All of his body was. Ilya’s hand rubbed over Shane’s back and squeezed his ass fondly.

“Mm what time is it?” he mumbled.

“Nine fifteen” Ilya replied.

“Oh fuck!” Shane got out of bed at a speed that would have been impressive if his legs weren’t tangled in sheets.

He stumbled out of the bed and tripped to the floor, his palms catching him before he fell. His hair was all stuck up and his body gloriously naked and in the light. Ilya just watched, ran his eyes over him and smiled indulgently. He was very obviously about to freak out and darted out of the room and upstairs.

Ilya sighed, he wasn’t going to have his lazy morning after all. Ilya rolled out of bed and yanked on a hoodie and a pair of sweats and put a raiders hat over his matted hair. They made it to the bus on time, and barely spoke on the car ride over. Only quiet curses from Shane about being stupid and being late.

Ilya didn’t know if he should give Shane space on this trip or if he should smother him. He didn’t know which made it less likely for Shane to run from him. Ilya was worried, and only getting more worried about how Shane was going to react. He was priming himself for the heartbreak that he knew was coming. Expecting it, trying to dredge up some armor. Maybe he should go on the defensive or act like nothing happened. He slid into a bus seat and tried to plan.

Ilya felt like he was a sinkhole that Shane was constantly pouring himself into to fill. Like all he did was give instead of while Ilya took. What motivation has he given Shane to want him when all he does is take his care, his attention, and his energy? They didn’t speak on the bus, they hardly looked at each other. They were around the team. But Ilya was starved for an answer of when the bottom was going to fall out.

The weight of everything from last night and that morning was between them now. Skin he’d touched were beneath his clothes, hair he’d pulled his fingers through was tucked behind Shane’s ear, a mouth that’d driven him crazy every day but especially last night. They were linked now, at least in some small way that Ilya could hold onto when it all went to shit. There was no hope any more for him, there was no thought of maybe it wouldn’t go to shit, it was just a question of when.

Ilya drifted through the airport trying not to find him ahead of him, he settled into a seat next to Marley at the gate by the window. He bounced his leg, nervous energy coming out of him and looked into the reflection of the window and found Shane. He was sitting staring at his cellphone, he looked normal and like he always did. Ilya wondered if he was going to make it out of this trip alive.

“Dude, stop with the leg” Marley muttered from next to him and bumped his leg into his. “What’s up with you?” Marley asked.

“Sorry” Ilya replied. He was sorry. He was being stupid.

“Sorry?” Marley asked him, a bit dumbfounded. Ilya glanced at his friend, a friend who knew so little about him but enough to know that Ilya never said sorry. He should have told him to shut up or fuck off or anything other than sorry. He was too in his own head.

“You feeling okay Roz?” Marley asked, genuine concern on his face. Ilya felt even worse then, Marley was a friend. He was a groomsman in his wedding. He'd spent the greater part of a decade on the team with im, going to his house, sleeping in hotel rooms five feet apart. Ilya had kept him at arms length all that time.

“I don’t know” he replied, feeling like he owed him a little honesty after all these years. It was a kernel of truth he usually kept for himself.

Marley looked over at him with a concern he’d never seen him wear before. Ilya wondered what he’d say if he told him, if he pulled him aside somewhere right now or while they were on their respective queen beds in the hotel and told him he was probably in love with a man.

Marley was a good man, he was just as gritty as Ilya was. He never made jokes at the expense of someone’s race or orientation. He never treated Shane differently. But it was different, Marley might think it was different sharing a hotel room with someone who was bisexual or showering after games in the open team shower with him. He might tell someone, he might blow Ilya’s life up. If someone found out- if the wrong someone found out it would be a headline. He could get kicked off of the team, other teams may not pick him up. His work visa would be gone, and he would have to return to Russia and face the music. Ilya blinked, Marley was still watching him carefully, concern so easily discernible on his face. Ilya swallowed, no matter how much he wanted to tell him, he couldn’t risk it.

“I think I ate something bad last night” Ilya shrugged, minimizing and creating distance. “Bathroom” Ilya said right after. Marley gave him a nod, but the look in his eyes told him he didn’t quite believe him. Ilya walked around for a little bit through the large hallways of Boston Logan with everyone rushing to come or go somewhere, and he felt more than a little lost.

He walked for a while in circles, finding the top of Shane’s head every time he circled back by the gate and wondering what was going inside of it, and just how that brain was going to devastate him next.

 

*
Shane

 

 

Sometimes you wrote a pros and cons chart and one side was so much heavier than the other the paper almost called you stupid. Sometimes the one lonely word on the illogical side weighed more than all the reasons not to do something. The chance to be actually happy was on the table for Shane, to have a full life maybe. It wasn’t a guarantee. It was only a chance, because Shane wasn’t in Ilya’s mind and didn’t know what he wanted.

It was a statistical unlikelihood that anything worked out between them, a card game at the highest stake table without knowing the rules of the game. Shane went all in last night without knowing where they stood. He’d tried, well not very hard, but he tried to talk. Talking got lost in touches, in whispered names, in harsh breaths. Shane felt simultaneously more still than he had in a long time and rather untethered.

He sat at the airport gate in the unsanitary faux leather chair and lowered the brightness on his cellphone and tried with all his might to not to freak the fuck out. Shane had a text typed out to Hayden asking about his old Sox position and if it was filled yet. His finger hovered over the arrow to send it.

Shane breached ethics last night, again this morning, and at this rate he’d probably do it again by tonight. Something was going to have to give. Shane already decided it wasn’t Ilya if this was going to be something. Shane was going to part with hockey, again. Maybe it would feel different giving hockey up on his own terms. Maybe he could sit in the stands in the friends and family section not so composed and nearly at ice level watching Ilya skate. Maybe Ilya would wash his hands of the sport too. He probably wouldn't want him back in the same way. Maybe all of this was for nothing.

Shane pressed send on the text knowing Hayden would probably call him and text him a million questions. He scrolled through job postings in Boston, looking for something that would take him further away from hockey but maybe give him longevity in medicine and with Ilya. Maybe. Maybe became the prefix to every thought in his head in the past 24 hours. 

He was in a precarious position now. He needed to finish Ilya’s rehabilitation. Ilya trusted him and was honest with him. Shane was the only person who knew that Ilya was very seriously considering leaving the sport. He knew his body and his capabilities now, he knew when Ilya was slacking because he didn’t feel like putting in the effort and he could read him when he was in pain or nervous. Shane couldn’t leave in the middle of the season. He’d already done something he could get into trouble for, if he was to walk away today it would be on an unfinished end.

Shane knew second that he could absolutely not tell Ilya. Not now. He was figuring out his life, and what he wanted. He’d asked Shane more than once what he should do about hockey, looking for someone to make the choice for him. Shane never did, he never offered his opinion and only was a sounding board. Shane refused to give Ilya anything that may influence his decision. It wasn’t that Shane thought he held any extreme power over him, but he didn’t know what Ilya would consider in his decision. Shane leaving because he couldn’t sleep with him and be his doctor might sway something. Also to fucking top it off, they were still being filmed for a fucking ESPN documentary. Shane shot a glare at the area that Ilya was sitting in, he was still pissed at him about it. 

Shane scrolled through a few interesting jobs in New England. He liked Boston, but the call home was still there inside of him.Maybe it was just that they were at a gate with a screen that said his hometown across the top and he knew his parents were anxiously waiting for him there. In only a matter of hours, all the things he loved in his life would coexsist in one space together. His hometown, his parents, hockey, and Ilya. 

He glanced up again and looked at the back of his head, covered mostly in a baseball hat that was covering the flattened curls from Shane's fingers and their pillows. He wondered if Ilya knew that he would give up nearly anything for him. Shane spent months denying this thing between them until it burst. How could Ilya know how he felt? He never told him. He cared like they were friends, he shut down any attempt until last night to be anything more than that. Ilya couldn't know that Shane was very intentionally hiding this from him. If Shane wanted something, he'd have to tell him. The thought made him sick. 

It’d been just a desire for years, just a theory, just a feeling in Shane’s body that he could file away and lock in a drawer.

It was out now, it wasn’t just glances and eyes connecting, shared smiles and jokes. It was tangible now. Shane had texts on his phone from him. Shane had the taste of him in his mouth and a sated feeling in his body. Shane had the memory of fingertips digging into his skin and the feeling of Russian words spilled onto the side of his neck in desperate gasps.

Shane had moaned his name into the dark of the room last night like it was a prayer and Ilya gasped his name like it was a sin.

It was real, it happened. He’d felt him, he’d smelled him, he’d tasted him, he’d heard him. It was real. Shane was an all or nothing kind of guy. He committed. When he found something that worked for him it stayed. When he decided he liked something, no other options just existed. Shane never played another sport aside from hockey. When Shane was drafted in Montreal he decided he’d retire there. When Shane found detergent he liked he bought six of them at a time. He was a decision maker. Shane was going to stand behind his decision, albeit a stupid one. He’d fucked up, he’d intentionally and knowingly violated something he’d swore to. And he was going to let himself do it again. He was going to stand by this decision too if Ilya would let him.

Shane didn’t run, he just settled. There was going to be a time soon to acknowledge this and talk, and it would be when Shane had thought it through. He settled into a seat on the plane next to one of the trainers, he put his hood up and fell asleep with an ease that escaped him most of his life. He woke up a few hours later feeling no more settled than before and went through the motions. As the team waited for room assignments at the hotel, Shane collected his room keys and drifted towards the coffee station and poured himself a rather atrocious cup. 

“Come back to my room” Ilya's voice said from behind him quietly. Shane looked over his opposite shoulder to where the team was mulling around the lobby. 

“Why should I?” Shane asked. 

“Because we both you want to” Ilya said simply. Shane slid one of his key cards out of the paper pouch and set it on the counter top just next to his cup.

“Later” Shane replied.

Later came at about 9pm that night, but not in Ilya’s room, in Shane’s. Shane was waiting, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, eyeing the well made bed in the corner and staring it down like it was a threat. The air in the room was humid from his shower and his hair was wet. He walked around the room and turned on the lamps and turned some off, he’d turned the TV and looked for the perfect channel before turning it off. He was nervous. He was being stupid, and he was acutely aware they were in a hotel room with their team around them.

It felt like forever before he heard the click of the door lock, and he was practically rushing the door. They needed to talk, they needed to. Shane opened the door and Ilya came in just as fast and with the single goal of seeking out Shane. The door snapped shut behind him and Ilya lunged for him, hands grabbing his face and Shane pushed him so his back was against the short wall of the suite. Ilya’s back hit the wall with a quiet thump.

“Fuck” Shane said quietly just as he decended on him. Shane’s hand grabbed Ilya’s jaw and neck the kiss was firm and passionate, and needy. None of the gentle testing of waters and feeling out the other person of the previous night, it was desperation. Ilya’s hands came up to Shane’s waist, holding him firmly as Shane’s hands ran all over Ilya’s face and neck and all the places he was thinking about all day and had to have the discipline to ignore. His hand fit perfectly against his neck, and even in his desperation he could feel his pulse thrumming hard against his palm. Ilya wanted him too, even if just in this way, he wanted him.

Shane should be embarrassed about how loud he was when he was with Ilya even just kissing him, he was letting out small noises that would embarrass the hell out of him if he wasn’t so distracted. Ilya did it too, low groans of satisfaction as his hands skated around his back and his waist. One hand moved down to his ass and palmed him firmly, kneading the skin. They separated only for a moment to look at the other, Ilya’s eyes were wide and his mouth hanged open.

Shane felt the heat on his skin and the flush across his body, and the desire that spread through his body like a wildfire with no hope of controlling. He would do anything for Ilya, anything he wanted him to at that moment. So when he opened his mouth and with half lidded eyes told Shane “Get on your knees” it wasn’t a thought, it was an instinct. Shane dropped without question, his hands clawing at Ilya’s jeans zipper and button and opening it. He slid his fingers in his waistband and yanked down his boxers and pants in one fluid motion as Ilya rid himself of his shirt. Shane took a moment, just one, to admire the man in front of him in the light and flicked his eyes upward to look at him. Ilya’s mouth was open and he was carefully watching Shane. Shane’s eyes fell closed at the look on Ilya's face, like he was something worthy to lust over and someone who could hold Ilya’s attention for even a few moments. Shane felt fingers brush across the bridge of his nose gently.

“Open your eyes” his deep voice directed. Thick and heavy with tension, rounded in Russian vowels more than his English pronunciation. 

“Look at you, on your knees for me. So good Shane” Ilya said, a snap of want ripped up his spine and Shane’s tongue wet his lips. Ilya’s eyes traced the movement of his lips. Ilya was naked in front of him and Shane could see him. Shane’s hands ran up his strong thighs built from years of sport and training bulging with muscle and then his firm stomach with cut abs. Shane didn’t want to wait anymore, he wanted to see Ilya come apart in the light.

Shane’s eyes remained fixed upwards and his mouth closed around Ilya. Shane snaked a hand up his stomach and onto his pec and squeezed him gently and watched as Ilya’s head hit the wall with a thump. He let out a moan as Shane bobbed his head.

“Fuck” Ilya groaned to the ceiling. Shane pushed him to the back of his throat and came off of him with a gasp. He needed to see him, he needed to look in his eyes and have him if only in this way and in his memory.

“Look at me” Shane said and Ilya complied.

He looked down at him with something that looked a lot like how Shane was feeling. He slipped Ilya back into his mouth for a few more seconds before he was yanked to his feet and kissed harder. Shane felt drunk, he felt high, he felt stupid. Ilya lifted him from the hips and any objection Shane had was swallowed by the next open mouth kiss and Ilya’s tongue moving into his mouth. Ilya walked him to the bed and placed him on his back gently, his warm body covering Shane’s like a blanket.

Shane was wearing too much clothing, and they both hurried to get him rid of his shirt and his pants as quickly as possible. They were thrown to the ground, unfolded and would be wrinkled and dirty when he picked them up later. Shane didn’t give a shit. He couldn’t he couldn’t care about anything, especially not when Ilya kissed his way up Shane’s naked body before descending again to his pelvis.

Shane knew what his mouth felt like, he’d felt it all over him last night, swallowing him in his mouth and moving up and down until Shane cried his name out and finished down his throat. He knew it was the best sexual experience of his life, and he hadn’t even seen him.

Shane looked down and saw the top of Ilya’s head, kinked blonde curls spilling onto his skin for a moment before he felt his hot mouth. Ilya was half laying on the bed, the expanse of his skin visible down to his pointed toe on the edge of the bed. It was a physical sensation and a mental image that would change him. Shane groaned at the sensation of his mouth but refused to even blink and miss a moment of how Ilya looked. A face of focus and pure enjoyment as he looked up at Shane, mouth full and eyes barely open from desire. It would be over too fast if he kept going.

“Fuck, Ilya” Shane said in a voice he didn’t recognize. His body twitched and his lower back came off of the bed. Ilya kissed up his chest until he was at his lips, his tongue running along the inside of his mouth hungrily.

“On your stomach” Ilya said, as he moved to lean over Shane, his mother’s pendant swinging in the small space between their bodies and the metal grazing Shane's neck. 

“No like this” Shane replied and stayed on his back. He was going to see him, he was going to watch him and the emotions pass over his face as they got lost in each other. Shane could hold onto that, he wasn’t going to be cheated out of looking into Ilya’s eyes. Ilya’s eyebrows jumped in surprise and he lowered his mouth to kiss him again, and they separated with a wet smack.

“Mr. Bossy man okay” Ilya said under his breath and Shane gasped a laugh. Ilya propped himself up on one arm and ran the other hand down Shane’s body, past where his body was aching to be touched and ran his thumb over his opening. Shane’s body bucked and he pressed his head into the mattress.

“You want?” Ilya asked, his face buried into his neck and his teeth biting at his neck.

“Fuck” Shane hissed as his finger slowly circled. “Yes” he said and felt the gentlest pressure. "I want you, I need you" Shane choked out. It was enough to convince Ilya.

The desperation had slowed and moved into an anticipation instead. Ilya was slow and careful. He built Shane up until he was ready, until he was full of him. Ilya hovered over him, blue eyes and dark brown fixed together. Shared body heat, shared moans, and shared breaths. For at least another night, something shared between them nobody else had.

Chapter End Notes

Writing sex is difficult for me so this was a challenge.

There are not many flowery ways to write the word dick and hole...I tend to avoid the specifics when writing so use your ~imagination~.

So I am sorry to these men, also sorry to the gay community. I am a woman and I don’t know how to write sex scenes about stuff I've done let alone stuff I haven't.

LMK your thoughts :)

Chapter 14: Mine to Break

Chapter Notes

Felt like posting again whoopsie.

 

Get behind me Ilya, I will protect u.

Game Day- Ottawa

 

He would do stupid things for Shane’s attention. Incredibly stupid things to feel the weight of his eyes on his skin and for a few moments.

He would do something horrifically stupid like sleep over in his hotel room and fuck him one more time before he left for his morning workout. Ilya didn’t get up at the time he knew Marley would still be passed out in their room so he could return undetected. Instead he was walking around the hotel in last night's clothes at a time people were up and about and noticing things. He’d left Shane in bed regrettably, in sheets they had all but destroyed.

Ilya pushed open his own hotel room door sometime after 0700 and luckily Marley wasn’t there, but Ilya’s completely untouched bed was in perfect condition. Marley would have noticed of course, and he would say something about it later. It would be easy enough for him to say he met someone, or had a girl in Ottawa he sometimes hooked up with. Or maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all and assumptions would be made either way.

It was easy being with Shane, easy enough that all of the things that hanged in the balance in life mattered less when he was around. But when Ilya was sober of him and his eyes were clear and his hands were kept to himself, the threat was like a current under his skin.

Shane was the most dangerous person on the planet to him. Something like being caught meant almost nothing when a simple touch or even a clinical one made Ilya’s body light up in flames. He couldn’t think straight around him, he was reckless, and he was gluttonous. It made him act stupidly. They couldn’t be found out, the ramifications were too severe. Ilya stripped off his clothes that spent the night in a pile on the floor next to Shane's from desperation. He stepped into the shower and let the hot water burn his skin. He smelled like sex, like desperation and decisions so bad that they were good.

Ilya’s need to lose himself in sex had slowed over the years as he had slowed down. It was back with a vengeance but it was different now. It wasn’t a need to lose himself in the sex it was a need to lose himself in Shane.

It was watching his careful composure slip to the floor like discarded boxers Shane didn’t fold because he wanted Ilya so much. It was the disbelieving laugh that fell from Shane’s lips after he’d flown apart under Ilya more than once in an impossibly short amount of time. It was Shane’s swollen lips that probably hurt from the force of Ilya’s but still kept coming back for more. He could do this for the rest of his life and not have a complaint. But Shane, he didn’t know.

Ilya was watching him so closely the past few days it was moving past observation and well into hyper vigilance. He was scanning for threats, signs he might pull away or that he hated him. Or worse, that he was going to leave. He pinned his hands to the bed last night and kept his body on top of Shane’s to anchor him there.

He was being clingy, he knew it. He followed Shane into the shower, he moved behind him as if their wrists were handcuffed together. He pressed any skin together that he could manage and was crowding him. If he didn’t give him space to run, maybe he couldn’t. Ilya was also talking, filling any dead space between them with words. Stupid ones, sometimes about hockey, sometimes just rambling in Russian. The less quiet there was the less time for Shane to think of how to get rid of him. There was no room left to ask though questions Ilya didn’t have an answer to.

In a pursuit of protecting this thing between them it was making Ilya worse. The anxiety, the frustration, the fear was closing on him. He felt like a cartoon character who was waiting to be flattened by an anvil. He heard the whistling in the air and the music swelling but didn’t know when it would happen. The feeling of impending doom sat on Ilya's skin like a greasy film that wouldn’t scrub off no matter how hard he tried. The edges of that familiar cold was there too. There was a word for the cold, depression. He was happy though, or he should be happy right now. It felt like he was mourning something that hadn’t died yet somehow.

He should be relaxed, Shane fucked his brains out last night more than once. He should be calm and sated from arms wrapped around him and kindness Shane didn’t have to risk anything to give away. He just gave it. Shane's room key was tucked into his sock so he didn’t lose it, and the edge of the card bit into his leg.

Ilya went down to the lobby of the hotel. Marley was already there, nursing a cup of coffee and raised a curious eyebrow at him. He didn’t have the energy to pretend right now, and he shook his head to dismiss him. Shane was downstairs and was throwing a hand around in the air as he talked to one of their defense men animatedly about stick handling. His team polo was tucked into his slacks, and his hair was brushed back neatly. Looking nothing like he did this morning. It almost made him smile.

Shane had an ease about him here. Maybe it was because he was not far from home and in the country that made him. His shoulders weren’t quite as tense, his smiles came easier and brighter. He never even considered he may have something to do with that instead of Shane being in Ottawa.

He slipped into his old routine when they made it to the rink, only he wouldn’t be touching the ice. Shane gave him several lift and conditioning workouts and he was slowly ramping up with supervision. As Shane went to the training room, Ilya hopped onto the bike for some conditioning. By the time the team was about to hit the ice, Shane returned to the gym and was watching him work through his workout. He was changing direction now with his blessing, planting his leg and trusting his knee and pushing off of it gently. He wasn’t exploding like he used to, the athleticism that came natural to him was still contained. But he felt like an athlete again, almost. He was jumping too, small jumps on two feet and then one.

Shane stood against one of the mirrored walls and watched Ilya move through his drills. There wasn’t a trace of the man from last night left on his face, just concentration and crossed arms as he watched him with professional observation. It gave Ilya hope for a moment that maybe they could do this and get away with it.

Ilya leaped to the next line of cones and swore as a sharp pain twinged in his knee.

“Knee above your foot when you land. It should be a straight line from joint to joint. Stop bringing that knee into the center it isn’t stable” Shane told him simply.

Ilya shook his leg out and tried again. This was objectively beneath him, all the little exercises and stupid jumping and balance work. But it was fun, it was a challenge. A small one albeit, but a challenge. He wanted to progress to the next phase of training, he wanted to get there quicker than everyone expected. He found himself wanting to shut down the talk on ESPN about how athletes with his injuries never came back the same. He wanted to play again.

He repeated the motion, carefully lining his knee up over his foot. Shane gave him a nod and ran through the rest of the drills until he was done. Ilya went to shower and change into his suit, the customary travel uniform for a player on injury reserve and made his way to the box after wishing the team luck. They didn’t need it, Ottawa was at the bottom of the conference every year. The visitor’s box was empty, there was no reason for anyone to be in Ottawa for this game and he found himself alone for the first time in a while for more than just a few minutes. It couldn’t be a worse time to be alone with his own thoughts.

He let his eyes drift over the arena. The rink was pretty packed despite the fact that the game was going to be a blow out. He’d missed the environment of game day. The smell of shitty concession food, the stupid music playing overhead, and the people around him. He watched as his team skated around the ice like a swarm of bees.

His eyes kept cataloging the people below him and his eyes caught on Shane like they always did. He’d changed into his team jacket with a crisply pressed button down collar peeking out. Shane was talking to two people through the partition and smiling brightly, uninhibited. It was the kind of smile he saw him have sometimes at home.

The people must be his parents. Ilya squinted, and could only make out the shapes of people. It felt right that he couldn’t even see his family’s faces. Meeting the parents was a thing reserved for relationships and people who were worthy of it.

Ilya imagined being the kind of man who was good enough and confident in being good enough that he walked down to the bench and introduced himself to them. He would shake his father’s hand firmly and kiss Shane’s mother on both cheeks the way all North American women loved. He might have been charming in a way that was sincere instead of so planned. Maybe if Ilya’s mother loved him enough to stay he could be the kind of man that would win them over in an ice rink. Maybe if his brother was a good person and his father had any kindness in him.

He let his eyes drift away from them and to the seats around the stadium, colored jerseys occupying flip down plastic seats. There were couples who were sitting close together with their hands joined with easy intimacy and smiles. There were exhausted parents chasing energetic children up the steep stadium steps trying to snatch them up. There were groups of friends sipping out of outrageously priced beer cups and laughing at each other.

The Hollander's probably wanted grandchildren, maybe Shane wanted kids too. Shane should want children, he had many traits that should live on in the world past his own life. Ilya sometimes couldn't care for himself. He couldn't chase children around, not when sometimes weeks of his summer his body was frozen to the couch or bed. Ilya watched as life happened beneath him while he was elevated from it all. All the things he watched from up here, others got to live.

He had no parents to sit rink side at his game, he had next to no friends outside of his sport, he had no relationship that was easy enough to share intimacy in public. He’d probably never have children, he’d never get to nurture children into having all the right character traits and none of his. The only space he fit in below him was maybe on the ice as a spectacle. A short blip in these peoples lives before they went back to actually living. They would move on to happier times with loud dinner tables and save homes and Ilya would still be here or in some other rink like it.

He barely watched the game, his eyes didn’t follow the puck progression, they didn’t really focus. He sat and waited for it to be done. He climbed on the bus and he went back to the hotel. He sat in his room quietly on top of the still made bed and felt Marley’s eyes on him. Ilya was a minute from exploding. He prepared for every obstacle, every let down, every opportunity for something to get in the way. Shane was probably down the hall, getting dressed in nice clothes with a smile. A nice boy.

He was going to ruin him. He didn’t prepare for getting what he wanted with Shane. He didn’t prepare for how it would feel to have what he wanted and know he didn’t deserve it.

Marley hovered around the opposite bed as he grabbed some of his stuff. “Are you coming to dinner?” he asked as he slid on a pair of shoes.

“No” Ilya replied simply.

“You gonna sleep in the room tonight or am I going to have it to myself again?” Marley asked, Ilya’s eyes cut to his.

“I think I will be somewhere else” he replied simply. He would, he’d be there until Shane told him to leave.

“Two nights in a row, I think Roz has himself a Canadian girlfriend,” Marley said.

“They are nobody, it is nothing” Ilya said far too quickly to be meaningless.

“Sure buddy, have fun” he said, not convinced. Ilya waited five minutes for Marley to be gone before he pulled Shane’s key out of his sock and took a walk down the hall. He didn’t bother knocking. Ilya always had a tendency to barge his way into things. Clearly Shane didn’t expect it, he was only in his boxers, and pulled the shirt he was holding over his body to cover himself.

“Jesus” he said.

Ilya raised an eyebrow and smirked a little, still too sour to let it be a full smile.

“Hollander, I’ve seen everything already. You don’t need to hide” Ilya went past him and dragged a hand across his firm stomach and sat on the bed behind him.

“I thought you were house keeping. You could have knocked” Shane’s cheeks were a bit flushed.

“You give me key” Ilya waved it around like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Come here” Ilya murmured and Shane smiled lightly. He moved to stand between Ilya’s spread legs. He reached a hand towards his waist and the other snaked around to his ass to give it a squeeze.

“Don’t, I’m leaving soon” Shane warned as he tried to step out of Ilya’s grasp. His hands held him tighter, both of them trapping his waist.

“Ah, no” Ilya said, “You may not leave”. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the hollow of his chest. “Dinner with the parents, yes?” he said against Shane’s skin. One of his hands went to Ilya’s hair and patted it softly before pulling on his shirt and buttoning the buttons. Ilya tried to unbutton them faster than Shane could fasten them and he swatted his hand away.

“I gotta go in about twenty”, Shane pried himself out of his grasp and Ilya tried not to pout. He wanted him for himself. He didn’t want him out with his parents where things might come up in conversation, where Shane might talk about him, or think about him where he couldn’t distract him.

“Twenty minutes is long time” Ilya said with a smirk.

“I’m not going to dinner with my parents all...” Shane trailed off, waving a hand around.

“Fucked?” Ilya finished for him. Shane winced.

“Ugh, gross” Shane screwed up his face and pushed him away so Ilya fell against the bed. “My Mom doesn’t miss much” he explained as he yanked on a pair of pants and buttoned them. Ilya chuckled but it dropped off quicker than usual.

“Don’t tell them about me” Ilya said, a bit more serious in tone than he was just a moment ago. It was enough for Shane to look up curiously. 

“I would never” Shane said with sincerity, “I wouldn’t assume something like that is okay”. He assured him.

Ilya’s face was a bit serious as he was laying on his back on the bed, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Nobody can know, our secret” he said. Shane nodded, but his eyes that were so bright a moment ago were a bit more guarded. There was a small wrinkle between his eyes.

“Is sexy, secret. Ours” Ilya told him and pet his fingers over Shane’s freckles until the wrinkle was gone and a smile was on his face.

“Okay” Shane said simply. He sighed, deep and long. It struck in Ilya’s chest like a eulogy was coming. “I guess we should talk”, Shane said it like how doctors delivered a death notification to family in the hospital. The chest pain turned into a stomach ache in a moment. He panicked.

“Mmm, no talking” Ilya leaned up and pulled Shane to his lap and lips descended on Shane’s again gently but with a hungry edge. Shane kissed him for a moment and then pushed away from him. He looked at him with irritation.

“That isn’t going to work every time, we can’t just fuck and not talk about this. I’ve asked to talk to you three times in the past 24 hours and you’ve blown me off” Shane said with a sigh and a gentle shove.

“I can blow you off again. You liked it” Ilya said in tone that he hoped conveyed playfulness instead of fear.

“Ilya” Shane simply replied. The smile on Ilya’s face fell, he knew he looked like a man being marched to the gallows.

“Why not? I like you, you like my mouth on you. Is simple you can talk by saying my name, yelling it maybe” Ilya proposed. It was stalling. The kind that was so overt they both knew it. Shane looked almost as uncomfortable as Ilya felt.

“We’ve been living together, we work together, we’re sleeping together now. We need to have a conversation about this” Shane prompted. It was the responsible thing to do in a situation where he was decidedly fucking irresponsible.

Ilya sat up, back straight. He rolled his eyes. “So?” he asked coolly.

“So we need to talk about what any of this means, we need to be on the same page” Shane ground out from between his teeth. He would say anything to make this end. Anything to know what Shane wanted, for him to stay or for him to go. He’d do what he was told.

“We just do what we want” Ilya leaned over and kissed up his neck and the spot behind his ear. Shane should be melting into this, he did before. Instead he stood up quickly needing distance and needing a boundary.

“No, I need to know things. Specific things” Shane said, pacing the room like a zoo animal. Fuck, he didn’t know what he was doing. He just wanted to be with him, he wanted to be with only him. Maybe if Ilya did everything right and Shane stayed around long enough he could love him.

“Like what Shane?” the question was clipped. He should be soft with him and patient, not terse. He wouldn't love him if he was. 

“Should I sleep with other people?” Shane asked, desperate to give this unkempt mess they were in some shape.

It was a blow that hurt. It felt like a high stick to the mouth that made your ears ring and eyes water. Shane was looking away and didn’t see Ilya flinch. Ilya’s eyes burned into the side of his head, if Shane was looking at him he might have seen the expression of a man who had given up and whose fears were realized. But Shane wasn’t looking, he was pacing. Ilya thought of the man Shane was with at a hotel bar months ago and the man he left Ilya at home to go see. Shane was a gorgeous man, and he was a good one. The thought of Shane with anyone else was fucking killing him. Why would Shane only want him? Why would he be deserving of it?

“This what you want?” Ilya asked, carefully and devoid of any emotion. Shane looked like he wanted to rip his hair out. Ilya knew of open relationships, he’d been with women in them. He’d done group sex at one point. But that wasn’t Shane, was it? The man who gave up that well practiced control only when Ilya was over him or beneath him, could he want that? It seemed unfair to just give it away when Ilya had fucking earned it.

“I want, I want to know what you're thinking. I don’t do well with things that aren’t clear. I need clarity” Shane said simply, not privy to the thoughts in his fucked up mind. Ilya just blinked.

“I want whatever you want, you want to fuck other people go ahead” Ilya said dismissively but his voice had an edge, it was a huge fucking cop out. “Come here, talk over” Ilya told him, desperate for some control of this situation before he totally spun out. His back teeth were grinding together, he did care. He gave more than just a little of a fuck.

They were playing the world’s most cautious and emotionally frightened ping pong game. Both of them were too scared to swing big and miss that they were sending half unexplained answers back and forth only making things worse. Ilya knew it, Ilya knew if he was just honest this conversation could be done in minutes. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. His heart was beating too fast, he was in fight or flight.

“That isn’t fair” Shane told him, frustration leeching through his voice. “To put everything on me” he said. He had no idea how frustrating Ilya could be. How horrible he could be. How intentionally mean.

“You were the one who wanted to talk Hollander” Ilya said. Hollander felt like a curse in his mouth now when he’d been calling him Shane for months. It felt like a fence he was building after they’d spent months tearing down a wall between them.

“Yeah I want to talk, I want you to talk too. Not just me” he said. Was that not a reasonable thing to do? It was reasonable but it didn’t feel like it.

“What do you want?” Ilya asked him, his hands up in the air in frustration and voice rising to match it.

“I need to know what I am to you” Shane said simply. He turned his head to look at Ilya who was tracking his movements. Something stirred on his face for a moment.

“I like you” Ilya said simply, he ground it out like it caused him pain to say but his shoulders shrugged with nonchalance.

“I like you too” Shane replied, "I don’t know what I’m allowed to want. I don’t know if anyone even knows you sleep with men” Shane said quickly. Ilya blinked.

“You do, the men do. Svetlana does” Ilya said simply, “That is it” he said. He could see the alarm bells going off in Shane’s eyes.

“You don’t want anyone to know? Nobody?” Shane asked. 

“Why would I? Only cons, no pros” Ilya shrugged it off, like it was obvious. It was anything but obvious. He made Shane look like he was stupid for even asking. The distance was growing between them, Ilya was making certain of it. He needed to push him away before he was hurt more. Shane was asking if he would ever put himself on display for disappointment more than he already did. He'd be eaten alive and there would be nothing left.

“Never?” Shane asked. Ilya was pulling away, drifting. Like Shane’s words unmoored him and he was being swept back out and away to dark cold waters.

“No, no reason to” Ilya replied simply. Ilya might have seen less pain on Shane’s face if he punched him. He reared back like he was hit, like Ilya’s words caused him physical damage. Good, he should learn now that as long as he was around him this would keep happening. He would keep getting hurt.

“So. Is this. Am I just sex for you?” Shane asked, and Ilya hated that his eyes were wet with tears that hadn’t fallen. He'd caused that.

“We keep doing what we are doing” Ilya told him, a frustrated edge to his voice.

“I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care about you” Shane said simply, painfully open and trusting. He was reaching a hand out towards him Ilya just needed to reach back.

“You don’t care about me, you barely know me” Ilya replied. His voice was argumentative. This was what he was waiting for, an opportunity to burn it down. Ilya was a self destructive and selfish man. He knew it and he couldn’t stop, he couldn't end it. He couldn’t let himself believe he deserved Shane caring about him. He wouldn’t survive that care diminishing to nothing when Shane saw who he really was, an empty and angry person.

“Don’t do that. I know you” Shane insisted standing up to follow him. Ilya stuck his arms out straight ahead of him.

“You know what I let you know, Hollander. Just because we fucked doesn’t mean you know me” his heckles were raised like a dog, Ilya's shoulders were at his ears. “If everyone who fucked me knew me, everyone would know me” he chuckled darkly.

“Let me know more then” Shane tried to reason with him. “Whatever this is, it isn’t going to work with me if you’re going to be like this Ilya” Shane said slowly. He let out a humorless laugh.

It was finally happening, the pot was overflowing on the stove. The tea kettle was whistling from too much pressure. He was a tree burning at the stump that was falling over. The room was quiet but his head was too fucking loud. You don't deserve this.  You don't deserve him. You must destroy him before he destroys you. 

“This isn’t anything” Ilya replied, and Shane flinched.

“Why are you acting like this?” Shane asked quietly.

“This is who I am, this is what I do” Ilya said, and let out a sentence of Russian that Shane didn’t need to know the meaning of to feel the impact.

“I can’t go back to Russia if they know. I have Russian passport”. Shane wasn’t just in competition with Ilya’s self hatred or hockey. Not just the uncharted territory of the league, the media, homophobia, or expectations. He had a whole country to overcome.

“I can lose my license, you’re my patient” Shane offered. Ilya’s eyes flickered, the things weren’t comparable.

“You lose license, I might lose my whole life here and there” Ilya said bitterly. He felt the words bubbling up before they came out of his mouth. He always knew what the say to ruin something. Ilya had an ability to read someone's biggest insecurity, to know which words would hurt the most. He filed it away for the right time, for when they hurt him and he used it on them like a weapon. He should stop himself.

“Maybe you want that so I can be like you, so we both lose hockey” Ilya said. Shane’s face closed off like a curtain was drawn over it.

Shane’s phone dinged on the bedside table. He was supposed to be happy tonight, with his family. Ilya ruined that too.

“I'm going to go” Shane said simply, running a hand through his hair that was shaking.

“Go, now?” Ilya said with a cold laugh. “You want to talk, now you leave like a coward? You run again. It’s childish” Ilya said, louder. But he wasn’t running, he had plans and Ilya was practically pushing him out.

“You think I run when things get tough? You don’t run, you try to ruin Ilya” it came out of Shane dejected and broken. It was a self defense mechanism, Shane retreated and Ilya stomped forward with clenched fists to make someone run away. 

“I know why you do it. That doesn’t mean you can do it to me and that I'm going to stick around and take the beating. My parents love me and I haven’t seen them in months. They’re waiting for me” he said quietly. “And they’re not going to say things like this to me” he finished. Ilya felt like he’d been run over, was he really that transparent? Did Shane see how truly pathetic he was?

“I will wait for you to come back” Ilya said firmly. He wanted to ruin but see if he was worth coming back for. A sick experiment that only hurt.

“Go back to your room Rozanov” Shane said tiredly. It made sense that Ilya was Rozanov now. Like he was just another hockey player reduced to his last name, another name on a roster. So he left. He stood, went past Shane and opened the door to the hotel room and walked through it. He heard the door slam closed as he walked down the hallway and into his own room.

Ilya sat in the chair at the stupid desk in his hotel room for hours. Marley was out drinking with the team and he was alone. He was stupid. This was so stupid. He was waiting all day for the shoe to drop. He was waiting for Shane to tell him he regretted it and that Ilya wasn’t worth it. He was so afraid of it dropping he threw it first.

He’d spent months admiring the way that emotion telegraphed across Shane’s beautiful face. He was so expressive and such an open book if you knew where to look. Ilya had never seen hurt or betrayal in his eyes, and he’d never thought he’d be the one to put it there but that’s what he did. He’d snapped and delivered venom before anyone else could because destroying yourself was better than giving someone the power do it first. What’s the point of trying when it always turns into this? 

Ilya was the coward, Shane was asking him for nothing unreasonable. Shane was asking for something vulnerable, anything from him. Ilya was mean, he was a Rozanov man. A man who was mean to his beautiful and funny mother who deserved more, better. Ilya couldn’t let that pattern continue, he couldn’t drain the beauty from Shane and the kindness. He couldn’t drain his life until he was motionless on a cold floor. 

Shane’s room key was burning a hole in his pocket. He checked his phone for the hundredth time and saw nothing there. Ilya stood, and walked down the hall. He slid the key into the door and swung it open. The bed that they’d slept in and kissed his lips in was still there. Everything else was gone. No luggage on the table, no shoes neatly lined up by the door, or dress shirts hanging in the open closet. Shane left. Ilya laughed once, cold and hard and empty like him.

He was so easy to leave, everyone did. His mother, his family, Ilya knew that he was the nail in every tire that caused it to go flat. He was the invasive species that wiped out a population. He was a pest, a leech that took all the good from people and bled them dry.

Chapter End Notes

Heyyyyy......heyy...how y'all doing?

Ottawa you are the reverse Tuna Melt (but worse) of this story.

I go hard on internal dialogues, remember we know much more about these guys than they know about each other and maybe themselves.

There is so much left to be dealt with individually for these men, it wouldn’t be honest to let them be happy now. What is ahead? Personal growth, personal sacrifice, maybe communication at some point? Happiness is earned in this mf household.

Chapter 15: Ottawa

Chapter Notes

Thanks for reading :)

Post Game
Ottawa Hotel Room

 

Shane wasn’t good enough for him.

He looked at him, a tall man built with muscle, athleticism, and a mouth so sharp that the entire league feared him. Shane never feared him, for all his strength and grit he never gave Shane a reason to be scared. Ilya was a good man afraid of being seen. But with the wild look in his eye and the set of his jaw, open and tense like a dog that was preparing to bite Shane was afraid of him. He wasn’t in physical danger, but that he was in emotional danger.

Shane was after a future, and Ilya just told him what it would be like. Just sex, and your biggest insecurities hurled at you to keep you away when things got uncomfortable.

Shane miscalculated. He thought of all the evidence that maybe Ilya wanted him for more than just sex. He’d sat on his couch and asked Shane why he wasn’t good enough. He chased him for months until Shane gave in. The mask slipped sometimes where he didn’t just look at Shane with heat, but with some kind of complex emotion. He opened up sometimes and showed himself. The sex wasn’t just sex, it was something else. Shane didn’t know what to believe, what the man told him or what he showed him.

He’d put himself out there, and he was going to have to live with it now. It felt like his spine was breaking all over again, the sick feeling of something so wrong that every nerve was at attention.

Shane wasn’t at fault the time he fractured his back, it was bad luck. This was a problem he saw coming from a mile away, he could have stopped it over the months but he let it develop instead. He closed his eyes and opened his arms and invited it inside his home to live with him.

Shane didn’t push Ilya about emotional things, he always sat and waited for him to come to him. He gave space and silence. He forced this conversation selfishly so he could reorient his world. Ilya didn’t owe it to bring him back to level ground. Ilya didn’t ask Shane to ruin his own life, Shane did it on his own. He risked everything and here he was. He was going to walk away with nothing to show for it, all his chips in someone else’s hands.

Shane could stay here in the room with Ilya and agree to be hidden, agree that some of him was better than none of him and hope he changed his mind. If they kept having sex maybe something would change, maybe he’d want him, maybe he’d want to be open, maybe he’d finally realize he was deserving of love. Maybe Shane would lose everything else about himself while he was waiting.

He was in the sun, in the embrace of his family without lies, his friends knew him and he didn’t need to hide. He wouldn’t go back into the dark. It would feel like betraying the scared nineteen year old kid sitting at the Thanksgiving table with shaking hands telling his parents that he was different. Shane wouldn’t let himself be hidden. He’d fought through too much to be who he was without any shame.

“Go back to your room Rozanov” he heard himself say. He couldn’t be here anymore, not when Shane was a second away from breaking down. Ilya’s face went flat.

The man in front of him couldn’t be further away somehow. Last night there were only shared breaths and bodies moving in unison, now there was nothing but cool distance. Something flashed in Ilya’s face before he left. He turned and walked to the hotel room door, opening it and leaving. The door stayed open. It left Shane the option, walk through it and be hurt again chasing after him or close it now and save what was left.

Shane shut the door with a sickly feeling in his stomach like he’d slammed his finger in the hinge.

It happened, exactly what he was afraid of. Shane couldn’t blame Ilya really but it didn’t make him hurt any less.

He was suddenly aware again of being in a hotel in Ottawa less than thirty minutes from home, somewhere safe where he was enough. Ilya scared him off as he intended, and invited him to run. Shane had a place he actually could run to. A childhood bedroom, a house that was alive with his parents bickering and the TV always playing. Somewhere he wouldn’t be alone and could lick his wounds.

Coward.

It was a word that echoed in his head every time he kissed a girl and felt nothing, when he lied to his parents about not being interested in dating, when he stayed quiet every time a teammate called someone a faggot. Shane was a coward for a long time but he wasn’t now. It would be easy to be a coward again.

He thought through his repertoire of how to fix things that were broken. Stitches, surgery, drugs, smile, exercise, money. They’d all fixed a problem in his life at one point or another. None of them could fix this. He was pulling and pulling and he had pulled too soon, too much.

This was Shane’s fault for thinking he was different, and that Ilya felt a fraction of what he was feeling. So he’d let him go, like one of those stupid birds at weddings. Like a passport that seemed to only go missing before an international trip. Like they were two competitors from different countries whose lives were never supposed to intersect. But they did, they had.

Shane didn’t hate him, he wasn’t even really angry. There was sorrow, thick and heavy and horribly sad in him. He couldn’t pretend that his heart wasn’t splitting in two. Shane left his room and headed towards the restaurant feeling like he might not ever want to eat again.

He walked there, his mind too loud and his chest too heavy. Sounds of the city laid on him like a blanket. This was his home, this is where he grew up and became Shane Hollander. A city that cradled him in the best parts of his life and saw him at the worst- witnessed another disappointment, another loss for him.

Shane walked, thinking only of home and how badly he wanted to sleep in a twin bed tonight with his old sheets in a place where he was safe. It was a place where his cheap peewee league gold trophies lived on shelves in his room. Old hockey posters tackled to the walls. The mug his mother made him on his desk. His mother made it for him when they went to Japan shortly after Shane’s injury. Yuna had taken some pottery intensive class as he and his father wandered around to street vendors. Yuna’s mug broke in the kiln and she was introduced to Kintsugi. A traditional Japanese art of fixing broken pottery, making something broken whole again and more beautiful than the sum of its parts.

It was a beautiful mug, dark blue and sloped expertly by his mother’s strength and will to make an element of the earth bend to her. Veins of gold highlighted the jagged parts of the mug where it was stitched back together. She’d given it to him and told him he wasn’t broken either. Shane used to look at the mug and want to break it all over again. He hated it, he hated that she saw him as fractured like the stupid fucking mug. He didn’t get it then, he was too young and pigheaded and felt that life cheated him.

It wasn’t like stitches or doing surgery, stitches were temporary and left behind a scar and surgery was fixing the inside. Shane fixed things with the goal of making the problem nearly undetectable. But his mother’s pottery, the whole point was celebrating the breaks and the art of new found strength.

Shane for the first time in a long time ached for his mother’s hands to put him back together. He ached to be glued back together and didn’t care if people saw the jagged edges and parts he wanted to keep inside and to himself. When Shane made it to the restaurant the tears blurring his vision didn’t drop, it didn’t count as crying if they didn’t drop.

His body didn’t know the difference, it felt like he’d cried all night and like his chest was due to cave in. The door swung open and a loud wave of voices and laughter and happiness hit him like a truck. He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to pretend over a clean white table cloth and a glass of wine. He didn’t want to sit in his chair and answer meaningless questions when he felt like this, dejected and stupid.

But he walked in anyway. He found his parents, sitting at a table for four. The two of them on one side of the table, a seat for Shane and an empty place setting next to him. A few hours ago Shane was imagining Ilya next to him in dim lighting laughing over dinner with his parents, hands clasped under the table. He imagined himself as someone worthy to commit to.

His parents found him before he even reached the table, twin smiles on their faces and they were standing with outstretched arms. Their grins fell at whatever they saw on his face.

“Shane baby” Yuna’s voice said as she glanced at her husband and rounded the table towards him.

“Mom” Shane said in a voice distorted by heartbreak as he leaned into her thin arms and stayed, longer than usual. Longer than a grown man seeing his parents in a public restaurant would be normal.

“Shane” his father’s voice, had a rare note of urgency and he moved to him next, squeezing his arms around his back. Shane couldn’t remember twenty four hours in his life where he’d touched so many people and sought out physical affection so much.

“Can we go home? I want to go home” he told them.

They did with no questions asked. They brought him to the car and left the restaurant without a word about it. Like everything else about him, his parents accepted him quietly and with care.

He climbed into the back seat as his mother went into the front passenger side of the car. She dangled her left hand behind her and Shane grabbed it.

Sometimes he thought the best thing to happen to his relationship with his mother was losing hockey. Yuna was firm, strict, and protective. She was soft about her son, but hockey was always a blind spot. She was too hard on him, and was a coach and manager more than a parent. They both had to adjust into having a relationship that was about them, not a third thing. But his mother took it like she did everything else, as a challenge.

Shane grasped her hand and she squeezed it tightly.

Yuna and David always wanted children, they got Shane and only Shane and were committed to making him exceptional. He always knew that he was wanted and loved. Even now as an adult who should have his shit together, they were still here. He wondered how disappointed they might be in him if they knew that he’d thrown his morality to the curb.

They drove him to the hotel in silence, and when Shane hesitated to get out of the car, it was David who shook his head and put out his palm waiting for a room key. His father went up to his room to pack his bag for him as he and his mother sat with him.

Shane was folded over on himself the way he used to when his panic attacks were coming every day and he lost control of his mind and his body. He hadn’t had one in a while.

His mother moved into the backseat with him where she rubbed a hand on his back and typed an email on his phone for him. She held it out for him to read and he waved her off, his breath was still coming too hard and his eyes were watering. Maybe crying.

“Okay, who else do I need to message?” Yuna asked. Shane shook his head. There was nobody else he needed to tell right now, just the coaching staff.

He felt guilty. He felt embarrassed. He felt like a coward.

“It’s just a week off Shane, time off is good. You deserve it” she said matter of factly. None of this felt good. His Dad loaded his bags into the back of the car and got in silently. They drove in silence, Shane looked out the window and breathed until he was almost at a normal rate with his Mother pressed against his side.

He watched the familiar highways turn into the residential streets he rode his bike on thousands of times, they drove by ponds he used to skate on until the ice was so thin he could fall through.

The car pulled down the long wooded driveway and came to a gentle stop at their family house. When it did, something in him broke.

Ilya maybe only wanted Shane how he wanted him. With dinner on the table for him, chained to the couch while he was out at the bar with his teammates, in bed with him naked while he took phone calls from friends and he tried not to breathe too loudly to be heard. Hidden.

Here, he was always wanted. When he was perfect, when he was imperfect. When he was playing straight or when he was gay. As a young boy or as a man in his thirties who should know better. This place was home. It was that thought that pushed the sentence out of his mouth. “I’m in love with someone” he whispered, his parents heard him. They always did. “He doesn’t want me” Shane finished quietly.

“Oh honey” was all his mother said as she slipped out of the car and waited in the driveway for him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder as they climbed the familiar front steps and she swung the front door open. The smell of home made a touch of the tension in him settle.

Shane didn’t consider himself a self destructive person, now he wondered if maybe he was just good at hiding it. Control and destruction were sometimes two sides of a rigid coin. Shane had a lot of rules for himself. When he was playing hockey he had rules for himself about eating and working out. He liked to keep things neat and clean. He liked jobs and tasks that had firm boundaries so he knew where to color in the lines. Until he didn’t, until that structure was too much structure. Until the lines didn’t suit what his brain wanted. It was impossible to say that he wasn’t self destructive now, he thought of his office in the rink. His degrees framed and hung neatly on the wall perfectly level.

He thought of the hundreds of hours of stress, studying, and sacrifice. The money. Moving around trying to find something worth staying for. Shane quietly, privately self-destructed when it came to Ilya. He let him influence him like a drug. The worst part was that nobody knew except for Shane, and Ilya would never know the extent. Shane wouldn’t tell a soul. He couldn’t call his best friend and ask for his ear. He couldn’t tell his parents, he couldn’t tell this secret because it wasn’t just his, it was Ilya’s too.

His parents didn’t say much, they let him move through the house on auto pilot. His Dad dropped his bags in his bedroom. Shane opened the door and almost had it in him to smile. It was almost a set of his childhood from before he was living in guest bedrooms with billet families, and bouncing from hotel to hotel on the road. A place before dingy shared dorm rooms and rental properties. A place where he was just Shane. Shane in timbits league who slept in his jersey the night before a game because he was so excited. Shane curled up on his Mom’s side sleeping in a sunc hair in the backyard. Shane watching his parents cook together on Sunday afternoon.

Everything was the same, his shelves were dusted and so were the shelves of medals and trophies from tournaments past. Wooden letters spelling his name out still hung on the wall. It was like a museum to his childhood in primary colors.

“Shane” her voice said from behind him. “I’m not going to ask honey, you’ve never liked it when I ask” she shifted her weight so she was leaning against his doorjamb. She was beautiful, even as she was approaching her mid fifties and her hair was more gray these days than black. She was petite but her intensity filled his room. He puffed out a breath from his lips.

“When you want to talk you, don’t overthink it. Just come” she said. “I’m going to sit down for a drink or two I think” she said. Looking him over once more before nodding and turning around and disappearing back into the hallway.

He wanted to reach out, to talk to someone, to be comforted. He followed his mother instead. She looked surprised to see him as she pulled a pair of glasses from the cabinet in the kitchen. She pulled one more for Shane and a bottle of vodka from the freezer. Shane took it from her and he followed her into the living room.

The glasses clanked on the coffee table and his Dad wasted no time pouring. Shane took a gulp and winced as it burned down his throat. He was so lucky, so incredibly lucky to have two parents who loved him and supported him and wanted to help him. It would be like spitting in the face of that to say nothing to them.

“He’s, he isn’t out and never wants to be” Shane heard himself say. He fixed his gaze on the coffee table, some old wooden antique his mother found at a local shop. He traced the uneven top with the tip of his finger.

“I want something more” Shane said.

“You were fine before the game kid” David said quietly, sad eyes pointed at his son. “When did this happen?”.

Shane opened his mouth and closed it, he couldn’t say any more. He wouldn’t do this to him. What David wasn’t understanding was heavy in Yuna’s eyes. She knew, maybe not specifics, but she knew it was a player.

“I’m doing things I said I would never do, I just feel like I’m compromising myself and who I am” he stuttered, “For someone that won’t love me back” Shane finished.

“Things aren’t always neat and tidy” Yuna said and took a small sip of her cup, her eyes fixed on her son.

“I like things neat and tidy” Shane argued weakly.

His parents glanced at each other in amusement, “We know kid. We know you” David told him with a fond smile.

“Neat and tidy is safe, it’s me” Shane said with an empty feeling in his chest. Neat and tidy always made him feel like he was missing something. Something other people had, chaos, spontaneity. Ilya had too much of both. Ilya was messy and Shane was tidy. They should have benefited from the other but Shane only felt burnt by it.

“Love isn’t neat Shane” his Dad told him.

“Maybe that’s why it isn’t working for me” Shane joked but it came out sounding choked.

"Give it some time" Yuna told him with a sad smile. Shane retired to his room when he finished his glass of vodka, too tired to be awake and too thoughtful to sleep.

Shane’s phone glowed in the corner of the room and his feet carried him there before he could help himself. There was one message waiting on the screen for him.

I: Come back please.

He wanted to ignore him, to pretend like it wasn’t there. The cursor blinked in the message box, asking him to fill the space with something that wasn’t bitter or embarrassed or too sad.

S: Taking some time off. Keep up on the workouts.

It was basic, clean, and professional. It showed none of his suffering. He hit send and put the phone face down on his desk and ignored every time it vibrated.

 

*

Three Days After Season Opener
Ottawa

 

Shane scrolled through his cellphone he hadn’t touched in days.

 

Missed call Ilya Rozanov, yesterday 03:30 PM

 

Missed call Ilya Rozanov, yesterday 6:32 PM

 

Missed call Ilya Rozanov 10:39 PM

 

Missed call Ilya Rozanov 12:01 AM

 

He didn’t answer the calls and Ilya didn’t leave voicemails.

 

*
Four Days After Season Opener
Ottawa

 

The phone rang against Shane’s ear as he looked out onto the backyard, the tone repeated twice before someone picked up. He fidgeted nervously.

“Buddy” Hayden’s bright voice called over the phone. It brought the smallest of smiles to his lips.

“Hey” Shane replied, he heard his own voice and he sounded too tired.

“Still in Ottawa?” He asked, some shuffling sound behind him. Shane turned his head to look through the window into the living room where the Raiders game was on the TV and his mother was leaning towards the screen.

“Yea” Shane said simply.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you taking a day off let alone a week. You having fun?” Hayden said to him. No, he wasn’t having fun.

Shane didn’t take days off. He loved work, he loved working. Why would he want time off from it? This wasn’t time off as much as it was forced separation, giving him time to put together a game plan. He’d practiced what he was going to say to him, to ask him.

“Hayd, can I ask you a favor?” Shane asked.

“Please ask me a favor. All you do is shit for me and Jackie and you never ask for anything. I’m begging you to ask me for something” Hayden said, sincerity in his voice. Shane blew a puff of amused air out of his mouth.

“I think I’m going to stay here another week,” Shane said.

“Okay” Hayden said carefully, “I can go check on the house for you if that’s what you were worried about” Hayden offered. “That fucker isn’t still there is he?” Hayden asked. Shane hadn’t even thought about the house or about who may or may not still be in the house.

“No, nothing like that. I uh, I need someone to make sure Rozanov is being monitored” Shane said, doing his best not to stutter over his name. Hayden was quiet on the phone for a second.

“Can you ask me for a different favor?” Hayden said over the phone. ““I really don’t like that guy” Hayden said.

Shane wanted to defend him but he didn’t have the energy.

“I know” Shane relented. “He can do most of the workouts himself, I just need eyes on him for progression. He’s supposed to be back on the ice in four weeks, I can’t push that back but I need to make sure he’s good before I sign off” Shane sighed.

“I’ll do it because it’s you asking. But he’s going to come to me and if he’s going to be a dick, I’m going to be unprofessional back” Hayden said.

“Thanks Hayd” Shane sighed.

“So are we going to talk about it?” Hayden asked him.

“Talk about what?”

“Why you are hiding up in Ottawa for two weeks at the beginning of the season?” Hayden asked.

“No” Shane said simply, “I’m going to text you Rozanov’s number so you can set up times that work for you and I’ll email the workouts to you” Shane said.

“Fine fine” Hayden dismissed, “Let me know when you’re planning on coming home okay? Don’t move to Canada or anything” Hayden said, a vague threat.

The sadness of the past few days had given way to something that felt worse, emptiness.

There was an allure to never going back and to staying in Canada. Not really reinventing himself, but returning to who he was. He could do it, he could email a resignation from his cellphone. He could hire packers to pack his place up, he could never show his face in Boston ever again. He could run away for good, away from all the things he promised and all the things he committed to. But Shane gave his word he’d be there to get Ilya back on the ice. As much as he wanted to leave, he owed them both that.

“I won’t” Shane huffed a laugh.

The call ended and Shane went back inside, taking his spot up on the couch as the camera zoomed in on Marley skating behind the net during a stoppage in play.

*

Four Days Post Season Opener
Boston

 

Unknown Number: This is Hayden with the Sox. I’m covering for Shane. Meet me for treatments and workout tomorrow at the sox facility 0800. I’ll send the address.

 

*

Five Days Post Season Opener
Red Sox Training Facility

 

Hayden met him at the backdoor and held it open for him to walk through. They greeted each other with a nod only. Ilya didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to listen to Shane’s friend tell him what to do and correct him. He wanted Shane’s watchful gaze, he wanted Shane’s competitive streak. Clearly by Hayden’s glare he didn’t particularly want him here either. He led him into their weight room and nodded towards the bike. Ilya climbed on and started his warm up.

“I’m doing this as a favor for Shane, if you fuck with me the favor is done” Hayden said as the pedals cycled.

“Whatever” Ilya replied.

He glanced up at Hayden and wondered if he knew, if he’d talked to Shane. If Shane told him anything. By Hayden’s hard glare it was difficult to tell.

“How is Shane?” the words came from his mouth before he could consider it.

“He’s fine” Hayden said protectively, “He deserves a break. All he does is work and break his back to make you better. Don’t give him any shit” he said.

Ilya wasn’t going to. Hayden was weird and possessive. If he wasn’t married to a woman Ilya wondered if he’d be chasing Shane himself.

“Okay, I get it. He is your property” Ilya said. Hayden grit his teeth and turned away.

 

*
Five Months Post Operation
Nine Days After Season Opener

 

Ilya couldn’t bear to be anywhere lately. He went to the gym, he worked out and ran because physical exercise was supposed to make you feel better. He went to the rink and screamed from the sidelines during practice because it was supposed to make him feel normal. He went to training where Hayden watched him with sharp eyes and the tension could be cut with a dull knife. He went home, to his home.

He stayed at Shane’s place for three nights before he’d heard in passing that Shane was out of work for two weeks. Ilya knew where he wasn’t wanted, he’d always known his whole life. Ilya hardly slept any of the nights in Shane’s place, the sheets on the bed were untucked and wild from them and still smelled like Shane. The house that used to feel so full and warm and like a home he realized was just a structure, no different than his cold lonely apartment. The thing that gave this place life wasn’t here. Ilya had scared him away. He’d wanted to make him feel as scared as Ilya was and it worked. Ilya packed up his things, stripped the sheets and ran a load of laundry. He watched the sheets swirl in the washer, erasing any proof that Ilya had done more to Shane than just hurt him.

He walked through the downstairs ensuring he hadn’t forgotten anything and his eyes landed on the stupid green quilt. The too ugly quilt. His stomach dropped, the ugly blanket Shane was insistent on laying on his lap and legs and always had a weird smile about. Ilya hated it, but the idea of it being here was too much to handle. He wanted to walk away with something, he’d already left so much of himself here he wanted something to show for it. He took the quilt.

He went back to his apartment because it was clear there wasn’t a place in Shane’s for him anymore. It was just an apartment, too empty, left alone for so many months. It was bare, it harbored none of the memories a guest bedroom in a house close to the river had.

Here, he fell into a familiar pattern. Food tasted like nothing, the bathroom was too far away to bother getting up. Sleep did nothing when it came. He showed up to his obligations, he played the role of the fierce captain. He called him, more than what he was sure conveyed his desperation.

He stared in the mirror and saw different men between blinks, Ilya, Alexi, his father.

He was a fucking idiot and it was exactly what he deserved. It wasn’t over though, there was something between them strong enough it scared them both. Shane would be coming home. He’d come back and they would talk, Ilya would apologize. They would fix this.

 

*
Eleven Days After Season Opener
Ottawa

 

“Good word” David nodded along as Shane laid out “vigorous” onto the scrabble board.

“Double word score too” Yuna said as she wrote down his score into the small notebook with a sigh. She hated losing almost as much as Shane did.

“You know” David said as he moved tiles around on his railing, “The property on the other side of the lake at the cottage with that old dock is on the market” he said, eyes flicking up at his son.

“Okay” Shane said, staring blankly at the board.

“Might be a good investment” his Mom suggested. Shane flicked his eyes up to look at them. They both were not so subtly trying to get him to move home.

“Maybe” he said, non-committal like always.

“I’m just saying, maybe go look at it. You always wanted to build a house on the lake. It would be a ten minute drive” his mother said, eyes looking at him over his glasses.

“I don’t visit enough for that to make sense” Shane said.

His parents looked at each other and his mother scooted closer to him, she grabbed one of his shoulders and pulled him back so he was half resting on her shoulder.

“Why don’t you think about coming home? I’m sure there are some good hospitals around who need someone. Maybe check with the Centaurs, maybe they need someone” his mother said, a soft hand rubbing circles on his back.

“I’m not leaving Boston” Shane replied, leaning into his mother’s touch and his eyes falling closed.

Chapter End Notes

This is a bit of a boring chapter but I think we were due for one. It's short and choppy and a little lifeless. The joy and the fun and the life comes from the two of them together. I wanted a chapter to show the emptiness between them when they were away and not talking.

They will be back face to face in the next chapter.

Chapter 16: Mine to Fix

Chapter Notes

Hi friends! Thanks for all the comments and for reading!

I can't help but to dunk on Hayden he's so dummmmbbbb but I love him. I thought it'd be fun to add him in here. I love how it's also universally accepted that everyone loves Jackie and she is the greatest.

My Five and a Half Months Post Operation
Boston

 

Hayden Pike was a simple man. People always said it to him like it was an insult. He didn’t think it was that bad. Simple was easy, simple was never too complex. He liked bologna sandwiches with mayonnaise, he liked playing golf, he loved his wife. There was nothing wrong with simple. Simple was stable. Hayden knew he would never be the smartest guy in the room, or the most passionate. He was probably just above average, but close enough to average it didn’t quite count. He was smart enough, but had to study twice as hard for things to stick in his brain.

The best part of the day was coming home and curling up with Jackie, who was decidedly a better person than him and a better looking person too. For some reason she loved him, and he didn’t care to look into the specifics of why. He did what he could to keep her happy, he got her lilies on the way home from work at least once a week, he took her to dinner on the water, and sat through dinners with her parents even if he’d rather be anywhere else.

He could cook a mean steak and he was going to be a good father when the time came. He threw his socks at the laundry bin and always seemed to miss and piss Jackie off. He was average, okay? Not perfect.

That’s why Hayden got along so well with Shane. Shane was high strung and he excelled at everything he did. He was a ball of energy and talent and focus. While Hayden was the average blonde white guy that came a dime a dozen, Shane was a knockout in every way. Hayden was secure enough in his masculinity to notice that Shane was hot. He was built, he was fucking smart, and talented. Things came easy to him but he worked hard anyway. He was a golden boy and somehow humble. If Hayden was more competitive or knew less about who he was as a man, he would be jealous as fuck of Shane. But he saw the cross his friend carried. The exhaustion on his face at times, the way he froze up in a room of people who were coming towards him like moths to a bright light. While Hayden drifted through life, Shane plotted through it and planned it.

The day Shane started at the Sox and they met, Hayden immediately knew he was different. He was young. Doctors especially in specialties and working with pro athletes were usually older. Shane had none of the swagger the orthopedic bros usually had. He also didn't have an ego that filled up the room. Shane observed, he was respectful.

He approached Hayden while he was taping an ankle and asked to tape one. Hayden remembered blinking. Surgeons had a bad reputation for thinking anything other than dissecting a living being was beneath them. Shane didn’t, Shane sucked the air out of ice bags with his mouth after watching Hayden do it, Shane helped with cupping when Hayden showed him how. Shane was around and part of the day to day operations. He never shared much, he never went out for drinks with the other athletic trainers and never got personal. It wasn’t like he was hiding, it just wasn’t in his nature to share.

Hayden decided after two weeks he was going to be friends with Shane. By force if necessary. It was after a late game that dragged too long and Shane was wrapping up tests on one of their outfielders for a separated shoulder that Hayden finally pushed. Dinner, that was the invitation. Dinner with him and his beautiful at the time girlfriend at their too small apartment outside of the city.

Even before knowing him Hayden could read every thought on Shane's face. He was too expressive for his own good. Hayden saw him weighing out excuses in his head, doing calculations of how long he could put it off. Hayden waited patiently, amused. He waited Shane out, Shane said yes and showed up with a fuck ass expensive bottle of wine he and Jackie googled after he left that cost two hundred dollars.

Hayden googled Shane too. The more he learned the more he made sense.

He learned Shane needed to be pushed, he would never volunteer. If you wanted something personal from him you had to pry. So Hayden spent game days in the dugouts prying, watching Shane scrunch his nose up at spit out sunflower seeds and deflecting questions with short two word answers. He’s pretty sure Jackie won him over first, she just had a way of easily connecting to people Hayden didn't have. Dinner became weekly dinners, drinks, football games. Winning Shane’s attention and trust made Hayden feel not so average.

They were invited to Shane’s house eventually, who nervously explained his compulsions for neatness and cleanliness. They took it in stride. Hayden didn’t know of anyone closer to Shane than he was other than his parents. He studied with Hayden while he was in PT school, he drilled Hayden with questions until he was confident, he let him watch an operation. He didn't have to do any of it, but Shane chose to. That’s just who he was, a giver. He gave and never asked for anything back.

Shane didn’t take breaks.

It was the first thing he thought as he read the message on his cellphone for the thirtieth time since getting it last week. Shane was staying in Ottawa with his parents, he wasn't flying back with the team and it wasn't planned. It was concerning enough that Hayden called Jackie in the middle of her shift.

“Don’t Hayd” Jackie said softly as a chorus of voices pushed through the phone behind her and beeping monitors from the hospital chimed. Jackie never dismissed him or told him it was probably nothing, anything out of the ordinary with Shane meant there was something wrong. Hayden worried, and Jackie worried about his worrying.

Hayden waited and when his phone rang with Shane’s name he answered it. A few words from Shane was all it took for it to be confirmed. The words sounded like they might break off in his mouth. Shane didn't say much but he asked for help, something he’d never done before. It shook Hayden up more than it should have. Shane never asked, he just gave. Hayden threw himself at the opportunity to help, even if it would put him in the same room as Rozanov.

Hayden didn’t like Rozanov. Not from the first moment Shane came to their house months ago all wound up. Shane exploded about the Russian asshole on his team that he couldn’t stand. Who went out of his way to fuck with him. Good natured Shane Hollander complained about him for hours. Then a few months passed, Hayden slid into Shane's house and Rozanov was there. Spread over the couch looking like he belonged there and Shane was visibly nervous. It didn’t make sense. Then it suddenly did over the strangest dinner he'd had outside of his in laws. Glances from Shane that lasted a second longer than they should, his flushed cheeks, the constant verbal sparring between them. Then Shane let him stay at his house. HIS HOUSE. Shane never had anyone stay at his house as a guest, no friends and no family.

Shane liked him, it was obvious. Hayden didn't want Shane to break his own heart. Hayden always wanted Shane to settle down and make their three person group go to four. Hayden wanted Shane to have someone love all of him like he and Jackie loved each other. He wanted to see his best friend in love. Unburdened and maybe a little more wild.

Shane was barking up the wrong tree though. Even if Hayden didn’t follow hockey, it was impossible not to know the exploits of Rozanov. He was straight, he was with lots and lots of women in lots and lots of tabloids years ago. He also had a mean edge and a greasiness about him Hayden didn't like. Hayden tried to stay out of it, he really did try.
Shane was smiles and warm eyes that made you feel like a million dollars and Rozanov was all self indulgent smirks and cutting words that made you feel worthless.

Hayden was thrilled to finally be helping his friend, and decidedly less thrilled to see Rozanov. He'd steeled himself for a really tough week. He anticipated a biting comment immediately, that borderline rude smirk over the dinner table returning. When Rozanov showed for their first training session he was quieter than he anticipated, he didn’t have a smirk on his face or a light in his eyes to ruin Hayden’s day. He looked tired, probably hungover. Maybe it was more than a hangover. Hayden briefly considered maybe the local vagina factory was closed or that Russia stopped making vodka or something. That seemed like something he would mourn.

They didn’t speak much during that training session or during the ones that followed. When someone did speak it was to correct, the insults were rare. Rozanov was not the same person lazily spread on Shane couch with a sardonic smile, he seemed almost tortured. The only times they talked about anything else was Rozanov asking once a session about Shane.

“Will you stop asking me that?” Hayden finally snapped one day. “If he wanted you to know how he was he would tell you himself. He’s probably fine”. Hayden’s own uncertainty bled in to his answer and it seemed like Rozanov recognized something in him and nodded once between squat sets.

“You don’t know the answer” Rozanov said as he appraised Hayden and nodded thoughtfully. “He doesn’t tell you” he finished. It flared something nasty in Hayden, mostly because he was right. He didn’t know what was going on with Shane. “I feel better now, not just me he ignores” Rozanov said under his breath.

“He’s a good guy Shane, you might not know what that means because you’re you” Hayden said. The jab was small but to his center. Rozanov flinched a bit.

“He is good” Rozanov agreed quietly. Hayden glanced over to him and searched his face.

Hayden turned his back away from him. He yanked his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Shane. Just checking in, not for any specific reason. His phone buzzed with a nothing response thirty minutes later. He was worried about Shane, and couldn’t help feeling like he was missing something. Hayden wouldn’t give up though, whatever Shane was dealing with he’d be there for him and so would Jackie.

 

*
Two Weeks Post Ottawa Game
Boston

 

It occurred to Ilya he really didn’t have anyone to talk to. The only option was his therapist. Embarrassment hollowed out a section in his chest, he only had someone to talk to because they were on his payroll. He didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to have to name why he was walking around with his tail between his legs. He didn’t want to admit to someone else he was a worthless shit who ruined everything he touched.

Usually the thing in his ear calling him useless was background sound, white noise. Lately it was screaming, yelling, grating on him until brain particles were shredded like they were passed through a cheese grater.

Ilya stood in the locker room by the mirror and spent more time looking at himself than he ever had. He knew logically he was good looking. People told him every chance, women, men, sponsors, everyone. He knew his body was nice, he worked for it. Even his voice was something people loved, they loved the mystery and exoticism of a Russian accent and a deep voice. He’d used all three to get what he wanted at various points of his life. They were superficial, it was part of the act.

Ilya looked at himself again and saw that the blue eyes there were thousands of social media posts and comments about were empty. His lips didn’t have smile lines next to them, his soul was dull and dark. He was an empty vessel, occasionally filled with whatever sin possessed him until it burnt out. He wondered briefly if Shane missed his face, his eyes, anything about him.

Ilya thought for too many hours of Shane’s eyes slightly squinted in pleasure and dark and deep and pleading for something Ilya couldn’t give without giving all of himself. What did Shane see in him when he looked at him? Was he a broken man who couldn’t stop pushing away help? Did he see that he was self destructing and was tearing parts of his body off before anyone else? Could he read through his defensiveness and see that he was petrified of wanting?

Ilya was sure he didn’t deserve to know the answer. Maybe Shane saw him like a fun house mirror. A normal human distorted and reflected on the next person before it could be felt and had.

He broke things on a regular basis. Salary caps. Records. People. What he didn’t really do was fix things. So when he walked into the training room after weeks of hearing nothing from him, from not seeing him, but knowing he was back- Ilya paused at the door. He wasn’t sure what Shane wanted. Ilya could never have Shane the way he wanted him and it wasn’t fair to either of them to continue on with this. There were no answers to his calls, he stopped calling after the third day of quiet. He was just a deep volcanic crater that was dug out in the middle.

The anticipation of this was driving him crazy all week, like a blistered heel rubbing against the inside of a shoe. He just wanted to be whole. He just wanted to live a day feeling like he deserved to do it. He wanted to be in love, get married, have children and create a boring stable life that he always wanted. He was resigned to the fact that he was broken, and because he was broken those things were never meant for him. He would dedicate his life to some other cause, never finding the joy he yearned for and understanding he would never travel more than a few steps on his pursuit of undeserved happiness. He was a hard person to love.

His feet came to a stop just outside the training room, his body stiffened like the door was a police blockade or the front line of a war zone. Ilya’s blown out receptors could hardly recognize emotional danger from physical danger anymore. It was just a door, and behind it he knew exactly what was there. His team, a few trainers, that strange rubber smell, and Shane.

“Okay” he told himself quietly and sucked in a breath, a moment of bravery, just one. He pushed the door open.

He placed him quickly, he could feel him from the door. Shane was there looking at his computer and squinting at a monitor in the corner.

He climbed onto a table and waited. He didn’t have to wait long, Shane looked up from his computer at him for a moment before his eyes settled back on the screen. The look said too many things. Ilya’s reply came through his eyes, never his mouth- do you feel this too?

The mask he wore for too many years settled over his face, a cocky grin to go with his don’t give a fuck attitude. Surely his eyes would betray him, surely Shane could see. Shane went to his feet and crossed the room, passing his teammates and grabbing a heat pack on his way to him. He laid it on his leg gently and crossed his arms. Ilya took in his face, something he’d been without for weeks. The last he’d seen him there was hurt filling his eyes. Ilya put it there. Now there was no hurt, just some sort of resignation.

“How has it been?” Shane asked, serious and in work mode. It was a question phrased poorly enough he could reply honestly, it has been horrible. But Shane wasn’t asking about that, he was asking about his knee.

“Fine” Ilya replied. He was sure Hayden couldn’t wait to call Shane and talk about how much he sucked.

“How is it feeling with the additional loading?” Shane asked, precise eyes running over his leg.

“Fine” Ilya replied.

Shane seemed rather unaffected, but then again Ilya always thought he was. He always was so controlled with him until he wasn’t. Until he was telling him he wanted more in a too cold hotel room in Ottawa. Shane wore his own mask before that night in his hotel room, it's not like he was clear about how he felt about him. Ilya wasn't eased in.

“And workouts have been..” Shane asked, “Fine, I’m guessing” he finished with a raised eyebrow. Ilya tried not to stare at him, or the soft purple skin under his eyes that seemed to say he wasn't sleeping either.

Ilya pressed his lips together. He knew his expression was neutral, but his eyes were begging. Shane didn’t seem to pick up on it, or worse he didn’t care.

“Right, I’ll be back in a few and then I want to do some testing” he said and then went back to his post. In the months past, Shane would pull up his chair and his eyes would flicker around his face as they bickered. But not now. Ilya watched him for a few moments. Just as the team was filing out of the training room to head towards practice Shane pulled the pad off of him and told him to head to the weight room to warm up. Shane entered a few minutes later when Ilya was already sweating a bit, the door slammed behind him and it was just the two of them there.

They were so distant.

“Shane” Ilya said before he could think better of it. Shane’s spine stiffened, and he glanced up at him quickly.

“We are at work” he said tiredly, the message clear. “If you want to talk we won't do it at work” he said simply. He placed the ball in Ilya's court. “Run through what you worked with Hayden on” he said, leaning back against the wall with a notebook in his hand. It was fair, Shane went out onto a shaky limb and got the wind knocked out of him. It was up to Ilya to fix it or not.

So he did, he balanced on the stupid ball on the ground, he did pistol squats, he shuffled and jumped, and pivoted and cut all with his watchful eyes on him. He pretended like he gave a shit, maybe at least in this small way he could make Shane happy and proud of him.

Shane gave him notes, corrections, quick and succinct like he didn’t want to say one more word than totally necessary. Ilya pretended to focus, he pretended to care about his dumb fucking knee and the workouts but he didn’t. He cared about this, about fixing it, or maybe destroying it so there was nothing left and no lingering hope. Time away from Shane did nothing to show him a better path forward, it did nothing to help him decide to try to be better or to continue pushing him away.

“The knee looks good” Shane said when Ilya was done. “Stretch and ice and we’re done for the day, add a run in on your own this evening” Shane said clinically as he reset the conditioning room. “I’m heading to the ice” he told him.

Ilya flopped to the floor against the mirrored wall, Shane slid out of the room quickly. That’s what this was going to be then, carefully ignored and something to be tiptoed around. Whatever grace and trust he’d earned with Shane he’d lost. He knew the moment he lost it too. The look on his face when he called him a coward. It was like he’d pressed his body weight into a fresh bruise.

Ilya was the coward, he was the one hiding. Ilya watched practice with unblinking eyes. He saw colors blurring by and movements but hardly cared. He waited until practice was done, sat on his stall in the locker room until it was empty and made his way to Shane’s office.

It was empty. It was disturbed though, not with the usual neatness Shane kept it in. Some of his frames were off of the wall and leaning flipped around so only the backing was visible. Ilya lifted one, it was Shane’s medical degree. They were flipped against the wall, hiding like it was a wedding photo on a cheating spouse’s bedside table. Ilya hung them back up, balanced them on the small nail on the wall until they were level and even.

Ilya went to the parking lot and Shane’s car was gone.

*

Six Days Later
Boston

 

Shane promised himself to keep it together in public and fall apart in private. And he was doing just that. Shane couldn’t sleep at home. It was driving him crazy. He couldn’t stop thinking, and he couldn’t fall asleep. It was like living in a fucking haunted house except it wasn’t just the house. Ilya was all over Boston now.

Ilya stained his favorite places. His running route, the park Shane liked to walk to on the water, his favorite takeout place. Ilya’s face was outside of the garden, blown up large with a better than it all expression in his jersey. Shane couldn’t bear to be in his own living room on a couch that had an indent from where he sat. The guest bedroom door stayed closed.

He was withering away by the third night back with no sleep. He felt sick, he looked worse, and he was tired. Shane was exhausting himself at work, playing neutral, playing professional. Not staying a minute more than needed. Trying to heal him without a smile or while looking at him too long.

Shane wasn’t angry with him, he was disappointed with himself.

He wasn’t trying to punish Ilya who objectively did nothing wrong but hurt his feelings, Ilya wasn't the keeper of his feelings. Shane asked for more and Ilya told him it would never happen. He said it harshly, and to hurt Shane but he’d moved on from that. Ilya seemed on board with this quiet departure of Shane, he didn’t push. It was just accepted that things were different for a short time between them and now they were different again in a more distant way. The whole two days of something else shared between them in private was nothing but temporary insanity. The problem was, it wasn’t just two days of stupidity. It was months of shared dinners, shared spaces, talking. Months were harder to write off than a few bad choices were.

He called his parents more than he ever had before, he talked to them about nothing and listened about their days. He let his Mom complain about how messy Montreal’s team was. He let his Dad explain to him how the federal reserve system in Canada worked. Anything to not be alone with his thoughts and memories. Shane was tired, and he didn’t want to be here. He considered renting a hotel room, packing a bag like he was meeting someone for an affair in the middle of the night. On the third night of no sleep, Shane was tired enough to not care about the consequences. He dialed the phone.

“Shane” Hayden’s voice came through the phone.

“Can I ask for another favor?” Shane’s voice was stable but had an edge of hysteria that there was no way Hayden didn’t catch.

“Of course” Hayden said simply, he didn’t think about giving kindness away. He just did it.

“Do you think I can stay with you a few days? Or is that too much?” Shane asked him, he was nervous and it showed in the tremor of his voice.

There was a small pause. “What’s wrong with the house?” Hayden asked him.

“I just, I can’t be there right now” Shane said, an answer that asked for more questions than answers.

“Okay” Hayden said simply, “Come over whenever, Jackie’s working until late but I’m home” Hayden said. Shane packed a bag and left.

Shane stayed more than a few days, he stayed a week.

He walked around the issue, ignored the curious glances Hayden sent him and the sympathetic ones from Jackie. He slept in the guest room, he stayed out of their hair. He cooked dinner and tried to contribute as if it would make his childishness better. He felt better being around people with distractions. It was nice going back to a place with chatter. Shane was looking for distraction, those distractions stopped at night. He slept no better at Hayden and Jackie’s than at his own house. They both looked at him a lot, watching him carefully but neither of them saying what he knew they wanted to.

On Saturday morning, Hayden left for an away game and kissed Jackie gently and gave Shane a wave. Hayden wasn’t hiding the concern on his face anymore. When the door closed Jackie turned to him.

“Want to go for a walk Shane?” she asked, eyes warm and a small smile on her face.

“Yeah” he replied. They walked around the quiet suburban neighborhood just outside of the city.

“Hayden’s really worried about you, I am too Shane” she said simply, turning her head towards him. Her blonde hair was down around her shoulders and her eyes held a sympathetic sheen. It’s what everyone who knew him was saying.

 

We’re worried about you.

What’s wrong?

Talk to us.

 

“I know” Shane replied, eyes squinting into the sun.

 

“Hayden doesn’t see things all the time, he’s a big picture kind of guy” Jackie said as they walked. “He thinks on the surface a little too much” she continued. Shane let out a quiet huff of air.

“I’m not even sure what he thinks is up with you, he’s given me about thirty theories” she chuckled fondly.

“Lets hear them” Shane said, he was going for humor but it sounded disconnected.

“He thought it was about hockey, then he thought maybe something was up with your parents. I think his latest one is that you clogged the toilets in your house and are too embarrassed to call a plumber” Jackie said. Shane chuckled, a real one. It felt like gravel coming out of his chest.

“He’s wrong” Shane replied, looking over at his friend. Jackie nodded with a small smile on her lips.

“I know” she said, reaching out and grabbing Shane’s hand and threading her fingers through his. “I know you’re Hayden’s friend, but I think of you like you’re mine” she said as she swung their intertwined hands between them.

“I am your friend Jackie” Shane replied, his nose burned in the way that usually proceeded tears.

“Good” she smiled brightly up at him. “I like to think I know you Shane. I know I don’t know all of you but enough” Jackie said quietly. “You were really happy the past few months, happier than I’ve seen you ever. That usually means something” she said.

Shane didn’t answer, his feet shuffled against the pavement and his sneakers kicked up bits of gravel.

“And I thought about that time you came over and we’re talking about that guy from your team. You were so flushed and mad” Jackie laughed lightly. “Then Hayden comes home a while later and he’s saying that guy is staying with you, the one you hated” she said, trailing off. Jackie had him figured out. “Then you take a few weeks off, and Hayden says this guy is all quiet with him which sounds like it’s abnormal” Jackie prompted. Shane’s chest filled with air.

“Am I wrong? I’ll stop if I am” Jackie offered kindly, squeezing Shane’s hand and tugging it so he had to look at her.

“Jackie” he said, and left it in the air. Denying it would be lying.

“I would never say a word Shane, not even to Hayden. To nobody. But you seem heartbroken” she insisted, her other hand resting on their joined hand and rubbing his skin. Her eyes were wide and earnest.

“I was stupid. It ended as quickly as it started” Shane shook his head. He squeezed Jackie’s hand back. “I risked my license Jack” he said. Jackie knew what it meant, she knew the repercussions.

She nodded slowly and then pulled his hand so they were walking.

“I’m not going to tell anyone Shane, we all break rules” she said with kindness.

“Not me, I’m supposed to be better than that” Shane shook his head.

“Better than what? Human?” she asked with a small laugh. “He has to be a pretty special guy to get your attention like this,” Jackie said.

He was. Ilya was deep. He was complex. He wanted to be good so badly, he wanted to be better than his circumstances but didn’t know how to be. He was strong and decisive until it was about what he wanted. He had a hard exterior, but his touch was kind. He made Shane feel seen in a way nobody cared to see him before.

“Yea” Shane said, “He is”.

“So what now, how are you getting him back?” Jackie asked, fingers squeezing his.

“It’s not like that, I, put it out there that I wanted more in Ottawa and he said no” Shane replied. “He has a lot of reasons to say no, good ones” Shane said. He could ruin his career and be sent back to Russia where god knows what could happen to him.

“You believe him? That he doesn't want you” She asked evenly.

“I believe what people tell me, there is no reason to lie” Shane told her simply. There was no reason to lie. She shrugged. “It’s torture, he’s everywhere in my house, all the places I like. Everywhere. I can’t get away from it” he said, eyes filling with wetness. "It's why I'm here, not sleeping in your guest room instead of not sleeping at home". A few seconds of quiet sat between them.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Finish what I started, get him ready to play and then I don’t know” Shane said honestly. “Hope it gets better along the way, hope that we can coexist” He mumbled.

There was no coexisting, Ilya had years left on his contract and he was Boston’s pride and joy. This wasn’t a summer camp fling that he could sleep away come fall, this was settled into him. Shane would think about him every day, he’d compare other sets of blue eyes to his. He’d think about how his body turned to fire under his touch. He’d think about the teenage boy outside of a too cold arena looking him up and down with a thick accent and thicker judgement on his face. There would never be someone with so much shared history.

But being in love didn’t mean you felt loved back, just that you had it to give if the person you loved would take it.

“Give yourself some grace okay?” Jackie insisted.

“Okay” Shane mouthed more than said the words out loud.

“Stay with us as long as you want” she told him.

No, he needed to face this. Face all of it. He needed to bite his lip and bear all of it.

“I’m going home tonight. I need to figure out how to live through this without running” Shane said, wiping an errant tear from below his eyes. Jackie nodded, her hand dropping his and her palm rubbing his shoulder gently.

“Thank you” he told her.

She nodded again with a small smile.

*

 

He didn’t quite believe in religion. People turned to religion in times of sickness, war, and inexplicable personal struggle. It gave people a higher power to hope to, to excuse their misfortune. Someone to beg for mercy and grace. They hoped that something existed for them sweeter than a life of suffering when their time ended. His mother did it. She went to Church and she sang all of the somber songs. She tithed, she lit candles, and her lips moved quietly in prayer. It wasn’t enough, it didn’t give her solace. It gave him her necklace and a headstone to visit.

He really didn't believe in religion. Maybe that was a clue of just how desperate he was to be whole again that he was in a church on Sunday morning. He gripped his necklace pendant and settled into a hard wooden pew in the back of the building near the exit. The church smelled like a ghost of smoke and incense. He felt like a child here again, only his mother’s hand wasn’t holding his. He was alone, he didn't feel her or any spirit. Holy or otherwise. A woman one row ahead of him was slurring a Russian prayer quietly. He let his eyes trace the heavy beams overhead, the overlapping antique wood that held the vaulted ceiling with a fragile skeleton. His eyes lingered over the deep red fabrics and the doves in the stained glass windows. There was probably nothing here for him. He waited for God to show up in the thin pages of the bible stuck in the pocket of the pew, or to feel him drain away the suffering. He waited for a whisper of how to fix himself. It didn’t come. Somewhere forty five minutes into the Russian words echoing from the alter, Ilya said a quiet apology to his mother and left the way he came in.

He didn’t believe in a runner’s high either. But maybe, maybe it would work. Maybe having a routine or a ritual could help. It was worth testing. He laced his shoes, he stretched, he tried to keep his steps even. He ran, double the distance he usually did. He waited for the lactic acid in his legs to stop building, for his calves to stop protesting, for his mind to quiet and for some euphoria to settle over his body. There was no euphoria, no break through, just pain. Just his mind filled with what he was running from and no reprieve at all. His shoes pounded the pavement and he felt just as alone with nowhere to go.

He didn’t believe Svetlana would answer the phone. She was busy, they’d fallen out of regular communication. He didn’t know where she was in the world. Her voicemail was full. He called anyway and felt a sinking feeling when the call went unanswered.

He didn’t believe therapy would fix him. It might just give him a better vocabulary to describe how fucked up he is. He’d gone several times, mostly because he liked the way Shane smiled softly when he said he was going, and the car rides there with him. He wouldn’t find an answer to his problem on a couch too many other messed up people sat on. He had to find it, he had to sort his way through this.

He could only really depend on himself. He had Shane for a moment in time but he was gone now and the only one to blame was himself.

Chapter End Notes

Shane has his people and support and doesn't know what to do with it, Ilya has nobody because he won't let himself. My poor sweet baby Ilya who can’t get out of his own way. Sweet Shane who was burned and doesn’t want to get burned again :(

 

More angst ahead, we do not build up over 14 chapters, break, and then fix it in 2! This takes time...

Chapter 17: Liar Told You That

Chapter Notes

I've been on my reading grind, people on this site are so talented! Drop a niche rec for me, I've already read all the big hitters.

Plz enjoy (or don't ig)

Six Months Post Surgery
Boston

 

Shane blinked hard as the lights adjusted, strobbing until the lighting guy saw something he liked. The rink behind him was dark like what behind him was almost irrelevant. He was so tired, he couldn’t remember the last time he was this tired for this long. Getting up every day was a chore, going to work wasn’t fun anymore. He couldn’t shut his god damned brain off.

“Say your name” a voice asked.

“Shane Hollander” he answered the question, and spelled his name as they directed him to. He blinked at the large camera parked a few feet in front of him, the red recording light was steady and mocking.

Shane made an effort to sit up straight and not slouch like he so badly wanted to. He felt like nothing lately. He felt like a product. Like his skin was a cheap pop up tent stretched too tight over a thin metal skeleton. He was sitting up straight. He was going to smile, he was going to give the answers they expected. He was going to be good, predictable, professional. All the things he was known for but wasn’t really.

Shane didn’t miss this. Makeup on his face, lights glowing around him. He had his mask on and he blinked at the camera lens in front of him, he turned to his right and looked at the other camera. He hoped the mask covered all of his angles. He felt like the world’s greatest liar. He was sitting on a stool set up at center ice on a small square of carpet. He made sure his collared Raiders shirt was tucked into his pants neatly and rested his hands on his thighs. Shane was dangerously close to checking out. If there was a time to be asked a million questions about Ilya Rozanov, it definitely wasn’t now. Not when there was a fault line between them. He was here somewhere, in the building and inaccessible to Shane. He fidgeted.

“So Shane, we’re just going to go through the questions one by one. Repeat the question back to us in your answer” the director Jake told him from behind a monitor that threw unflattering shadows under his chin as he crouched over it.

“Okay” he responded, clearing his throat.

“When did you start playing hockey?” the question was asked from behind the camera.

“When I was six years old” Shane answered, voice a little too uncertain for an answer that was simple. A throat cleared behind the camera. His fingers gripped the leg seam of his trouser.

“Can you maybe expand on that, two or three sentences?” the voice called back.

Shane felt rather dumb, he cleared his throat. Repeat the question, give an answer people want to hear. Perform. Like you used to. Perform because Ilya answered an email on his behalf months ago saying he would perform back when there were smiles that didn’t need to be measured. Ilya wanted Shane to perform with him then. But Shane was here alone now, about to answer questions about a man who wanted nothing to do with him. A man’s eyes that regarded him like he was a mechanic cataloging a totaled car.

Shane sucked in a breath. Finish what you started, he thought. It had become some kind of mantra for Shane lately. Behind every door where they stood in a quiet room with nothing but foot falls, heavy breathing, and small corrections in fitness and form. Every time Shane’s mouth opened wanting to end this and apologize, or demand an apology. Every single time he wanted to pack a bag and not come back to Boston. One more day, finish what you started. He pushed a breath through his nose. 

“I started playing hockey when I was around six years old. Growing up in Ottawa you didn’t play on the playground, you found a place to play hockey. I loved it” Shane explained, hoping it was what they were looking for.

“When did you first see Rozanov play?” the next question was thrown his way without feedback. He knew exactly when he did. 

They were fourteen, old enough to turn heads but not old enough to matter yet. Ilya Rozanov mattered to Shane though.

His name was coming up often, too often. Development coaches mentioned him at camps. National teams talked, Shane listened.  He wanted to see his competition. He watched as many games as he could find online. His parents wouldn’t let him use the family computer, not when Ilya’s games were posted on some Russian website that made the family computer hot to the touch and sound like an airplane taking off. So Shane rode his bike to the library. He went to the bank of computers and sat between senior citizens signing into their yahoo accounts as he watched Ilya’s games. He watched his figure skating on the ice with a score graphic on the bottom of the screen with unfamiliar lettering. He listened to strange Russian broadcasts and he heard his name, he saw the goals he scored and the way he moved like a shark in shallow waters.

He didn’t stop watching as they got older. He kept going. New games, new age divisions, new tournaments. Shane went through five pairs of skates before he was in the same postal code as Ilya and watching him in a rink instead of on a screen. He almost understood some of the Russian game announcers words years later. Even if his brain couldn’t understand what they were saying it was like his body did. He understood the tone of their voices, the rise and fall, the way Ilya Rozanov’s name rolled out of their mouths like a threat and a trophy.

It’s why Shane forced himself to suck in a frozen breath outside of an old hockey rink when they first met, despite his hand shaking in his pocket. Ilya was like a friend he rooted for, a friend who hadn’t judged him yet, someone who didn’t ask anything of him but made him better over the years. Even if he just existed in the dimly lit library with stained carpet and a creaky chair. A quiet constant for an anxious, perfectionist, gay, Asian kid who couldn’t relate to much else. Shane blinked, he couldn’t tell them that. He’d never tell anyone that.

“I became aware of Rozanov long before we ever shared the ice. It was hard not to be aware of him. We were playing the same position, he was playing at a high level and it was clear he would be playing professionally. I watched hours of his game tape before ever playing him” Shane responded.

“What did you think of him when you met?” the voice asked.

Shane hesitated, there were a lot of things he thought when they’d met, eyes locking, just teenage boys carrying so many other people’s expectations with them. He thought of how pale his skin was, how his lips curved around a cigarette. How his eyes held anger, chaos, and mirth all at once. He was a three dimensional person that had sharp angles and features, and attention that followed Shane’s movements like eyes in a painting. He thought about how Ilya had facets like a precious stone and Shane was flat and dull like a skipping rock.

Now knowing what he knew, Ilya was just a boy with no family, built by vitriol but made for affection. He was stunted by his father and brother, aching to be cared for but not knowing how. Maybe if Shane knew him better then, if he tried more, Ilya would be living a happier life today. Shane thought of that boy, only seventeen and smoking alone outside and so guarded. Although so much changed, that hadn't. Ilya seemed to be waiting somewhere too often watching Shane approach and retreat.

They were rivals, draft picks, strangers, friends and then something else entirely. Now they were two coworkers passing in the halls of the rink with diverted gazes and only memory flickering between them. Walls were built up, and collapsed and Shane was stuck under the rubble. 

Shane's throat was too tight, his eyes were a bit hot. This was stupid. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t talk about him like it was all okay, like this was all nothing. Shane used up all his restraint trying not to knock on his apartment door, trying not to call him, trying not to chase him down. And now this fucking clown show. It was too much. He opened his mouth and it was too dry, he sucked in air. His throat was tight, panic settled into the base of his spine and his knees felt a rush of adrenaline like he was about to be in a fight. He knew this feeling too well.

“Can I uh, have a minute. Uh bathroom?” the words came tumbling from his mouth and he was already standing.The stool stuttered behind him as yanked off the microphone pack and headed off the ice into the small evaluation room just inside the tunnel. He yanked the door shut behind him. He sucked air in and out, he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling wetness in his eyes and tightness in his chest. He dropped to the floor and put his head between his knees. Shane was no stranger to panic attacks, he’d thought he’d outgrown them. But they were coming again and regular like they were after he was injured. It was exhausting, it wiped him out. It brought him right back to all those other times he felt helpless. That’s when they came, when Shane lost control and couldn’t get it back. He sat on the cool concrete until his ass was cold and his muscles were sore from holding so much tension.

It might have been minutes, it could have been a half hour for all he knew. He didn’t try to stand until he’d counted his pulse and he was within normal range. He wiped his face, his eyes. He didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to be fucking filmed. He didn’t want any more of his grief memorialized for other people’s consumption. But he’d agreed to this. He returned to the ice, and ignored the glances from the crew. He was drained, he just wanted to go home to Canada and his mother's gentle hands.

“Sorry, ate something bad” Shane said under his breath as the audio guy came back and fixed his microphone pack. Then it was like he never left. He was asked the question again. This time he gave an answer. Shane knew how to give people what they wanted.

“When we first met, I thought that he was incredibly arrogant and unfortunately extremely talented” Shane replied simply. “We had very different styles of play, but I admired him,” he continued. He thought of the cautious tilt of Ilya’s mouth. The way he leaned back against the outside of the rink, the picture of someone who knew themselves and was comfortable in their own skin.

“Did you consider him a rival?” the next question came.

No. He was a figment, a thing on a screen that came alive in front of him. An enigma, a total opposite with the same DNA as him.

“I considered him a rival just as much as anyone else I played against. He was a competitor, someone who challenged me. I wanted to play better when I played against Rozanov, I wanted to skate faster than him, score more. He seems to bring out the best in people or the worst. I think he brought out the best competitor in me. It was never personal” Shane said evenly, another lie.

Everything with Ilya was personal.

“Were you disappointed with the draft results?” the voice asked. Shane wanted to snort and ask the guy what the fuck he thought, he didn’t, he remained composed.

“Of course I was disappointed with the draft results. We’d only played against each other a few times, but being in the same draft class, the same position, the comparisons were endless. I was proud to be a pick in the draft at all, but sure I would have slept easier that night being drafted before him” Shane explained. Maybe if he did he wouldn’t have gone down to that gym, he wouldn’t have sprinted on the treadmill next to him, he wouldn’t have watched Ilya’s chest rising and falling and felt something. He maybe wouldn’t have ever been in Montreal.

“Tell us about Metros training camp and your injury” it was a question he knew was coming. Shane cleared his throat.

“The day I signed my contract with Montreal was the day I was injured” he replied simply. A few beats of dissatisfied silence sat between them.

“Right, can you go into what happened with the injury” he was asked. Shane felt his teeth grind a bit and he wiped his hands on his pant leg.

“The day I signed my contract with Montreal was when I was injured in training camp, only a few hours later. We were scrimmaging, and the puck went wide behind the net and I was chasing it down when I got hit from behind and into the boards. I don’t remember much after the hit” Shane said, trailing off. The feeling of cold scissors against his skin as his clothing was sheared off, the loud sound of velcro being removed, the wail of siren in an ambulance.

“Then what happened?”

“The next thing I remember, I’m waking up in the hospital with my parents and I couldn’t move. My Mom was crying and told me the Metros released me, we learned about it from social media. I hadn’t talked to a doctor yet and didn’t even know what happened to me, my family didn’t know the extent of my injuries but my team did. I was destroyed” Shane said, keeping his voice even.

“And what happened, injury wise?”. He was split in half, his spirit was broken, his mind lost the only place it could be quiet. 

“I fractured my back in four places, and sustained a traumatic brain injury. I was told no matter how strong I got, or how well I recovered, that if I played hockey again any hit could leave me paralyzed or kill me” Shane said.

“How did it make you feel?” the question came immediately.

“I was destroyed afterwards. I was angry, and in denial for a long time. It wasn’t just a sport to me, hockey was my identity. My family made a lot of sacrifices so I could play. It was everything we’d worked for and loved, and it was gone in an instant. No matter how good I was or how hard I worked to come back, the Doctors always had the same answer. So I moved on, I had to.” Shane said simply.

“Do you blame Kenneth Tepier for your injury?” a voice asked. People always wanted to blame someone, to make it a bigger story than it was. 

“I don’t blame anyone for my injury, hockey is a contact sport. You lose teeth, you break bones, everyone gets their bell rung. The physicality is what makes the game great. I took a tough hit and I paid the price for playing the game I love, but I lived and that’s what matters” Shane said simply.

“What made you decide to go into medicine?”. It was a soft ball he knew was coming.

“I had a few doctors I worked with between surgeries and getting too many second opinions. One of them was a former big ten college hockey player. I didn’t have to explain to him how I was feeling, or the desperation to get back onto the ice. He understood me, he was honest with me. After talking to him is when I stopped seeking more medical opinions. I’ve spent my life in this sport and around elite athletes. If I couldn’t come back to the thing I loved, I wanted to be able to help others have a fighting chance” Shane said simply.

He wanted to be good, to be trusted, to be the grease that made the machine run smoother. He was supposed to be a tool, he wasn’t supposed to get involved like he had. He answered more questions, he gave variety. He gave weak smiles when he could.

“Okay, those were good thanks. I think we’re going to do a change of location to your office, and if you can change out your shirt for another option for those that’d be great” Shane was directed.

“Shane, tell us about getting the job with Boston”.

“I was really fortunate to work for the Boston Red Sox for a season. About a year into working with the Sox, my friend mentioned there was an opening with the Raiders and I applied” Shane said simply.

“Did you have any concerns about coming back to Hockey?”

“I didn’t have concerns about coming back to hockey. I still love the sport. I watched Boston win all of their cups over the years. I jumped at the opportunity to work with such a well established program” Shane said.

“How was your reception? Were you concerned about being known or your old rivalry with Rozanov?”, no matter how many times he explained there was no rivalry it always came back. 

“The Boston staff was very welcoming, the players as well. By the time I was coming in, it was over twelve years since I left the game. I thought whoever may have known me would have forgotten about me, Rozanov included” Shane said honestly. But he hadn’t. Neither of them forgot. Shane almost wished they had.

“Other players have mentioned you and Rozanov have a unique relationship” the director suggested.

Shane hoped to god he wasn’t flushing, he imagined Ilya would have made a crass joke about how they liked sucking each other’s dicks. Shane couldn’t help the chuckle that came out. He didn't know what the players saw or knew, if they'd been too obvious. 

“Rozanov has his own brand of humor, it’s something you can get offended by or you adjust to it and give it back to him. He thrives off being challenged, that became a tactical consideration during his training and rehabilitation plan. It guides how we interact and how I have worked with him”, Shane explained. It used to guide him. The only thing guiding him now was duty and fear of being split into more parts.

“What were you thinking when you saw him go down on the ice? Did it have any parallels to your own injury”

“In medicine, sometimes you guess what’s going on inside the body and sometimes you see the injury and know. Ilya’s injury was clear as day. I wasn’t thinking about anything other than getting him the care he needed at the time and getting him protected” Shane said simply.

“We heard something about a disagreement with staff after the game when he injured himself” Jake asked.

“I’m not answering that” Shane dismissed.

“Okay, what was the extent of Rozanov’s injuries”

“He tore his ACL, MCL, and meniscus” Shane replied.

“How has rehabilitation been?”

“It’s a long process and it requires physical and mental toughness. He was immobile and had to work up to putting weight on his leg, and walking, and bending his leg before he could run. Rozanov is handling it like the veteran player he is” Shane replied.

“What is it like working with him?”

“Working with Rozanov is challenging at times, elite athletes are at that level because they have a drive in them to be great. The early steps of rehabilitation can feel below someone of that caliber. The best way to keep him engaged was with competition. My legs have been a lot stronger while I’ve worked with him because he responded well to a challenge. I became a better Doctor because of him” Shane said. It was honest, he became better in many ways and worse in many others.

“How would you consider your relationship?”

“I’m sorry?” Shane asked.

“How would you classify it?”

“I’ve been working with or around Ilya in a professional capacity for a while. I think it depends on the day if we’re friendly or not” Shane said simply.

“How would you describe who he is?”

“As easy as he may be for some to hate, I think he is an equally easy person to like” Shane said, and hoped he didn’t sound like a completely love sick fool. 

“Do you have any doubts he’ll be able to recover or get back to being the player he was pre-injury”

“I think Iya Rozanov will have as long of a career in hockey as he wants, this is a temporary setback. The league should be worried about his return, I know I would be” Shane said. He smiled until the lights shut off, until the microphone was removed and until his office door was closed behind  him. He sat perched on his chair feeling cold and gutted like a dead fish in a supermarket ice tray on display.

The following days stretch into weeks, Shane has panic attacks all over the city. His body and his mind are rebelling. He leaves practice. He pulls his car over on the highway. Panic waits for nobody and doesn’t wait for an opportune time. His chest heaves and his throat constricts. Every day in the mirrored workout room there are too many Ilya’s everywhere he looks, he’s always on the brink of apologizing or breaking in parts completely.

Shane finds another thing to ruminate about, another reason to hate himself and criticize how he let this happen. His sadness was moved to the back burner, still there and bubbling. But it was the guilt that was boiling now. It was spitting hot at him and stinging his skin and making him flinch. Shane created a power imbalance. Shane saw it every single day as he gave Ilya direction, told him more, harder, again. Ilya listened, he had to listen. Shane was overseeing his recovery. There was something wrong with him, he was sick.

Shane had the power. He had access to Ilya’s medical records. He’d cut his body open while he was unconscious on a table to fix him. He’d brought him into his home when he was immobile.

Shane’s hurt was now guilt, guilt for taking what should have been a safe relationship and turning it into something sinister. He kissed his patient, he had sex with his patient. He pushed Ilya emotionally in an Ottawa hotel room when neither of them were ready to talk about what Shane let happen. He’d backed Rozanov into a corner, told him what he wanted, and when he didn’t get the answer he wanted Shane iced him out and ran. Shane was immature, he was selfish, he was protecting himself and ignoring the person he was supposed to protect.

He felt sick, like he was a predator, like he was evil. Like all the horrible things people called gay men.

He thought about it all weekend, stomach turning like he was on a boat rocking over tall waves. He thought about it most practices and training sessions, he thought about it as he stared at Rozanov’s knee as he squatted and lunged. They barely talked, they barely acknowledged the other. There was no way this was good for Ilya, Shane needed to step back for good. It didn’t matter if his work was unfinished.

Today, Shane left the rink as quickly as he usually did but hesitated at the door of his car. Ilya’s car was parked a few spaces over, a ridiculous sports car that stuck out like a sore thumb. Shane pretended to be busy, watching staff and players file out until the lot was nearly empty. He paced a small oval race track into the lot, feet scuffing loose gravel as his fists clenched at his sides. He felt him more than he saw him, quiet steps, measured and confident and walking far enough away from him to be intentional. Shane turned his head and didn't avert gaze for once. Brown met blue and it held. Ilya’s next step was shorter than the last but his face remained placid.

“Can I say something?” Shane asked, it came out cold like a breath in the winter. Hanging in the empty lot between them and visible in Ilya’s tightened grip on his gym bag and the muscle jumping in his jaw.

“You said not at work” Ilya replied simply.

“We’re outside” Shane replied stupidly, too factual. Ilya stopped, and turned to face him.

“I owe you an apology” Shane said, “It was my job to keep things professional, I lost focus. I’m sorry” he choked.

“You apologize to me?” he said quietly. It stuck in Ilya’s mouth like a hangnail on a sweater sleeve.

“I crossed boundaries and I pushed you, I shouldn’t have” Shane said simply. “I’m going to ask the trainers to step in for me for your training. I’ll see you once a month for evaluations until you’re cleared and I will have someone else in the room with us when we do have to meet. You need someone you can trust and I fucked that up” Shane said, he felt his eyes were too wet and a bit unfocused.

Ilya just looked at him, no fight left. It was like Shane could read his expression. “I broke your trust, our communication is shit. I can’t have your health suffering because of it. I won’t let it happen" Shane said with passion. Ilya was only a few feet away, watching him with assessing eyes.

“I won’t work with them” Ilya shrugged. Shane scrubbed a hand over his face, he was supposed to be walking away, not getting pulled back in.

“Why”, it didn't have the lift of a question, Shane was too tired.

“I need you” he replied like it was easy. It wasn’t easy to admit, it wasn’t even easy to think it. Need is simple, not just want. “I will communicate better” Ilya said and turned. “I’m sorry too” floated behind him as he went to his car. It all lasted no more than a minute, and it was going to haunt Shane forever. 

 

*
Seven Months Post Operation
Boston

 

Apologies were not heard in the Rozanov home. When he spilled milk as a child, his mother wouldn’t let him apologize. “Accidents happen Ilyusha”, she would say and fill his glass again until it went over the brim and more milk splashed out. She would keep pouring until he smiled and giggled. They cleaned up the mess together without anger or fear. Irina Rozanov didn’t want her son apologizing for being human.

When she was gone, apologies weren’t enough for his father. Words were not enough to repent for mistakes, suffering had to be shown. There was no point to apologizing.

Ilya didn’t know the last time someone apologized to him. His teammates didn’t, his coaches wouldn’t, there was hardly anyone who knew that he felt things and might cling onto a word like sorry. It was a Canadian word. It was a Shane word. Shane's 'sorry' was not empty, it was brimming like the tears in his dark eyes in the parking lot.

Shane apologized to him weeks ago and it was bone deep, it was felt and seen and heard. Since then it was much of the same, quiet training, dodged eye contact. Too many words on the tips of both of their tongues swallowed instead. Tension was dripping between them, predictable and rhythmic like a leaky faucet. Bothersome enough to keep you from sleeping at night, present enough to hear even when you were away from it. Shane’s head was bowed more than not, downward as if he was in church seeking repentance. He was sorry, regretful. Ilya was too. Maybe if he’d taken therapy more seriously everything would have happened differently. Maybe if he’d sought it out on his own he wouldn’t be agonizing over his own apology. Maybe if he'd asked him to dinner, if he'd taken it slow they would be happy and in love. Ilya was sorry too.

Shane wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say, and Ilya wasn’t ready to say it yet. Ilya would go to Shane only when he was ready and when he could be someone Shane deserved. He wouldn’t go to him broken, he wouldn’t ask for forgiveness and for a chance to be something until he was stable, cured, something better.

“How do you feel about the injury now?” he was tired of stupid questions. The same questions, questions that went in circles as he stayed in the middle and got him nowhere.

“You ask too many questions” he responded in a gruff voice. A hum responded to his poor temper. His fingers thrummed on the arm of the chair he sat in. The air kicked on and recycled the staleness out of the room. He wished there was something to get the staleness out of his body just as quickly but then he wouldn’t be fucking sitting here if there was. This was supposed to be the solution.

“It is my job isn’t it?” came the reply.

He groaned and leaned his head back, sometimes the questions felt like a press conference. Worded in a way that bated him to say too much for a headline for a breakthrough. For something. It was a reminder why he stopped coming to these appointments. Sometimes they were just stupid. But these questions were in Russian, he felt too transparent in Russian. With English he could hide in fumbled word choices, he could claim he didn’t grasp the whole language. In his mother tongue he didn’t lack intelligence or humor, he didn’t stumble looking for a way to describe a feeling. He just simply didn’t want to give a response. 

“Your job is to fix me and my life and my problems, that is what the fancy degrees are for” Ilya replied. His therapist quirked a single eyebrow at his response. Quiet judgement from a Russian woman, it never failed to cut deep.

He’d often wondered what it would be like to pick up the phone and call a mother instead of sitting in an office like this. How he could have had these conversations with someone who knew him. Instead he fabricated a Russian mother who he paid to listen to him complain.

“This is my job” she said evenly. He knew. “What are things you consider your job?” she asked. All she did was ask questions. 

“Hockey” he said, it was obvious to them both. She blinked, silent and judgmental. “Winning” he filled the empty space and she just left more. He sighed.

“Do you think finding happiness is your job?” she asked.

“I think my job is to drive it away” he replied immediately, too quickly before he could temper it into something less telling. “Or maybe it is my instinct” he mused.

“Go on” she directed.

“I know what the right thing to do is, yes? I don’t do it. I know what will make me happy, I do the opposite” he grit out between his teeth. He wanted to be better, he didn’t know how.

“Self harm” his therapist said simply.

“No” he shook his head. “You misunderstand”.

“I don’t think I do” she said back.

He blinked at her. He was desperate to not feel like this. He was desperate for an answer. To crack open and let all the poison drip out of him like he was blood letting. He craved being empty and for space in him that wasn't tainted. He wanted space to fill with light. He did not want to die on a bathroom floor with a hand reaching towards a happier life without ever knowing one. He wanted to run, fight, hide. But progress demanded bravery and change. He thought of Irina watching him, he thought of how he could make his sad mother proud of her son.

“It is difficult” Ilya said quietly. “The times I feel the safest are the times I am suffering” he said to himself, loud enough for her to hear. “It is like home. I can relax in the suffering” he murmured, “There is nothing to lose when it is gone already, it is safer to lose it myself” his finger dragged over the fabric of the sofa. ”I think maybe it is too late for me to be better. I am too set in these ways” Ilya said, it felt like a lie. It felt like a cry for help.

“You think like that, you talk like that, you allow yourself to live in it” she replied.

"Self harm comes in many forms Ilya" she said again. "Destroying your own chances to be happy qualifies. Tell me about one of those times you did it" she asked. 

Shane's hurt eyes in Ottawa played in a loop. He wanted to be with Shane in his house, in his bed, in his arms. Enough to blow up his life, his citizenship, his sport. He wanted to live in his laugh and in the scrunch of his nose with too many freckles on it. He wanted to be a man in love with another man, and not care who knew. He wanted to be someone who Shane was proud of, who he could brag about without having to make excuses for. Ilya wanted to be someone worthy of being loved and cared for by him. He was too god damned scared. Ilya still hadn’t told her about Shane, about himself. He couldn’t even force himself to be open with someone confidential. The stupidity was not lost on him. Soon, he would tell her soon. 

He left the office forty minutes later, no lighter than when he walked in. He half expected to see the boring SUV parked in the spot Shane always waited in to pick him up. It wasn’t there and it hadn’t been there in a long time. Ilya returned home and went into his room, collapsing into his bed and pulling the blanket over him and spent hours staring at the ceiling until sleep came.

 

*
Two Days Later
Boston Hockey Complex

 

Ilya stretched on the floor and looked up into the mirror ahead of him as the door swung open. He watched Shane step through the door, he was wearing shorts and a tight shirt and carried a water bottle with him. His eyes flicked up and he met Ilya’s in the mirror. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. His nose crinkled as he came closer.

“You’re smoking again” Shane said with a sniff. He missed his disapproval and that edge of judgement.

Shane was so flat lately, so professional and monotonous and talking like a receptionist when they interacted. Ilya could tell him he stopped smoking for him and went back to it the moment he was gone. That seemed too pathetic to admit to on too many levels.

“Yes” he said, eyes following Shane as he took up space and stood near Ilya. Ilya looked up at him from his position on the floor.

“Your lungs” Shane started, judgement tinging his tone. 

“Are fine” Ilya finished. It was the closest thing to normal they’d been since before Ottawa. Ilya wanted to smile but he wouldn’t. Shane’s lips pressed together tightly, his fingers closed tight against the bottle he was holding.

“I haven’t been working you hard enough then, get up” Shane said simply and headed for the treadmills.

Shane hopped onto one of the belts and waited for Ilya to join him. “We’re going to run until you can’t breathe” he said simply, clicking his watch on and making good on his promise. It was still quiet, it was still tense. There was still too much left unsaid, but between miles of shoes slapping treadmill belts and huffing breaths sometimes their eyes would catch in the mirror and it felt like something still breathed between them too.

*

Eight Months Post Operation
Boston Hockey Complex

 

“Alright get on the ice” Shane said as the door on the rink clicked open and he moved through the gate. Shane pushed off hard and skated a loop around the bench. Ilya didn't pass the threshold. The less than an inch high blades felt like stilts under his feet he’d been off of them for so long. The cool air of the rink was sharp. He had no pads, no stick, just his skates on. He should be thrilled, but there was something uncomfortable just under Ilya’s skin, itchy and too tight.

Shane was on the ice, sweatpants stuffed under the tongue of his skate and jacket zipped to his chin. He was waiting for him, eyebrows slightly raised and patient as he made a second circle. Things weren’t as cold lately, they looked at each other, they made small talk. Nothing deep, nothing that filled the divots that their closeness left in him.

This was what he was desperate for, being on the ice and doing something he was good at and didn’t have to try so hard for. Something he didn’t have to think about, he could just do. Ilya looked at the ice, something that was easy to him. The small camera crew hovered on the other side of the boards, filming his return to the ice for the first time since his injury.

If he failed, he’d fail in front of himself, in front of Shane, in front of a camera. If he fell or if he injured himself it would be just another thing they said about him, failure, weak, unable to overcome adversity. It would be all the things his family called him. It would be on video for everyone to see and comment on. Ilya felt an uncertainty zip through him that he hadn’t felt in a while, not in this sport at least. He just had to take a step forward and he would be on the ice. A tiny step. He’d skated thousands of miles around rinks at this point, he’d run through the rink gate a million times.

The uncertainty tilted into panic. His body was rigid. He wasn’t afraid of the ice, he was afraid of failing at something again. Shane skated a lazy circle and came to a stop in front of Ilya. His eyes flicked over his face and his lips parted a bit. Ilya looked at Shane. Shane’s eyebrow pulled in, understanding him like he could read his thoughts.

“Crap” Shane called out, he skated forward and stuck a hand out to block the gate Ilya was supposed to step through.

“Sorry guys” Shane turned, calling over his shoulder to the camera operators. “I forgot to grab some things for drills, we’ll be back in a minute” he said. "Locker room" Shane said quietly and Ilya shuffled out of the way.

Shane slapped his skate guards on, and they went to the locker room. It was empty, it was an off day for the team and it was supposed to be his first return to the ice in almost ten months since his injury. Ilya puttered behind him like a child following his mother. He should be appreciative, Shane did what he always did, he saw him. He anticipated his needs and he reacted. Ilya never had to ask. Shane gave him space and pushed open the locker room door, and Ilya sat in his stall. A place he’d sat for years, thousands of practices, hundreds of games.

Shane didn’t hover. He sat in Marley’s stall just next to Ilya’s. He was close enough he could spread his legs and their knees would bump. Ilya was desperate for touch or anything to ground him. It was quiet for a minute, maybe two.

“Ilya” Shane said carefully, his voice was even. He felt the strain more than he heard it, his jaw clenched.

“What?” he snapped. Like he always did. Don’t fight, don’t push him away he begged himself. He pushed out a breath.

“You don’t have to do this today” Shane said simply, a hum followed his words like he was agreeing with himself.

He was feeling too vulnerable, and Shane was seeing right through him. “Fuck you” Ilya said, it lacked the bite it usually did. Shane just tilted his head at him like he knew what he was trying to do. He did, he’d been on the receiving end of it. “I do not need you” Ilya said and he realized it wasn’t true at all.

“I know” Shane said evenly, his face was placid and there wasn’t a hint of emotion. He wanted to tell him he was lying, he needed him too much. More than he could allow himself. Ilya wanted to go to him. He wanted to wrap himself around him until it felt like he was a person again and not just a liability. The locker room was quiet, it smelled perpetually of sweat and rubber. The ice was the one simple place left in his life, but even that was too complicated now.

“It’s normal to not trust your body” Shane said quietly. Ilya gave no response. It was weak. He rubbed his hand roughly on his leg. 

“It’s not that” Ilya hissed. A lie.  

“What is it then?” Shane asked simply, his tone was even. Like he belonged in the chair in his therapists office taking notes on a stupid legal pad. 

“What are you a therapist?” Ilya asked with an edge. Shane chuckled quietly, it wasn’t meant as a joke as much as it was a dig.

“No, but I know fear when I see it. It does nobody any good pretending” Shane replied. Ilya’s eyes flicked over to him. Shane’s forearms were leaning against his knees and his head was tilted towards Ilya, eyes patiently watching him.

“I am not” Ilya started with venom, “afraid” he finished weaker.

“Why are we here then?” Shane asked, his dark eyes cautious but challenging him.

“We’re in here because you told me to come with you” Ilya said defensively. His fingernails dug into his palms and he balled up his fists.

“Oh, and you just decided to start listening to me suddenly” Shane prompted.

“Stop” Ilya snipped back. Shane shook his head.

“Get out of your head and make a decision” Shane told him. Ilya blinked, Shane was challenging him again.

“I don’t give a shit” Ilya said back, a knee jerk reaction. The smallest smile pulled onto Shane’s lips, lips he knew the texture of now before it slipped away.

“You wouldn’t be this upset if you didn’t care” Shane said quietly. This was all so fucking stupid, Ice. Shane. His life. All of it

“If you don’t care, why have you been doing all this work? Why all the workouts? Why all the energy and effort and pain? If you really wanted to be done with hockey you already would be. You wouldn't be writing in that book anymore, you'd be doing something else right no” Shane said, he was facing forward now, eyes fixed elsewhere. It was like he knew Ilya couldn’t handle him face to face right now.

“I'm here because you made me” Ilya responded, argumentatively.

“You’re lying” Shane said simply, honestly. He was, he was lying about fucking everything all the time to everyone. He was happy when teammates asked, he was excited about his return to the media, he didn’t need Shane. Lies. Liar. Lying all the time. He didn’t show people who he was, he lied and he pushed and he shoved them out the door until he was in a room alone. And then he lied to himself that he wanted it like that, a life full of nothing.

“I do not care about this Hollander” he exploded, Ilya wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

“You do” Shane said. “Nobody’s going to take it from you if you admit that you do” he said simply. Shane was like water, he flowed in the spaces Ilya left and occupied it. He receded sometimes dragging life with him and surged forward like a king tide. “This is a good thing” Shane said quietly, “It’s good that you care, that it matters to you. It's a pro” he insisted. Ilya fought off a choked off laugh.

“I am just going to disappoint them” Ilya heard himself say.

“So what? You quit something you love? Give it up before it can give you up?” Shane posed the question. Ilya wanted to make this about something else, about them. “Who is it that you're so afraid of disappointing? Who is more important than you getting to do something you care about?” he asked.

“This is stupid, is just ice” he grumbled, the anger leaching out of his voice.

“The body remembers, so do our brains. I went to the rink probably twenty times before I got myself to step on the ice”, Shane said quietly. “You’re not stupid” he insisted. "Not about this" he said. 

Ilya couldn’t do any more admissions. He wasn’t going to walk. He was going to go on the ice like he told himself he would. He was going to overcome a fucking mental block. He was going to bitch about it though. Shane was right, at least today this lived outside of a chart in his little book. He wanted this, he wanted the peace of the ice, he wanted the feeling of strength and dominance. He was petrified he couldn't have it. The cameras were outside and waiting for them. 

“Those fucking cameras, I can’t believe you make me do this” Ilya groaned and swung his eyes to Shane’s. Shane chuckled and threw his hands up in exasperation.

“You made me do this!” Shane said, eyes lit with something as frustrated as it was fond and wasn’t suited for a locker room. It was a look that belonged on a leather couch, with lazy touches and fingers passing through hair. It sucked the breath out of his lungs like he’d been punched in the stomach. It could be easy like this, anger, passion and humor with Shane. A relationship that only came from someone really understanding the other fundamentally. From knowing what plagued someone and what set them free. Ilya kept eye contact with Shane until he looked away and he saw the warmth leach from his face into a neutral expression.

“So? What’s the plan? Did I have bad sushi for lunch and we need to cancel this or are we going back on the ice?” Shane asked.

Ilya stared at the white flecked floor of the locker room and sighed. He stood to his feet.

“Get a spare stick” Ilya said.

Chapter End Notes

A small olive branch, a little more conversation, some reflection and personal work.

Ilya is still so alone, the fear that he still had something to lose was more than the relief that he still had something to lose. He is trying! He will need to try more! I promise to leave these two idiots in this fic in love and more balanced than they started, Scott's (Hunter) honor or whatever.

Also yes, I erased Scott Hunter from this fic.

Let me know what you think :) Thanks for reading and your support!

Chapter 18: Comeback

Chapter Notes

We're getting to the home stretch. I will feed you I promise. I will not leave you sad in the end. I swear.

I know some people don't love the mid chapter dialogue switch but I kinda do at the right place and time.

“Sorry about that guys!” Shane called in that voice he used when he was playing a part, like he was some kind of actor that slid into an apologetic smile and wore professionalism like a hastily thrown on jacket. They both have been playing some kind of part probably forever, Ilya wore it differently than Shane did.

Shane pushed Ilya ahead of him so he was in front of the gate and he’d have to get on the ice before Shane could. It was just a step from solid ground to cool slick ice, it was nothing and it was everything he had left.

“Don’t think, just go” Shane quietly from behind him. Ilya took a breath and he didn’t fight him, he listened and trusted despite an alarm tone faintly playing in his ears. Ilya was used to his body being a tool, he had natural athleticism and was in tune with every inch of himself. He placed his right leg on the ice first and then his left, and pushed into a short glide.

Nothing happened, nothing broke, nothing died, nothing collapsed. He slid a foot or so away and came to a stop naturally and he heard Shane enter behind him and the door’s loud click. Shane skated ahead of him.

“We’re not putting on a clinic here. This is about the basics” Shane said simply. Shane said moving in a slow circle around Ilya, skates ticking off of the ice around him in a circle like hands on a clock.

“How does it feel?” Shane asked.

It felt fine, normal and a bit rusty. Like a rusted bicycle wheel thrown into a wobbly spin. Ilya bent his knees, squatted a bit, transferred weight from one leg to the other waiting for something to happen.

“Fine” he said, eyebrows furrowed and his attention divided.

Shane raised his eyebrows. “In English?” he prompted. Ilya blinked, not even realizing he’d answered in Russian. God his brain was a mess.

“Fine, good” he said, resting his weight on his right leg and kicking off so he moved slowly across the ice. His shoulders dropped away from his ears a bit.

“Good” Shane said with a nod. “Let’s get your legs warm, one lap around slow. No speed, gentle long strides equal on both sides. I’ll be right next to you. I need honesty if you’re not feeling right” Shane said simply, eyes burning into his.

“Okay” he agreed.

“One lap, slow” Shane prompted. He pushed, one leg at a time. Trying not to let any hesitancy show in his face or his body. It was a child’s pace, like he was in a public ice rink. Shane glided behind him and just off to his side. The straight aways were easy enough.

“No crossovers” Shane called to him as they came towards the goal, Ilya let himself glide and he took the turn a little wide and all too slow. He felt his face scrunch up in focus.

“Relax” Shane said, missing nothing, skating ahead and flipping to skate backwards to watch him.

“Looks good” he said as they rounded the goal and ended their lap. Ilya came to a slow stop and shook his legs out.

“How is it?” Shane asked, positioning his body in front of the cameras to block their view of him. It was considerate and protective.

“Fine” Ilya said and it was actually true, it felt fine. A little creaky but fine.

Shane nodded. “Let’s do another, a bit quicker, still no crossovers” Shane said. Ilya skated, each lap progressing quicker until the wind was on his face and he was moving fast. He felt like himself here, like he had power and like he could do something worth remembering. Even just skating with no puck or a team. He always liked skating, he didn’t always like hockey.

In another life he might have been a speed skater, something individual where his performance only impacted him. But in this life it was hockey. Hockey was always a structure of control. His Father controlled him through hockey, his brother controlled him through hockey. Russia laid a stake on him for the Olympics and tossed him away as a traitor when he didn’t stay in their leagues. Hockey was the boundary in his life that made sure he didn’t end up in prison, an addict, or stuck in his bed for long enough to wither away into nothing.

Ilya stopped at the bench for a squeeze of water and watched as Shane continued his own laps around the rink, he was fast. Leaning forward in an athletic position, his legs crossing the other as he flew around the rink with no effort. He leaned on his blade, his body creating lines that physics should complain about but he stayed upright with immaculate control.

Ilya looked over at the camera crew who was following Shane’s movement across the ice. The wind flicked his hair behind his ears and he had a small smile on his face as he finished the last straight away and came to a hard stop in front of Ilya, shards of ice spraying his legs.

“You always had good edges” Ilya muttered as he squeezed a sip of water. Shane raised his eyebrows as Ilya passed the bottle to him.

“You will too, I’m going to fix your skating” Shane said after a labored breath out.

“Fix my skating” Ilya echoed back, a note of disbelief in it.

Shane smirked. “How is it?” Shane asked, eyes flicking down to his leg. Ilya looked him over, red cheeks and pretty freckles, eyes bright like he was doing something he was built for. There was no regret or avoidance on his face, it was open and pleased. It was something Ilya missed.

Ilya’s hand went to his necklace pendant. Boundaries, he thought again. A thing he was forced into having while in America and playing this sport. Something he had to have while his passport was bound in red leather and his paper thin visa depended on the Raiders and the court of public opinion. And of course his own boundaries, stay away from things that are good for you before you ruin them. These things told him to only say what he meant sometimes, fight on ice with fists but not for what you believe in, don’t make a statement at all.

His body felt fine. Everything else was debatable, he supposed.

“Good” Ilya replied, and it was honest for once. He felt as good as he could right now. Shane nodded satisfied.

“Two more laps, reduce speed but add in crosses and then we’re going to be done” Shane directed.

“That’s it?” Ilya asked, they’d barely been on the ice for twenty minutes. Ilya was afraid to step on the ice minutes ago, and now he didn’t want to get off of it.

“We’re going slow” Shane said, and the sentence extended greater than just the ice. Ilya was going slow, he was trying. He was trying to be open, to be a man who could be himself. Someone good enough to be with Shane. Someone who wouldn’t spook like a horse at the first sign of intimacy.

Ilya skated off, letting his feet cross and pushing him through his skating with restrained power. Ilya came to a stop in front of the bench Shane already retreated to so it was only Ilya on the ice. It wasn’t lost on him that Shane stopped skating behind him minutes ago, and left him to progress on his own. He had a smile on his face, small and pleased. Ilya wanted to celebrate with him, he wanted to explain to him what it felt like, how he was excited for something for the first time in years.

The camera crew came towards the gate instead, and Shane slipped away and out of sight instead.

 

*
Two Weeks Later
Detroit

 

He always liked routine, he enjoyed knowing what to expect and not being surprised. Lately the routine was the same. Door slamming shut behind him over and over and over again, the quiet of solitude and the cold of the bed beside him. It lived in Boston in his house, in his car as he drove with an empty seat beside him, and it lived here too. Even in a city he had no connection. Shane was sick of hotels, he was sick of the road. They were on a four game stretch on the road that always made injuries more apparent and the team tired.

Personally, Shane was getting tired of traveling. The hockey schedule was grueling. He was tired of continental breakfasts of sticky topped muffins, sad cut cantaloupe, and syrupy juices. He was tired of the fake smile he wore at work which felt like he was serving a sentence. He was sick of being three doors down from his problem and the solution.

He was running too hard on the streets across the eastern seaboard trying to stomp out what he was feeling while listening to self help podcasts that did nothing. He couldn’t outrun the feeling of believing life would be easier if he was somewhere else.

He still loved his job, he loved working with the players, fixing problems. But it was rare he was doing that, he hadn’t operated on someone in a long time. His work with Ilya was the most important thing he was doing now, and it was the thing that was killing him. It guaranteed that Shane could see him, pretend for a few minutes that they were fine and watch him without any question or repercussion. It was almost done, in a matter of months he’d be on the ice and Shane would have satisfied the commitment he made. He could leave and never talk to Ilya ever again, he could stay and always talk to him. He could leave Boston.

For now, there was so little escape. Team dinners were always loud, there were always too many tables pushed together. Shane was often caught in the middle. The professional staff often waved him over to sit with them, and several guys on the team would chant his name until he dragged a chair over to their section. Shane was avoiding the team table for a while now. The reason was obvious. Shane sat at one of the ends of the professional staff table and flicked through leaves of lettuce in his salad with his fork. He tried to laugh, he tried to smile, he tried to engage in conversations with the guys. Shane tried not to look up at the stare he felt over his beer glass. The eyes on the side of his face were a threat and a challenge all at once.

Shane put down his fork and let out a sigh. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out on his lap and looked at the screen.

 

Ilya Rozanov: What room are you in?

 

Shane forced his cellphone screen to black and stared at the reflection of his eyes. They were wide, panicked. A moment away from a horrible decision. Shane tried to move slowly, he tried not to let his panic show to anyone else. He could answer, fall into a few minutes of peace and come out the other side more ruined than he started. He could ignore this problem.

Shane tried to fix this problem in all the ways he knew how. He tried to splint himself, make his life rigid and stay away from him as much as he could. He tried to stitch himself closed and act like there was never a wound to begin with. He tried to not care, he tried talking himself out of it. He was in some Italian restaurant in Detroit ignoring the pressure rolling off of Ilya like a thunderstorm.

There wasn’t a fix to make him forget, or to make him stop caring. He was tired. He was exhausted. He was at his wits end. He needed to change something. He pulled out his wallet and threw his per diem on the table and made his excuses to leave. He walked quickly, out onto the city street and ignored the message on his phone.

Shane stood on the bench for the Detroit game the next day too far away to pay attention to the players zipping by and chasing the puck. He was startled out of his own mind only by the blaring goal horn.

 

*
Nine Months Post Operation
Boston Hockey Facility

 

Ilya rotated his ankle a few more degrees to that point that made you consider how strong connective tissue really was. He lifted his head to look at the man on the ice with him and kept getting disappointed. Josh the Raiders skating coach was a nice enough guy. He was snarky and they had an easy dynamic. He didn’t care about showing Josh that his edges were a few degrees sharper than last season. Josh just happened to be where Shane usually was.

Ilya’s problem wasn’t that he was here and he was excelling. It was like life was breathed back into his body on the ice, whatever fear he had was gone. His problem was that he couldn’t enjoy it without a witness. The team saw it, so did the staff. He was working his way up to team practices, he was joining in on team skates and conditioning. He was getting closer. Everyone had something to say about it, about how his body looked good, how his skating looked better.

Ilya wanted Shane to see it, to see him. He needed him to see past mechanics and shifting muscles. He wanted him to see that Ilya was improving, he was better. He wanted him to see that Ilya could be passionate outside of a bed or an argument and for right now he wasn’t heavy with depression. But that would require Shane to look at him outside of the rink. Shane wasn’t here, something that was happening with increasing frequency. He was taking long weekends, days between road trips that used to be theirs even in the tense quiet workouts of the past months tapered off. Now he left Ilya to his own devices, he trusted him to skate and to join in on modified practices more and more.

Shane was off somewhere in Canada. Ilya hadn’t even heard it from him, just a passing comment from Marley about how Shane promised to bring him back a hot sauce he liked that was only made in his hometown. Shane hadn’t said a word about his personal life to Ilya since Ottawa. It was all work. There were still traded barbs, and moments of shared eye contact that his body remembered. Shane’s lips that he remembered the feel of pulled into a smile here and there before he could manage to hide it.

Shane was supportive without being too warm, cool without being frigid. Shane was present enough to be there and to feel him and distant enough for it to not be enough. It put Ilya on edge.

He wanted to talk to him, how they used to. He wanted to quiet between them and the body heat, and Ilya desperately wanted some kind of hint that maybe there could be a future. That maybe Shane could fight through his leather hard skin and punch through the last of the membrane that was keeping Ilya away. Ilya knew it wasn’t on Shane to do those things, but it didn’t stop him from wanting it.

Ilya leaned harder. The ice used to be a neutral zone, a place his body could kick into drive automatically. Now, he found himself processing things in his life while skating. He pushed harder, he adjusted his body so he was either going to be the fastest he’d ever been or a broken pile of limbs as he took a turn.

“Nice” Josh called over the sound of Ilya cutting the ice with a scrape. Ilya went again, the puck on the tape of his stick passing behind the net, dragging it with him as he rapidly approached the blue line, he turned so his right leg was going to take the weight shift. He knew he could take it, his leg was strong. His knee was fine, he’d tested it before. He leaned out, knee and ankle in a straight line, ankle just extended enough to take the load as he snapped his energy in a new direction.

“God fucking damn you’re looking good” Josh whooped and it echoed around him. Ilya didn’t need praise, but it didn’t mean he hated it. “Only you would get hurt and come back better at skating” Josh shook his head as Ilya came to a stop in front of the bench. It was all Shane, there wasn’t a thing he’d touched in his life he hadn’t immediately improved for Ilya.

 

*
Three Weeks Later
Ottawa

 

He climbed back into the old family Subaru that used to drag him to practices all over Canada that was still immaculately kept thanks to his mother. He flicked off the radio and drove home in silence. The gravity of what he was doing was finally settling in. He drove for a half hour, lost in thought. His mind got him into the driveway without paying much attention the way you could only do in your hometown.

He felt a lot of things in Boston he never felt in Ottawa. He was challenged in Boston, and sometimes like a fish out of water around new people and new routines. He felt desire, more of it he ever had combined in his life jammed into a small city on the water. He felt love, the romantic kind that made you act stupidly and recklessly, the type that took you down to the bolts of who you are. He felt heartbreak too, heartbreak that was deep and lonely and inescapable in a place where the love bloomed.

Shane was tired. He was not being kind to himself. He was back to pouring himself into things that didn’t want him or need him. Here he felt that feeling of home, of slipping whatever mask off of your face and being allowed to sink into the couch and the touch of your mother’s hands. He’d never had that feeling in Boston, even though he’d been there for years between hospitals, apartments, and sports facilities. He went into the house and slid his suit jacket onto a hanger. Here pouring yourself into your family filled him back up.

Shane smiled lightly, his father David sat in a chair in the living room with his glasses on and a paperback book folded over on itself. His hair was almost all grey now and he was turning sixty this year. David was healthy, and he smiled at his son.

“Hey kid” he called, setting his book down on the leather chair. Shane’s lips twitched into a smile.

“Hey” he replied and kicked off his dress shoes.

“Yuna” David called, “Shane’s back” he said. Quick footsteps came down the hall and they both watched with amusement as she all but jogged into the living room.

“How did it go?” She asked excitedly, closing in on Shane, her hands rubbing his arms from his shoulders to his wrists. Shane smiled fondly at his mother, they were both so excited about the idea of him coming home. No matter how many times he told them it wasn’t something he was sure of yet and that it was just a couple interviews they acted like it was set in stone.

His mother’s dark hair was graying at the roots in a way she usually liked to cover with dye. They weren’t old, but his parents weren’t young anymore. He was fortunate enough to have an amazing family, and he wanted to be around them again.

Shane shrugged, he was not a very good interviewer. “You know how it is, hard to read” Shane replied. He went to his childhood room and slipped his button down and slack and hung up everything meticulously. He mulled around his room for a while, and swiped over his cellphone.

He sent a thumbs up to Hayden’s message wishing him bad luck at his interview and scrolled down past a few contacts until he saw Ilya’s message from Detroit. He never answered it, they never acknowledged it. It was like it never happened. He left his cellphone in his room and went back into the living room.

His mother was chattering away about something work related as she sat on the floor with her back against his Dad’s chair. He was leaning forward, with his legs on either side of her shoulders. David’s hands gently gathered Yuna’s hair in gentle scoops to the back of her head.
He was careful not to pull, not to leave any hair tight or unsmoothed. David braided Yuna’s hair slowly every night in a ritual Shane watched ever since he was a kid. He secured it with a band and kissed the top of her head, his hand resting on her shoulder. Yuna kept talking, criticizing someone’s performance over something, her own hand covered David’s. It was easy intimacy, love that didn’t flush out a room or cost either of them parts of themselves to give.

Shane imagined himself split into three strands like his mother’s hair. How maybe the right person with gentle enough hands might be able to weave him together neatly so his frayed edges were hidden.

*

 

Twelve Months Two Weeks Post Surgery
Winnipeg at Boston Raiders

 

The locker room always had a current. One that was accented with whoops and dull threats to kill whatever team was about to share the ice. It was full of sound, tape ripping, shitty rap music, pad velcro loops being stripped off the hooks. Game days always had a pulse. Today it was a buzz, a tone in Ilya’s ear like an instrument plugged into a speaker waiting for a note to play.

Today had an anticipation to it. Ilya was practicing with the team for weeks, slowly integrating back into the fold and back into contact practices. He was as strong as he was ever going to be. He’d done all of the work. He was getting minutes tonight in his first game back. It was a little bit poetic that it would be against Winnipeg.

He was pulled into a meeting only three days ago, all too familiar to the one he had after his injury over a heavy mahogany table. After a barrage of tests, training, and rehabilitation, Shane officially cleared him for game play. The table of coaches and the managers all whooped loudly and slapped him on the back, Shane gave him the smallest of smiles and it was the only thing that mattered.

Ilya knew what lay on the other side of today’s game. Failure or freedom, maybe a little bit of both. He got his legs warm and went into the training room where Shane was waiting for him. The room was loud, his teammates were excited to have him back.

Shane’s leg was bouncing on the ground, and his eyes flickered around the training room. He laid a heating pad on his knee and pulled his stool next to him.

“So” Shane started. Ilya tilted his head to look at him.

“So” he echoed.

“Are you ready?” the question was simple, it was the one everyone was asking him. But everyone didn’t know all that he’d done and everything he’d had to suffer through to get here. Nobody knew how uncertain he was and the complex relationship he had with this game. Shane did.

Ilya opened his mouth to answer, a loud laugh in the room cut him off. Shane’s eyes flickered away.

“I think so” he replied, not letting his eyes leave Shane’s. They were dark and intense today, more than usual.

Ilya felt good, but he needed his confidence. He needed someone in his corner.

These were the nights he felt loneliest. There were thousands of fans making their way into the garden tonight, hundreds of them would be wearing his name on their backs and his number and screaming his name. His team was floating, the media was frothing at the mouth, the admin staff was excited. There would undoubtedly be some kind of comeback video played as Ilya took the ice, the TV cameras would be tight on his face and people would be cheering for him and swearing his name at home. Ilya felt a pang of desire to have family in the team box, to have someone to hug, someone to say they were proud of him no matter how he played. Someone to share this with.

Another loud laugh and the slam of the training room door broke their eye contact. Shane cleared his throat and looked down at his lap.

“Do you want to go to the treatment room just off the ice?” Shane asked him. It was a call for privacy and quiet, alone time. Ilya swung his legs off the bed, not wanting to give Shane a moment to overthink it.

“Come” Ilya said as Shane followed. They quietly moved down the hall and into the small room. Ilya hopped up onto the table and Shane put the heat pad back on him. It was quieter here, there was still an echo of yelling and pregame music but it was just the two of them.

“They’re excited for you” Shane said simply, leaning against the bed opposite of Ilya.

“Yes” he said simply.

Shane nodded, “And you, are you excited?” he asked as if he thought he didn’t have the right to know. He knew what he was asking. They’d spent so many hours together, getting him back to health with Ilya wondering if it was even worth it the entire time. They’d spent so much time talking out why he hated the sport, why he loved it, how he’d never get what he needed from it.

It was clear to Ilya now after being back in it, it was who he was. He resented parts of hockey like the parts he resented of himself. It redeemed him too. All the things he hated in his life was mixed in the sport. All the things he loved lived in it too.

“I will keep playing” Ilya said suddenly, feeling as if he owed Shane an answer. Shane's lips tilted up in a smile that was pleased and sad at once. Something final and resolute settled over his face.

“I know” he replied quietly, his arms crossing over his chest. “I’m happy for you” he said. His eyes were a bit wet, and they shined under the whistling fluorescent bulbs. Shane let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know if I will ever be as good as I was” Ilya said. He wasn’t sure if he’d hit his peak sometime when he hardly cared what happened. It would be a shame but he’d live.

“You will be” Shane said with certainty. “Just because you’re getting time tonight doesn’t mean you’re going to be perfect or there isn’t going to be pain though. There are going to be things you miss, there are going to be critics, you are always going to be compared to who you were before” Shane said in a rush of a breath. “Don’t fucking listen” he said. “You are the most talented person in this league”. Ilya watched him closely. “And you have worked harder this year than anyone else” Shane said. He paused for a moment before continuing.

“You were always the best, but you haven’t had passion. You have it now. You have someone to prove wrong but you can’t burn out because there isn’t anyone to spite left. You get to prove you’re good enough to yourself every night you play” Shane told him, his eyebrows drawn together. It was a kick in the shins, the kind only Shane knew how to give.

“You give motivational speech like a captain” Ilya said, a joke to break the tightness in his chest.

Shane was asking him for passion. The very picture of quiet intensity with pink cheeks and squinted eyes and with that look in his eye like he was saying the most important thing he’d ever say. Shane was enthusiastic and giving, and he wanted for Ilya to succeed so badly.

“It’s not my place to say this but I don’t care” Shane said, ignoring his joke. “I’m so fucking proud of you Ilya” Shane said, walking until his legs hit the edge of the padded table. “You deserve this, you deserve happiness and success” his fire burned through his words. “You deserve so much”.

It was exactly what he needed to hear, what he needed to know. That someone would be in the rink tonight for him, not for #81, not for the Raiders, not for the fucking hockey, for Ilya Rozanov. A breath caught in Ilya’s chest, Shane gave him a sad smile and slowly disappeared from his vision as it blurred with tears. A gentle hand cupped his shoulder and Shane’s thumb swept over his arm.

“Hey” Shane said quietly. Shane always knew what he needed. He could have stayed in the training room, he could have let him go onto the ice quietly without a word. He could have treated Ilya with coldness and contempt he deserved. He didn’t because it was who he was. Shane, who Ilya treated like nothing to save another part of himself from breaking, treated him better than most of his family ever had.

It wasn’t a conscious thought, it was an instinct. Shane was so good, so perfect to him. How could he not tell him? “Shane” it came out thick. “Ya tebya lyublyu” The words spilled from Ilya’s mouth, fast and in thick Russian. They sounded strange even in his own voice, deep from adulthood and a thousand lives lived since he last said them. The words were out of practice, the last time he said them to someone was his mother. For a minute he wished Shane understood him, but not enough for the words to be said in a common language.

“I should really learn some Russian” Shane said quietly. His hand moved from Ilya’s shoulder and onto his back, a soft press against his undershirt with gentle pressure. Another hand wiped a tear from his cheek.

“Sorry” Ilya mumbled in English, embarrassed at the emotional display.

“Hey” a quiet response, closer to his ear than it was a moment ago until he was wrapped in Shane’s arms. Chest to chest, rapidly beating hearts slamming against the other. Ilya wasted no time, his arms went to Shane’s back as he leaned over the table, hands roaming across his broad shoulders. One of Shane’s hands settled in his hair. “We’re good here” he mumbled and it felt like maybe they were.

“Thank you” Ilya tucked his head into his neck, lips mumbling the word against his skin. It was sick, it was sweet. It was torture and it was exactly where he wanted to be. Ilya pressed his lips to his neck softly. Shane slowly released his hands and Ilya wiped at his eyes.

“Okay?” Shane asked quietly, a small and empathetic smile on his beautiful face, dark eyes running over his face as if memorizing it. He could stay here, count every freckle and watch every emotion process through his eyes. He was already given more than he could have anticipated tonight. His hands on his skin, the intimacy of emotional connection. Ilya would do whatever he could to get it back, to keep it as long as Shane would let him. He was done running and pushing it away.

“Okay” Ilya replied.

*

Shane is in love with him, he’d known it for a while, maybe forever, maybe he knew it between prospect cups when he couldn’t stop thinking of Ilya's intense eyes, maybe as their hands grazed between a water bottle Ilya hadn’t washed in too long in a hotel gym. He felt it in glances that carried more weight than words in an ice rink in Boston and walking by a closed guest bedroom door at home.

Shane stood just inside the tunnel and watched the rink lights cut off, leaving only the crowd lit. The team lined the tunnel, and the ESPN cameras were tight on Ilya, the first player in the line. He shifted his weight back and forth and chewed on his mouth guard.

The jumbotron kicked on with a fast cut compilation of Ilya’s draft, into sequential clips of his finest hockey and his bloodiest fights. Then cup after cup hoisted in the air, teammates collapsing on him against the boards in celebration, gloves coming off and finally yellow text over a black screen welcoming their captain back. The usual music played, and Ilya glanced at Shane once, a small smile in his clear eyes behind his visor before he stormed out to the ice. Shane let it all seep in as the team took the ice and he followed the rest of the staff out to the bench. He let himself look around the garden, at the thousands of people in black and yellow. The handmade signs pressed against the plexi, the roar as the jumbotron camera settled on Rozanov who was raising his arms up to get the crowd yelling louder.

Shane’s mother used to tell him “There is beauty in the surrender”. He didn’t know what the hell that meant. She still said it sometimes and he still dismissed her. Like most things mothers say, they are right and it takes time to understand. The game passes in the blink of an eye. Ilya goes into the game midway through the first period. He moves without an ounce of uncertainty, he moves like a predator who is playing with his food. He plays flashy, and when he sets his skate to spin off of a defender, Shane knows it was a goal before anyone else did. The garden exploded. He can see Ilya’s grin from the other side of the rink. He skates hard to the bench before his team can even descend on him, and looks at Shane as the rest of the bench jumps on top of him, kissing his helmet and slapping his back.

It felt like he blinked and the game was over, ending with Ilya on the ice. One goal and two assists, a three point comeback game on his own home ice. Shane considered where he was today and the noise around him. He looked at the way the ice was lit and the contrast of black and yellow gloves forgotten on the ice in celebration as the team huddled around their captain. He fit here, he belonged out there being coveted and watched.

Shane surrendered hockey a while ago but he was here, still watching with quiet envy and the question of what if. He had surrendered to Ilya Rozanov too, and stayed long enough to watch him come back to life. Shane’s eyes were a bit wet. It felt unfair and somehow it was the most just thing in the world. Shane was back where he belonged, behind a divider from the two things he wanted most in life.

Shane surrendered his pride, his heart, and very nearly his career to be in Ilya’s orbit. Ilya made his choice, he was going to stay and play hockey. He was never going to be available for Shane, he was never going to let things be what they could be. But life had to keep moving then, Shane had to keep moving.

Shane stayed still here in Boston for a few pivotal moments that were long enough to change him. But it was time to move again, Shane felt lighter knowing he wasn’t running away this time instead he was walking towards something better for him. He’d finished his job, the job he was hired for and trusted to do. He’d wrestled with Ilya and for him, he was ready, he was feeling something again. He had that life in him that Shane was looking for signs of for years.

Shane’s life wasn’t here anymore. It couldn’t be. Shane missed Ottawa and family dinners. He missed the way he could shuck his adult skin when walking into the house and be a bit more of a child again. He missed the quiet of the woods and the peace that came with it. He tried city life and all the things that it came with. Standing at the end of the bench it was hard to regret any decisions that he made. He’d done the work he needed to do here and there was nothing left for him here. He needed to watch Ilya’s skates hit the ice, he needed to see if it was all worth it, if he was able to build the future hall of fame hockey player back from parts at Shane’s own expense.

He couldn’t see any part of Ilya under the pile of teammates that were covering him and Shane thought that might be for the best. He looked at the equipment managers who were yelling, and at the training staff who were smacking each other on the back and decided to make his exit. The team was off tomorrow and he’d be able to slip into the building and clear out his office without fuss.

Shane walked through the tunnel for the last time and retreated to the training room. He let the door that he still didn’t like snap behind him and quiet the cheers and yelling to nothing. He does all his usual tasks, he smiles at the team, he hands out ice bags and declines invitations to head out to the bar with the team to celebrate.

Shane resigns while the team is still out drinking and janitors are still sweeping up trash from the garden. It feels like waving a white flag, like giving up land and admitting you’d taken on too much water all at once. He finished what he agreed and what he owed, bringing Ilya Rozanov back to Boston in one piece.

Shane would be leaving Boston in too many to count.

Chapter End Notes

To Ottawa we go.

I really do love the time skips because I don't have to write a million 'i'm sad' and 'i miss you' chapters because it's just assumed.

Chapter 19: Hometown

Chapter Notes

Anytime I actually write a little ahead the urge to post is too great and then I am no longer ahead. So enjoy your 2 updates in four days. WOmp for me

**Reminder**

I am a shitty writer, I will not be doing research into how everything works. This is about the vibes!! I am probably wrong about shit, I don't work in a hospital. DON'T YELL at me PLS.

One Day After Shane’s Resignation
Boston Hockey Complex

 

He stood in the empty office for a few minutes before it settled in him. It was just a desk, computer and a stupid rolling office chair. There was nothing else, no family pictures or framed degrees. He was here and now he’s gone. He’d said nothing to him, just gave him a smile after the game and told him to have fun as his team dragged him out of the building to go out. It didn't feel like betrayal, but like something stiffer.

Ilya’s hand shook as he swiped open his phone and hit his contact. He didn’t expect an answer, it only rang twice.

“Ilya” Shane said simply, it made his eyes squeeze shut.

“Where are you?” he asked, it came out tired.

“I’m driving home to Canada” Shane replied, he could hear the faint ticking of a blinker and tires clicking over breaks in the roadway.

“Come back, we have to” the words died in his mouth. Have to what? Talk? Figure this out? Say goodbye? Ilya didn’t know how to answer his own sentence, he let it hang and die in the bluetooth of Shane’s car.

“You played really well yesterday” Shane said quietly.

Ilya scoffed. “You think I care about game right now?” his voice sounded too Russian, his articles were dropping, he wasn’t sure if he was going to laugh or cry. “You run again” Ilya accused.

“No” Shane responded, whip fast. “I’m choosing, it's different” he corrected softly.

“You’re choosing to be away from Boston” Ilya said, from me, he thought.

“I am” he affirmed.

“Why? Pros and cons chart told you to?” Ilya demanded. Anger flowed through his words.

“It was just time. My family is here” he said simply. Ilya scrubbed a hand over his face, he’d run him off into a different country. Tears fell onto Shane’s desk before he realized he was crying. It was quiet for a while, so long that Ilya checked his phone to see if the call was still connected.

“Shane” he started.

“It’s not your fault” Shane said before he could finish. Ilya wasn’t sure if even Shane believed what he was saying.

“So that is it? You’re gone” Ilya said, empty.

“I’ll always root for you, always Ilya. I’m so glad I met you and met you again” he said in a tone that was so soft that it made his stomach turn. He thought he had more time, more time to get better, to be better. To be the kind of man who could look Shane in his eyes and feel like an equal instead of like charity. He wasn’t there yet, he stupidly thought Shane would be there. Always in arms reach.“I know you don’t need me, or anyone else. But if you ever do, you can call me. Okay?” Shane said. He was wrong, he’d never been more wrong. Ilya needed Shane like his body needed oxygen.

“You didn’t tell me” Ilya said.

There was a silence that was heavy. “This was the only way I knew how to leave”. There was a small fissure in his voice that had been so calm since he answered the call. A crack small enough to know there was a bigger one nearby. That this wasn’t as simple as Shane was pretending it was.

“Okay, I’ll go then” Ilya ended the call, he hung up without a goodbye or without an apology and without telling him he loved him. He didn’t beg him to turn around, he didn’t tell him to stop and pullover and he’d meet him halfway.

 

*
January

 

*
February

 

*
March

 

*
April

 

*
May

 

*
The Ottawa Hospital
June

 

Shane’s phone rang and it startled him awake. He was hearing the ringtone in his nightmares lately. He scrambled around until he found the duty phone and answered it. “Hollander” he mumbled into the phone with his eyes still half closed.

“Dr. Hollander, we need a surgical consult in the ED. 74 year old diabetic patient fell and has a displaced femoral on the right side and right wrist fracture” the voice said over the phone Shane rubbed his eyes.

“Okay, I’ll be down in a few” Shane said, he replied and hung up the call.

He pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the small on call room. It still smelled sharp with cleaning products and like a place too many other tired doctors slept before. He hated sleeping here, he spent more time disinfecting than he did in the bed. Shane groaned, his back ached a bit from the metal bar down the middle of the mattress and he stretched his arms over his head. The clock above the door showed it was just after 0300 in the morning.

The TV was still on and casting light onto the floor in front of it, flickering colors around the room. He blinked until his vision cleared and slid his glasses on his face. ESPN was playing highlights from the cup final still.

Shane was glued to the TV in the small on-call room watching the game until just after 11pm, only a few hours ago. He fell asleep not long after watching Ilya skate around the rink with the cup held above his head and a smile on his face from ear to ear.

Shane sighed and looked at the screen. All of the highlights were Ilya. Ilya flying down the ice to slam his body into an opposing player with a grin on his face, snatching the puck from them and taking off. Ilya skated impossibly fast with the puck glued to his stick tape and a fire in his eyes. Ilya ripped a slap shot from an impossible angle that existed only for a second and hit the net.

Sports anchor chatter was dubbed over a slow motion clip of him hurdling a defender who fell in front of him. Ilya lost sight of the puck for a moment. He was spinning as he collected the puck impossibly and buried it in the goal in a swift move. It was ridiculous, it was a top ten goal anywhere and he’d scored it in the cup final. Ilya laughed on the screen, mouth open with sharp white canines visible with his mouth guard hanging out and blue eyes wide as his team threw him into the boards and collapsed on him. Shane could almost hear the laugh through the screen.

He looked happy, he looked like he was where he was supposed to be. It was the ultimate comeback, not just from injury but from apathy. There was no version of Ilya Rozanov on the screen tonight that didn’t care.

It was why Shane could leave, it was the only reason Shane felt okay coming home to Ottawa. Ilya had something for himself and he was standing on his two feet.

“You just can’t teach athleticism like that John. But to make a move like that and then still have the ability to gauge the goalkeeper and land a shot so precise is incredible. Ilya Rozanov is a surgeon out there” one of the anchors said.

Shane wanted to laugh like every other time someone compared a sport to surgery. Sometimes surgery was about a steady hand and careful movements, but in orthopedics Shane was jack hammering through people’s bones. He used power tools on a daily basis. He whacked people’s bodies back together with a hammer and a mallet. Hardly something that was delicate.

“We are undoubtedly watching a player who will be inducted into the hall of fame one day, Steve” the other anchor said.

“And to do it, to do this coming off of a major injury is just incredible, he missed the first thirty six regular season games and led this cup run. I don’t think we’ve seen Ilya Rozanov’s best hockey yet. He is playing with a fire I don’t think we’ve ever seen from him” the other anchor replied.

Shane had actual surgery to attend to. He stood up and tugged down his sweats and took off his hoodie, folding them neatly on the bed. He pulled on his green scrubs and clipped his badge on his pocket and left. He didn’t stop thinking about Ilya as he closed the door behind him and his shoes squeaked down the familiar waxed hallway floor.

He thought all the time about him, about all the versions of Ilya. The playful one who made inappropriate comments and made Shane’s cheeks flush. The one who was so scared of feeling that he lashed out. The one who hid his face in Shane’s neck and hummed when he ran fingers through his hair. The one who crumbled in his hands just before he took the ice only to come off of it standing straighter.

Shane was proud of him, he’d always be proud of him and he’d always root for him. He wondered what it would have been like to stand on ice level and see him lift the Stanley Cup and know Shane had watched him fight back and find his love for the game again. Ilya had done all the hard work. Maybe their eyes would have caught, snagged like a hangnail in a cloth and stuck. Maybe Ilya would have changed his mind and come to Shane, kissing him, deciding to love him.

No. Shane had grown out of the cycle of maybes. He left it behind in Boston. He was feeling better these days, still hollow when he stood still too long or thought too much. Numbness still crept in like a hand you slept funny on. Shane was still wounded when he saw eyes almost the same shade as Ilya’s. But all in all he was better. Distance and time rendered him almost a normal person again, oh and counseling too. Shane was still obsessed with work, it filled empty space and empty time.

Shane’s cellphone felt like a brick suddenly in his pocket. There was not much contact between them since Shane left. It was both clear and incredibly unclear where they stood when he left. Ilya called when he was already in the car halfway to Ottawa, Shane was too afraid of what he might say or do if he told him in person. Cowardly, the very thing Ilya had accused him of being. When the call ended, it felt final. They hadn’t talked since.

Shane had fallen asleep last night trying to figure out how to reach out to him, to congratulate him at the minimum.

Shane knew more of what Ilya had fought through for this to happen than anyone. Not acknowledging it felt like belittling the man who woke up speaking Russian from anesthesia, ignoring the man who looked off at a blank wall when talking about his mother and the sadness he inherited from her. If Shane said nothing, it would call the hundreds of hours building his body up again nothing. It wasn’t nothing. Nothing ever was when it came to Ilya.

Shane stopped in the hallway and moved against the wall as a patient in a bed came through pushed by one of the techs. His hand went into his pocket and he scrolled until he found their last messages from months ago.

Congratulations was too impersonal.

I saw every minute, maybe a little too much.

Hey, I’m in love with you! That was way too much.

Shane settled on a message that couldn’t be misconstrued or looked at in any way other than face value. He sent the message not caring if it was early in the morning and Ilya would assume maybe he was drunk or thinking about him too late at night. Shane didn’t care anymore.

He pressed the elevator button and rode it down to the ER. It was loud tonight, and overflowed into the hallways. OTH was the level 1 trauma center in Ottawa, they were busy all the time but tonight specially. One of the patients was strapped to a bed screaming at the intake worker who was standing patiently waiting for information that would never come.

Shane felt his lips tilt up a bit, he liked the hospital. He liked the pace of it and the variety. He liked the people screaming, and the cases coming in he’d only heard about in textbooks, and he loved being back in the OR all the time. There was always someone around and something to do. He’d built a good reputation in his short time at the hospital. He felt like he’d grown up, even if he spent most days off with his parents.

Working in a hospital also felt a lot like a team, everyone had their role and you had to trust the other person to do theirs. Shift work meant that there were beers after work, there were friendships built while wearing non-slip shoes covered in other people’s fluids, and the people around were like him. He didn’t have to explain to them he was socially sometimes too slow and he thought too scientifically.

“Hey Shane” one of the ED attendings lifted a hand and waved at him tiredly. “Sorry for waking you up, but also not all of us get to sleep on the job so” he joked with a smile. Shane rolled his eyes, Lisa Hayes was a good doctor and probably a friend at this point. Lisa clearly thrived off the adrenaline in the ED. Her hair was twisted into an elegant updo that was too fancy to be in the hospital.

“Yea whatever, show me the scans” Shane said as he rolled his neck and a few cracks snapped. Lisa clicked away on a computer at the HUC table and pulled up the scans. Yep, surgical intervention required. Right hip replacement.

“You watch the cup finals?” Lisa asked Shane.

“No I watched football” he rolled his eyes in reply.

“And here I was going to say something nice” Lisa teased with a gentle shove at Shane’s shoulder. “You know that cup is kinda yours too, you put him back together again. Humpty dumpty and all that” Lisa said. Shane glanced up at him before clicking out of the imaging.

“Not at all” he replied, his arms crossing over his chest.

“Wyatt wanted me to hit you if I saw you. I think he was having PTSD watching Rozanov’s goals” she said with a grin. The world of hockey was small, but everywhere he went there was a connection to it. Lisa was married to Wyatt Hayes, a talented MHL goalie that unfortunately landed in Ottawa after being traded from Toronto. He was too good for their crappy team, but Lisa said they were happy here. He was a good player but couldn't stop everything and their offense struggled to covert.

“I had nothing to do with that” Shane replied.

Lisa raised her eyebrows but nodded. “I was also asked to remind you that you’re up this Sunday for bringing the beer since you silenced the group message, Tim is pretty upset with you” Lisa said with judgement.

“I have Tim’s texts silenced too” Shane said.

“Can’t imagine why” Lisa rolled her eyes. “He is obsessed with you, I think his wife is getting concerned,” Lisa said.

Lisa was big on having people over, hosting, and having get togethers. All things Shane didn’t particularly like but was forcing himself to entertain. He wanted friends and some kind of community here. He’d made fast friends with Lisa’s brother Tim at one of their barbecues and with her husband Wyatt too. The three of them often escaped all the other small talking guests to settle around the fire pit and talk hockey.

Tim had brought him to one of his beer league games a few months ago insisting he was just there to watch him play. Tim had played in college and still loved the game. Shane watched a game, and when plenty of the players came up to him to talk about his short career or working with the Raiders he was given a special invitation that Tim insisted was totally unplanned. He couldn’t lie for shit. The league voted on it, Shane was invited to play and was issued a special jersey. It was bright yellow and had “DON’T HIT ME I MIGHT DIE” in large black letters on it. Shane almost vomited the first time he saw it, but his team told him to put it on and before every game they told the other team not to fucking hit him. Surprisingly, everyone agreed and Shane didn’t take the advantage that was given to him, not like he needed it.

Shane was a play maker and let other people’s skills shine. Every now and then he let a shot rip and his team and whatever team they were playing would pay him his respects like he was a god. It was fun, it felt like playing on the pond as a kid. It felt like before all the pressure, all the comments from coaches about how he could be something, before his mother’s lectures on being different, before scouts and rankings. It was just Shane and hockey, something that went together. He drank half of a beer every game and Tim drank the rest of it for him. Shane just couldn’t walk away from hockey entirely. Now instead it lived on Sunday nights and on the TV.

Shane sighed, he admittedly was very much looking forward to beer league hockey every week. “What day is it? Today” Shane asked, still trying to wake up.

“Right now? It's Thursday morning” Lisa said after looking at her watch. Duty hours had a way of warping time zones and the hospital was like the fucking Bermuda triangle sometimes. Shane sighed, he’d be coming off a long week soon and he’d just want to go to bed instead of playing at 9pm to get home sometime after midnight. He opened his mouth to make an excuse for his absence.

“Show up or he’ll kill you” Lisa said in a sing-songy voice. “Wyatt’s going too since he’s in the off season. Needs his ice time”.

“Fine” Shane said with his hands up defensively.

“Don’t spend a fortune on some craft beer either. My brother would drink colored water and think it was Coors and he’s one of the smarter ones” Lisa said and slapped a hand on Shane’s back and gave it a gentle rub.

“Where is the patient?” Shane said.

“In 102 with family” Lisa replied.

Shane straightened his scrubs and rolled his shoulders back until he looked clean, well put together, and confident. The way any family would want a surgeon trusted with someone they loved to act. He walked in with confidence and a compassionate smile and walked them through it all.

Shane loved the process of surgery. He liked all the steps and the little checklist in his head. He liked scrubbing himself clean and the ritual of dressing. He liked watching when the anesthesia finally overtook someone and a person became just a hyper realistic diagram in front of him. Shane was in surgery for about five hours, and the patient was cleaned up with a few new pieces of hardware in her hip that would make a metal detector sing. She was an older lady and that was always a concern, but she went into recovery with everything looking good.

His pager rang at his hip as he finished cleaning up and he sighed. Rest was not going to happen tonight. He pulled out his phone to check the time and stared at his screen and at one missed call on it from Ilya Rozanov.

The call was stamped at 0346 in the morning, sometime between Shane scrubbing in and stepping into the cool operating room Ilya was thinking about him. A voicemail sat on his phone like a loaded gun. Shane went into the bathroom and locked the door and held the phone to his ear with his pulse hammering. He leaned one hand on the sink and listened. It was in Russian, all of it. He didn’t know what it meant exactly, but only that it wasn’t meant to be understood by him.

He could look up words, he could translate them. But he wouldn’t. Shane listened to the voicemail three more times before he slid his phone back into his pocket. He braced both hands on the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same, but he felt different. He felt whatever it was in his chest connecting him to a man a country away stretch and crackle.

 

*
TD Garden
Cup Finals- Game 5
Thirteen Hours Earlier

He glanced at the clock above the locker room door, lineups were read. There was nothing else to talk about, it was just time to do it. Ilya watched as his coach took his spot near the door, he wiped off the white board in his hands with a suit sleeve. He looked expectantly at Ilya.

It wasn’t a coach's job to keep the team together, it was the captain’s. Something he’d been trusted to do for so many seasons he could hardly remember what it felt like to not have the stiff C patch sewn onto his chest. Ilya sat in it for a minute, it’d been a long season. The guys were tired, injured and playing through it, away from their families. Hockey was like a toxic ex, it dragged you back in, it pushed you away and you kept coming back because maybe it’d be good to you this time. It was going to be good to them tonight, they’d fucking earned it. Ilya wanted it, he wanted it bad.

“Okay listen the fuck up” he said as he went to his feet.

He was in his locker room, a place that was theirs. A place they got dressed down after shitty games, a place they laughed and yelled and won cups. The team sat in their stalls, jittery and anxious. Everyone was too individual, too in their own heads. He needed to bring them together and do it fast.

He extended his arms to take up space, the more space he took up the less existed for fear or uncertainty. He was the captain, it was his job to control the room. He didn’t want his team going on the ice with anything other than confidence that this was theirs. It was game 6, they’d taken the first two at home and one away before dropping an away game. They could finish it tonight. They would if he had anything to do about it.

“Look” he said, letting his eyes drift around the room to every veteran who’d been here before and to every rookie who could only imagine the feeling of winning and the weight of the cup in their hands. “I don’t give a fuck how many goals I scored, I don’t give a fuck how I played two nights ago. I don’t need to think about that, that was yesterday. Now I only need one thing” he paused. The room was electric, zipping with anticipation. He turned behind him to look at everyone, his eyes passed over coaches and training staff and stuck for a moment where Shane used to stand in the corner.

“I need to win” Ilya said simply. “Here, at home. Tonight. As much fun as it would be to go to California and humiliate them there I want to hear our fans, I want to hear them scream. I want to fuck San Francisco. I know you can do it, I’ve seen you fucking do it I’ve seen every one of you do it. So leave it all the fuck out there” Ilya yelled. It was their chance to prove themselves, his chance, a chance to create a dynasty in Boston.

“We come back here in three hours as Cup winners. We do it for each other and you do it for yourself” he said loud. “This is our night, this is our fucking cup. Fucking fuck San Francisco!” he yelled until his voice was overtaken by his teammates screaming and collapsing on him until they had their arms wrapped around each other.

They filed out of the room, bouncing off of each other as they jumped and yelled like pin balls off of a paddle. Ilya stepped onto the ice, more sure of himself than he'd ever been. The man who couldn’t bring himself to cross the boards was months behind him. He skated fast around the half of their ice and came to a stop by the bench for his usual routine. The building was packed, the garden was loud. His eyes drifted around to every angle, taking it all in. Hundreds of people were wearing his jersey, thousands there to watch him. But nobody was here for him, no family, no friends off of the ice. It was just him. He was going to play hard because he wanted to, he was going to play hard because he deserved it. Three hours later, they did what they set out to do. Ilya was dripping sweat, and he could feel the swelling in his knee as he skated to the commissioner who was standing next to the small table on a tacky red carpet on the ice. Ilya smiled, a full one that showed all of his mismatched colored teeth. His hands closed around the familiar metal of the cup, fingers pressing into the names inscribed on it, maybe even his own name. He lifted it above his head and laughed, smacking a kiss to it and skating a long and slow ring around the rink. He moved slowly and smoothly, taking it in.

He watched as the fans pressed their fists against the plexi and slammed their hands, people shook his jersey on their chests, some people were crying. Boston never got tired of winning. Ilya sucked in a cold breath and let it out as he rounded San Francisco’s bench and looked at their dejected faces. He didn’t linger long, his eyes flicked to his own bench like they had all season despite trying to stop. He looked for a familiar head of dark hair, a pair of crossed arms over his chest leaning in the corner of the bench with a half hidden smile on his face. He wasn’t there, only the replacement, some balding fifty year old doctor Ilya had exchanged maybe three words with all season.

Shane should be here, Shane should be smiling with pride as Ilya held the cup that was theirs. Ilya would have skated to him with it and he would get to see the awe in Shane’s eyes and the metal reflected in them. Ilya’s won cups before, it shouldn’t feel like it was the first time but it did.

Every other cup win Ilya was skating along, he was physically challenged in that his body was tired, he was tired of making inspiring speeches and rallying his team. He’d never been to a cup final and lost. Today’s win felt different, like he’d skated through the other team’s players, through their defense, and all of the roadblocks he’d put up for himself his entire life. The ghosts were always nipping at his heels, trying to back check him and get him off his game. Ilya knew who he was now and who he wasn’t. He was not perfect, he was still sick and probably always would be. He was always sad but he was no longer uncertain.

He understood what mattered to him now. It was the most significant win of his life, which happened to come on the same day as winning the cup. He handed the cup to Marley, and watched with a grin as he skated around, one player after another after another. The families were on the ice now, and Ilya had nobody to run to. He let himself watch, resting somewhere near the bench as his teammates picked up their children and tossed them on their shoulders, hugged their family and kissed their wives.

Ilya was done envying others.

When they finally went back to the locker room, it was coated in thin plastic sheeting and there were dozens of champagne bottles littered around. The plastic sheets were thin enough he could see through to his stall, CAPTAIN ILYA ROZANOV the top of his stall said. He’d lived in this stall and in this city for over a decade. He’d filled the rafters of TD Garden with cup banners, he had more trophies than he could fathom, and collected every accolade that mattered. He wasn’t challenged here anymore, what he wanted didn’t live in this city.

He knew that he was done here, that to move on and grow he needed to leave the city where he’d hidden and hurt himself for so many years.

Ilya popped the champagne bottles, he took a drink from the cup, he laughed with his team and accepted hugs and kisses on the cheek. He let the social media team take too many photos of him. When he was swept out to the media, sticky and dripping wet with champagne, he hardly complained.

He fell into the media room laughing, his hair soaked and his bare chest sticky. His fingers found his mother’s pendant and he squeezed it tightly in his fingers. There were too many cameras in his face with their flashes on and reporters hungrily holding out their recorders towards him. He answered their questions, he didn’t say everything he wanted to and he left the media room.

Ilya went out with his team, one club to another, players stumbling in the streets drinking too much and laughing too loudly. Ilya had one drink, one glass of top shelf Russian vodka and soaked it all in. Sometime between the third and fourth bar his phone dinged in his pocket. One unread message sat on his lock screen too late in the morning, hours after he’d won.

 

Shane Hollander: You deserve this. I'm proud of you.

 

Just a handful of words from Shane Hollander. The words were too simple and too complex, moving too quickly and too slowly.

Ilya must have stopped walking, because he’s suddenly alone on the sidewalk as his team carried on loudly ahead of him. He locked the phone screen without opening the message, just so it could sit there untouched for a while, pure and simple. Ilya made it thirty minutes before he was out in an alleyway of the bar pressing the phone to his ear, head back against exposed brick and the neutral ringing going far too long. The phone clicked, and his voice was there.

“You’ve reached Shane Hollander, leave me your number and I’ll call back when I can” he said.

Ilya smiled, he wondered how many times he recorded and re-recorded that message until he finally settled on this one. Ilya wanted to hang up, he wanted to know that all Shane would see when he woke up or maybe if he was screening him was just the one call.

He didn’t know what to say. But when the phone beeped and it was just the quiet air of a voicemail box, the idea of hanging up and saying nothing was too much.

There were a few beats of silence as Ilya tried to gather what he wanted to say.

“Shane” the name slipped out of his mouth with more reverence than Ilya deserved to have.

The rest of the words were stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had too much to say suddenly and it felt like his mouth was wired shut.

He thought of him, sun on his face in the car while driving, soft eyes on the couch while Ilya talked. His head pressed against Ilya’s chest with a soft smile while he spoke Russian words Shane didn’t know the meaning of.

When Ilya opened his mouth again, it was Russian that fell out. “I know I shouldn’t call. I know I shouldn’t want to, but it is stupid to pretend I want anything but you. You should have been here tonight. I wanted you here’’ He chuckled a quiet laugh. “I hope for your sake you have not been waiting for me, but I hope for my sake you are” he said quietly. He’d run out of time, the call ended and the words were gone, dissipated into the air like smoke.

He stared at his cellphone. Nothing happened. The screen went dark after a minute of no use. He stayed in the alleyway, for a few minutes breathing in the air that smelled like a gritty city. He opened up a message to his agent and pressed send.

 

*
Two Weeks Later
Ottawa Rec Center
Beer League Post Game

 

Shane waved goodbye to the last of his teammates who were headed to the locker room with cases of beers.

“You don’t have anyone on your team who would shoot around on you?” Shane asked again as he stripped off the god awful jersey so he was in a long sleeve. He texted a reply to Hayden’s message and tossed his phone in his bag.

“I feel like he’s answered that three times or am I hallucinating? Am I hallucinating?” Tim asked as he skated a small circle by the bench. The ice was chopped up pretty good from a few hours of less than perfect hockey and Tim’s skate caught in a divot and he almost fell. Wyatt pointed and laughed at him and Tim flipped him off.

Wyatt paid off the zamboni guy a hundred bucks and a case of beer to give them a couple more hours of ice time.

“I think I’ve said it four times actually” Wyatt said as he lumbered through the gates with all of his goalie gear on and into the ice rink. Ottawa hadn’t even come close to making the playoffs this year, or in the past ten or so years so Wyatt and the Centaurs were enjoying their summer break. The players were responsible for finding their own ice time until training camp.

Wyatt really wanted to spend some of that time with Shane.

Shane wasn’t exactly coaching him per se, but when they’d first met and Wyatt was complaining about letting goals in the three hole Shane gave him an honest answer on why it was happening so much. Wyatt could have dismissed him, but he didn’t. Shane’s strength in hockey other than speed and accuracy was always vision and analytics.

Shane had given Wyatt a few of his observations, a few stats on players and their tells, and Wyatt wanted more.

“I’m just saying you could have real players shooting on you” Shane said as he knocked a few pucks out of the bucket on the ice by the blueline.

Wyatt yanked his mask down in the goal and crouched down. “Shane buddy, if you don’t shut up and start shooting” Wyatt said. Shane collected one of the pucks on his stick’s blade and flicked it with speed and accuracy into the 3 hole and into the net. Wyatt hadn’t moved.

“Bro” Wyatt yelled, his stick clanging against the goal post in a metallic groan. Shane threw him a grin. Tim pointed and laughed at his brother in law like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

“You dick” Wyatt muttered and reset for the next one. Shane and Tim took turns, passing and moving and one of them shooting unexpectedly. Wyatt was good, fast and he played aggressively when they strayed close to the crease and was patient when the puck was outside of his reach.

They chatted while they shot around, and after a couple hundred shots on goal everyone was tired. Tim had given up a half hour ago and was sitting on the bench half asleep. They collected all the pucks and made their way to join him.

“So is anyone good coming in?” Shane asked as Wyatt started molting his goalie skin.

“We drafted some European rookie who is supposed to be hot shit whose just now coming up” he shrugged, “We need more though if we actually want to win more than like ten games. Maybe some other trades but I don’t know, we’ll see” he huffed.

“How’s the room?” Shane asked. He was always curious. An organization’s values and what they tolerated always showed up in the locker room.

“Really good. Fun even?” he smiled, “To be fair my only comparison is Toronto which was a total fucking shit show. Bigots, racists, rapists, all of the bad shit” he shook his head.

“How was Boston’s?” Wyatt asked.

Shane shrugged, “They’re a good group of guys”.

“I can only imagine the shenanigans with Rozanov” Wyatt said with a smirk. Shane tried to look normal, unaffected.

“He’s not as bad as he pretends to be, he’s a really good guy” Shane insisted, hoping he didn’t sound as in love as he still was with him.

“I believe it. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to talk shit. I know you guys are buddies” Wyatt said with a nod. Shane waved him off with a hand. “I heard a rumor about him” Wyatt continued.

“Oh?” Shane replied, hiding his face as he picked up the puck bucket.

“I heard he might be looking for an out of Boston I mean, one of the guys from Toronto was at his table for the MLH awards and said he wasn't shutting down the rumor” Wyatt said. Shane hauled the bucket up, ignoring the twinge in his lower back. Ilya won MVP again, among other things.

He hadn’t heard that, but why would he? He wasn’t a player, they weren’t talking other than a middle of the night text and a voicemail in Russian. If he was leaving, where the hell would he go? Somewhere out West, maybe in California where he would be one of a million beautiful people out there. Shane looked up at Wyatt, trying for neutral.

“So?” Wyatt said, eyes wide and waiting for a response.

“So what?” Tim asked as he polished the last of his beer at the bench.

“Have you heard anything? Can you maybe check in with him and see if he’s looking. Maybe drop in that Ottawa has a lot of cap space and a goalie who really doesn’t want to play him anymore?” Wyatt asked, clasping his hands together in front of him and shaking them like a child begging their parents.

“Why do I have to do it?” Shane asked with a sigh.

Tim snorted, “Maybe because ESPN won’t stop playing commercials for your rivals to besties movie thing”. Shane rolled his eyes, they really were hyping it up a lot.

“I don’t think so, he’ll make whatever decision is best for him” Shane said to Wyatt who grumbled under his breath.

“But what about what’s best for me?” Wyatt whined and jutted out his lower lip like a begging child.

“You can start by getting your blocker up quicker” Shane smirked, Wyatt groaned and Tim laughed.

Chapter End Notes

Stand behind me Shane.

Me writing this chapter with empty months and nothing going on in them = Bella Swan looking out her window depressed (there’s a possibilityyyy). I do happen to have a twilight WIP and a one shot on my page if you are interested....

Chapter 20: OH! Canada?

Chapter Notes

HOWDY bitches.

Yes, another update, the 3rd in a week. IDK i'm balling out I guess.

I’m feeling Shane’s voice more in the last few chapters, so please trust Ilya is behind the scenes improving himself, trying to get better for himself and his BOY. Oh and also scheming.

July
Hollander Cottage

 

Shane watches the ESPN hour special from his parents couch a day before the Stanley Cup Parade in Boston. ESPN was getting their return on their investment and Shane was sure the talent lead was getting a bonus.

Shane had exactly two fingers or so of his Dad’s Russian vodka he kept in the house, and meditated before. He anticipated needing a little help emotionally regulating. The vodka felt fitting and the taste was just as bitter and stomach churning as the way Shane and Ilya left each other.

The production team offered him to review the final cut and make any edits he wanted which Shane declined and passed off to his mother. He trusted her to make the right decisions for him. They’d offered to send a film crew down to Ottawa after the cup finals for a few more quotes from Shane which he declined. He was done, and they had their hero ending with Ilya winning the cup and playoffs MVP, they couldn’t really need anything more from him. It was about celebrating Ilya, not him.

Shane didn’t particularly want to watch it, but his mother insisted. Shane was nervous, scared even. He wondered how all the jokes, the laughs, the easiness and the eventual distance that existed between them would translate on the screen. How people would see them and if they could see through it.

The documentary opened with a dark screen and only audio. “There hasn’t been a talent like this out of Russia in a while. Ilya Rozanov, only eighteen years old, is explosive. He is an unstable element out there that defense just can’t handle” the audio faded and was replaced by another, this time talking about Shane.

“Shane Hollander was born to be a franchise player. You look at this kid and you see the IQ of a coach, you don’t see a teenager. You see the composure and skill of a man” the audio floated out and was replaced by another and another and another until it was just voices talking over the other. The screen lit with footage from the first prospect cup, Ilya and Shane bent over at half ice, Ilya and Shane battling for dominance against the boards. Ilya stripped the puck from Shane and turned, sending a pass to his wing and receiving it back at the blue line and slapping it home. Shane bent over at the waist at the end of the 3rd as the Russian team celebrated a win. Ilya’s cocky grin filled the screen as he held his metal and held up one finger for a photo.

“You have to think about Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov coming up in the same draft class as if there were two Gretzky’s in the making. The same position, the same age, same dominance at the same time” a voice said, a former player and current MHL news anchor explained. “They were like fire and ice. Rozanov was all fire, fight, grit. Hollander was all finesse, tempo, and patience” he explained.

“You were, still are” his mother said from next to him and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“The idea of a rivalry was inevitable, how could it not be? They were equally talented point producers, and it was neck and neck going into the draft” the anchor said.

A few clips played from the draft on a shaky camera, some professional shots mixed with home videos. One of the videos was on a shaky hand held camera lifted over the heads of some audience members. “With the first overall selection in the 2008 MHL draft, the Boston Raiders select, Ilya Rozanov” the announcer said and the video audio was full of clapping. The video followed Ilya as he climbed the stairs, jostling back and forth. The video showed him looking through the crowd. “Think he’s looking for Hollander?” the voice behind the camera asked whoever they were with.

A different clip showed Shane’s selection as he rose to his feet and fell into the arms of his parents who hugged him tightly and proudly before he climbed the stage and accepted his jersey.

“It wasn’t just two opponents who were equally effective with different play styles, it was east versus west. It was the wholesome and humble kid from a good family with well thought out media answers against a harsh Russian kid who knew he was the best and was going to make everyone else know it too. Then they were drafted to two divisional rival teams. It was the perfect storm” the anchor said. “They were going to redefine modern hockey, against each other but together”.

“Boston and Montreal are original six teams with a lot of history. Both struggled to be playoff contenders. They were building their teams around these kids” a hockey podcast host commented.

Then footage from the next prospect cup flashed, another faceoff. Shane ripped down the middle and threw his body as if he was sending the pass before whipping it into the goal instead. Shane gave a dignified celebration with his team. The goal horn blew. Ilya was bent over at the waist as Canada celebrated, a near perfect mirror to Shane the previous year as he skated the other direction.

“The pressure these kids were under was unbelievable. They were at the top of their fields, all eyes were on them. The comparisons never stopped. Their rivalry was in place almost from day one” the podcaster said.

“Shane Hollander was Canada’s pride, their draft pick. Born and raised in Ottawa, and everyone who knew hockey knew this kid was going to bring Montreal a cup. It was just a matter of when. But then he disappeared” the anchor added.

The screen flashed to some wide video of a hockey rink. Shane didn’t know exactly what he was looking at first, until he placed that it was a video of the Metros practice rink and the video was of training camp. The camera was elevated at half ice, somewhere in the stands. His breath caught in his chest. Of course there would be video, all practices were taped. He just didn’t ever consider the moment his life changed course was on video and everyone was going to see it.

Shane stood suddenly, the blanket falling off of his lap. His father hurried to pause the video, it stopped but it was stuck on a scene Shane saw behind his eyes too many times but never from this angle. Shane’s body was paused midstride, leaning forward as he was just about to pass the goal, only a second away from it all being taken away from him. The player behind him was giving him chase. It was something Shane never saw from an outside perspective, only through the tunnel vision of chasing the puck.

“Shane” his mother said gently from behind him. His body was tight. “Hey, hey” he heard her voice.

Shane sat back down to the couch and he breathed, his chin tucked to his chest tightly and his mother’s comforting hand on his back. He needed to move past it. He sucked in another breath and pushed it out.

“Press play” he said.

“Shane we can skip it, we can shut the whole thing off” David said, teary eyed and sitting up the slouchy recliner to his right.

“I’ll watch it, I just didn’t expect to see this. Press play” he said, clearing his throat.

David trusted his son whose eyes were also a bit wet like his father’s.

He pressed play and Shane saw it, quick movements and then suddenly a slam. His back ached in a way he knew was a sympathetic groan from what his eyes just watched. The video showed him laying there, unmoving and unconscious as the medical team hurried out to assess him, loaded him onto a spinal board and moved him off the ice as the team mulled around the ice. He never saw the players reactions or the coaches, most of the players were frozen in shock and the coaches were outraged.

“Hockey was my entire life” his own voice echoed around the dark screen. “It was all I thought about, all I cared about. I thought I would be playing until I was forty” Shane said. “The next thing I remember, I’m waking up in the hospital” his voice says.

“Nobody knew exactly what happened” the anchor’s voice overlapped.

“I woke up in a hospital bed totally immobilized. The first thing I asked before I could even move was when I could play hockey again” Shane said. “Then the metros released me, we learned about it from social media. I hadn’t talked to a doctor yet and didn’t even know what happened to me, my family didn’t know the extent of my injuries but my team did. I was destroyed” his voice said and then suddenly he was there, sitting on a stool on the ice in Boston, cheeks too flushed and eyes shining from the lighting.

The screen filled with a tweet from the Metro’s official account tweet, a simple stupid sentence probably ten social media professionals put together. Social media responses filled the screen, some in support of Shane, some slamming the Metros, and some saying Shane was choking and covering it all up.

“NO OMG”

 

“GET BETTER SOON WE NEED YOU HOLLANDER”

 

“WELP there goes Montreal’s cup run”

 

“The pressure got to him, probs a mental breakdown”

 

“Rozanov cast a spell on him at the draft”

 

“Rozanov is probably laughing somewhere right now”

 

“Montreal is just going to release him like that? This must be really bad?”

 

“I fractured my back in four places, and sustained a traumatic brain injury. I was told no matter how strong I got or how well I recovered, if I played hockey again any hit could leave me paralyzed or kill me” Shane said. “I don’t blame anyone” he said simply and honestly. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t kill me walking away”.

“He disappeared, there was no statement. There was no clarification from the Metros” the anchor said. “Fans felt like they were owed something from him, from the organization” the podcaster said.

“I mourned for a long time, I tried fighting back. I saw every doctor I could get an appointment with” Shane told the camera. “And then I moved on, because I had to”. A brief video of Shane graduating from college shaking hands and posing for a photo on the UCLA stage played with his mother cheering in the background. A short video clip played of younger Shane slipping on his white coat with a grin and hope on his face. A clip of his degrees hanging on the wall in his office.

Then Ilya was there, sitting in the rink like Shane had, his hair a little wild and curling half over his forehead and his eyes almost green from the bright lighting. “I was at training camp when I heard. I am selfish person. I was not happy as some suggested, I was angry. I was cheated out of the player I could have become playing against Hollander” Ilya said. “I wanted to know what happened like everyone else,” Ilya said.

The screen then skipped to Ilya, Ilya’s rookie year, his first goal, accepting the rookie of the year trophy. Then MVP after MVP after MVP, cup after cup. Clips of the news talking about his unprecedented points and how he couldn’t be stopped.

Then Shane was back, “It wasn’t just a sport to me, Hockey was my identity. It had run my life, my parent’s lives, it was everything I’d worked for and loved, and it was gone in an instant” Shane said simply.

He was replaced by Ilya. “I was always good at it, the best”. More videos of Ilya, barking in a linesman’s face, Ilya dropping his gloves and swinging his fists in a scrap on the ice. Goal after goal after goal.

“Nobody could keep up with him, not even his own teammates. The only other person who could wasn’t in the sport anymore” the anchor said with a shrug.

Shane’s lips turned up at the edges, “I had a few doctors I worked with between surgeries and getting too many second opinions. Some of them were former athletes, one of them was a big ten college hockey player. I didn’t have to explain to him how I was feeling, or the desperation to get back onto the ice. If I couldn’t come back to the thing I loved, I wanted to be able to help others have a fighting chance” Shane said simply.

“So I went to medical school, I worked and learned. I interned with the 49ers briefly” a short clip of Shane on the sidelines of a game played as he handed out bottles to players. “Then I started at the Sox”. A video of Hayden and Shane running out to the grass played as a player was on the ground with an injury. “And then the Raiders” Shane said, a small smile on his face.

A video of Shane’s first game with the Raider’s played, and some commentary about the former hockey player turned team doctor accompanied some camera zooms to him nodding his head after a Rozanov goal.

“The Boston staff was very welcoming, the players as well. By the time I was coming in, it was over twelve years since I left the game. I thought whoever may have known me would have forgotten about me, Rozanov included” Shane said honestly.

“This rivalry” the Ilya on the screen waved his hand around and rolled his eyes, “Never was hate, it was respect and competition”.

“I watched every game I could. I watched every cup final. Nobody could stop him” Shane shrugged with a small smile and with warmth in his eyes. “Then I was watching in person” Shane said.

“Shane was a great addition to the team” the Boston coach said, sitting stiffly at his desk. “He knows hockey better than some of our coaching staff” he shrugged. “He knew how to relate to the team and how to make the work of preparing your body to return to the game about hockey and not just healing. The team took to him immediately”.

“It was like watching an alternate universe of what could have been. Shane on the bench watching what should have been his career out on the ice” the hockey podcaster said.

“It was an adjustment, like anything else” Shane said magnanimously.

Then in another parallel, game video of the game against Winnipeg played. The players taking the ice, clips of warmups and Ilya knocking helmets with Marley. Ilya’s two goals, with him chirping in the face of Winnipeg’s center. A shot of Ilya sitting in the penalty box looking rather bored. Then Shane was in the corner of the bench with his arms folded. Ilya tore down the ice and the video played. Ilya hit the ice, and Shane was held back by the team as he tried to go over the boards.

“Rozanov goes down hard and that doesn’t look good, it looks like he was trying to get up but couldn’t” the announcer said. Then Shane was on the ice on his knees next to him, and holding guard. A replay of his injury is shown at a different angle and the injury is obvious.

“I should have been angrier than I was about it” Ilya said on the screen with a shrug. “I went to hospital, tore a bunch of ligaments in my knee. Hollander came with me” Ilya said simply. “He was like dog, barking at coaches, at team, he made sure I knew what is happening before anyone else” Ilya said. “Kind of person who makes you feel small, not because he tries to do this. Because he is that good and that…predanny” he said the last word in Russian and then corrected it, ”devoted to cause”. The way he said it made something heavy flair in Shane’s chest.

“I understood on a lot of levels what that kind of injury does, the pressure you feel from the fans, and the organization” Shane said. “I’ve worked with enough professional teams now to know that you’re lucky if an organization sees you as a person rather than just a line item in their cap space. When you sign a contract you’re an asset, until they don’t need you anymore. Professional athletics is a business” Shane said, not a hint of bitterness in his voice, only simple facts. “I wasn’t going to let what happened to me happen to him, there was no way” Shane said firmly.

“Doctor tell me I could play again, and would need surgery” Ilya said, a small quirk of his lips overtook his expression. “Everyone was so apologetic and so upset, I did not feel the loss like people wanted me to. I was almost relieved to have break” he finished. “I know I am lucky to play a game professionally” Ilya shrugged. “I was tired, Hollander would not let me be tired”.

“He is the best active player. There was no pressure on me, there was only pressure on him” Shane said. “I operated on him myself” Shane said, they rolled in short clips they’d taken of Shane scrubbing in for a fake surgery he remembered feeling like a fucking fool shooting.

They weren’t attached to the ESPN project when Ilya went through surgery, but the producers insisted on getting some shots of Shane in his element. “The surgery is simple enough. I’ll be taking part of Rozanov’s hamstring and fashioning it into a new tendon. It gets anchored into his bones and should be functional with plenty of rest and rehabilitation” Shane said as he dressed into his gowns and followed him into a prepped OR. “The general recovery for his injuries is around the year mark, but everybody is different. We did a lot of work ahead of surgery to get him as strong as possible” Shane explained.

“He explained I could come back the same player or a different player. I think I have come back different ” Ilya said.

“What was a rivalry, these two young men pitted against each other in the past gave way to something different. Hollander built him back up and Rozanov gave him hell the whole way, as he does to everyone” Coach said with a chuckle.

“There was no evil rivalry, there was always respect. Friendship now. He understands me” Ilya dismissed.

Then it was clips, videos of them interacting, easy smiles and jokes from Rozanov. Some that Shane would laugh at sometimes he would scowl. Some of the videos showed Rozanov clutching the table as Shane caused him considerable pain in the name of healing.

“He’s not just a good player or a good captain, he’s just a really good guy. He comes off harsh, sure” Shane said.

There were several days of Ilya laying on the bed, brace on his knee as he grit his teeth doing simple leg lifts not long after his surgery. They show a clip of them in the training room early on, Ilya is only a few weeks out from surgery.

“Rozanov how are you feeling right now?” a producer asks off camera.

“Like dead animal on road, road death” he said as a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Roadkill” Shane corrected with a levity in his voice. Ilya shot him a glare. “Some roadkill has better muscle tone than you right now, keep going” Shane said as he watched Rozanov from just aside his bed. He grumbled some response in Russian they didn’t need to translate to get the gist of. He grit his teeth and kept going.

Every shot was a quiet display of Shane’s love, love for hockey, for healing, and love for Ilya before he even knew he was feeling it. They caught Shane’s sternness, their bickering, the light in their eyes and the anger that sometimes replaced it. They showed both of their competitiveness. They showed Shane yelling at him to move faster, adjust, push harder. They showed the grit of Ilya’s teeth as his legs wobbled from exhaustion in the weight room and the tenacity of his eyes.

They showed everything that Shane missed because he was too busy in his own head, they showed how Ilya looked at him. He never noticed it, not until it was here on film being watched by who knows how many other people. Ilya looked at him the way Shane looked at Ilya. Shane thought he was see through, that anyone could see that there was more than just a professional relationship and a tentative friendship between them. He felt his mother’s eyes on his face on commercial breaks, and his parents let him sit quietly without interruption or questions.

Shane talked through his process, and the viewer slowly watched Ilya’s progression from immobility to running. They didn’t see the hours spent between them, just them two, talking about everything. Gentle touches that gave way to hungrier ones.

Then they showed Ilya’s first day back on the ice. Shane knew the scene well, he’d seen it with his own eyes. He’d only focused on Ilya though. Shane’s figure moved around the ice with ease and Ilya stood at the edge of the bench looking serious and pensively at the ice.

“Alright get on the ice” Shane heard his own voice clear as day. He watched Ilya’s hesitation the same way he saw it that day, just from another angle over his shoulder. Shane saw his own body straighten up as he read the man in front of him.

“Crap, sorry guys! I forgot to grab some things for drills, we’ll be back in a minute” Shane called back to the cameras. “Lockeroom” he said. A shot of panic ripped through Shane, he remembered this. He remembered giving Ilya a talk in the locker room, he’d forgotten

Video of the empty ice they departed played but the audio kept playing. “Ilya” Shane heard his own voice, gentle like talking to a wounded animal.

“What?” Ilya’s voice was harsh, something rustled and muffled the audio for a moment.

Shane felt sick, he didn’t remember everything that was said in that locker room. Shane glanced at his mother who met his eyes with a sharp assessment of him. She’d never let them leave in anything that would hurt him, Ilya would never agree to anything that he wasn’t comfortable with.

“Ilya” he heard his own voice say carefully. Nobody knew that this was after heartbreak, during heartbreak, with a deep and cold trench between them.

“What?” he snapped, self defensive and prickly.

“You don’t have to do this today” Shane said. “It’s normal not to trust your body” Shane said simply.

“It’s not that” Ilya replied, harsh.

“What is it then?” Shane was patient and kind. A brief pause stretched between them.

“I’m not afraid” Ilya told him, but it was in his voice, highlighted and accented and underlined.

“Get out of your head and make a decision” Shane said.

“I don’t give a _____” they bleeped out the audio of Ilya cursing.

“You wouldn’t be upset if you didn’t care” Shane pointed out evenly. “If you really wanted to be done with hockey you already would be”.

“I do not care about this Hollander” anyone who was listening could tell it was a lie.

“You do” Shane said. “Nobody’s going to take it from you if you admit that you do” he said simply.

“I am just going to disappoint them” Ilya heard himself say.

“So what? You quit something you love? Give it up before it can give you up?” Shane posed the question.

“Who is it that you're so afraid of disappointing? Who is more important than you getting to do something you care about?” he asked.

“This is stupid, is just ice” he grumbled, the anger leaching out of his voice.

“I went to the rink probably twenty times before I got myself to step on the ice”, Shane said quietly. “You’re not stupid” he insisted. "Not about this" he said.

Then there was rustling. The image of the placid and empty rink that stood still in their absence had movement again as they reemerged back into the view of the camera. Ilya stepped onto the ice this time. They showed him move and gain confidence each lap that he took, they showed him watching Shane carefully as Shane flew around the rink skating fast with poorly concealed joy.

“It’s important when we’re talking about healing the body that athletes also need to address healing their mind” a sports psychologist and author of the book “Return to Okay Protocol” came onto the screen in a very typical psychologist’s office. “There is always going to be some hesitation. There will always be a trauma connection between the injury mechanism and your mind” he said. “Players often experience those mental blocks, even the best athletes in the world”.

“Ilya how does it feel to be back?” a voice off the screen asked as Ilya was standing in front of the boards after just getting off of the ice after his first skate back.

“Good, this is very easy to me” he said simply, but it was with a grin he never had in the media room. He looked cocky, he sounded cocky, but after hearing his fear in their conversation his self protective posturing was clear. The audience would be sympathetic, someone who thought Ilya Rozanov was only an asshole would be second guessing themselves.

Then they showed stick handling drills, Shane and Ilya working together on the ice. Sharp passes as Ilya moved confidently, Ilya skating hard and coming to sharp stops, redirecting his power and flicking shots on goal. His confidence grew until it filled up the screen. His expression of anger or frustration gave way to something lighter until there were no more empty ice training sessions and Ilya was back with his team.

“He’s our captain” Marley fidgeted on the bench as the camera came up tight on him at practice. “Of course it’s good to have him back, he’s our leader out there. He’s coming back stronger, like something is different” he nodded as he yanked his helmet strap off.

Then it was only Ilya again on the ice and a voice overlapped it. “How did you stay motivated over the almost year you weren’t playing?” he was asked. Ilya’s smile faltered, like he was deciding how honest he should be.

“I didn’t” he was honest, “There were many times I thought I would not come back, and maybe didn’t want to” Ilya said simply. “There were times after my injury where I was relieved” he said.
“I talked for months with Hollander about if I quit or not. If I would even come back. He did not push, he let me figure it out on my own” Ilya said.

“I started hockey after my mother died. I was twelve” Ilya said. He was sitting in the locker room in a Raider’s zip up leaning against his locker. “My father dropped me off at the rink, it was easier for me to be gone I think” Ilya said simply. “It was not always something I loved, not for a while at least”.

He shrugged. “This sport gave me a new country, money, freedom. Success my mother could never imagine for her son. It gives me so much, but it takes. I let it take and it becomes a job, not a game I love. It becomes a way to please everyone but myself and sometimes you think you don’t deserve this, being pleased” he said thoughtfully, eyes clear and mouth twisted up into an unusual shape. “There is history of mental health problems in my family, I am not exempt and I ignore for too long” Ilya said. “Once you’re feeling like that it’s hard to feel any other way”. He said.

Shane watched the screen with rapt attention, it was an openness he’d earned with Ilya through hundreds of hours of building trust and some kind of relationship he was willingly putting on display for anyone who wanted to watch it.

“What changed?” the person behind the camera asked.

“Hearing someone else say it, that they saw me not caring and noticed it. But after that, me. I changed it” he said simply. Clips of his old games played, how he sometimes skated slowly or the far off look in his eyes as coaching staff yelled at him. The slow celebration after scoring like it was just another day. Those clips faded into the recent ones, bright eyes through his mask, a grin that stretched from ear to ear and a hunger that was obvious.

“Who noticed it?” he was asked.

Ilya’s tongue darted out to lick his lips, “Hollander did, he told me I play with no passion. Like I have nothing to prove. He said Scott Hunter was better center than me. I could not stand for this” Ilya’s lips quirked up.

“What did you have to say about that?” the producer asked.

Ilya’s lips turned up into a smile, “Will ESPN let me curse?”. The answer was clearly no, as they skipped to the next clip of him. They played out his historic season, his return to the ice in a regular season game and his goal. They showed Ilya seeking out Shane and Shane’s proud smile on the bench.

“Scoring that first goal again, feeling the room and the fans. It woke me back up” Ilya said. “

“Hollander resigned from the team after the game. Any idea why?” a producer asked.

“This is for him to say. I would have liked him to stay” Ilya shrugged, “But I understand” he said simply. “He promised to get me back to game and he did. His career is his own, he owed me nothing. I am grateful to have worked with him” he said simply.

“Rozanov went on to have a truly historic season. When you think of comebacks, you never think of such a long period of time. Rozanov was putting up points that seemed impossible. Boston easily made playoffs” the hockey podcaster said.

A long compilation of goals, plays, and playoff games ended with the cup finals. They showed gritty clips of hits where Ilya knocked players off of their feet, fights with sharp punches and sharper words being exchanged. The buzz of the crowd and the jostle of the camera when he scored.

“Nobody knew that this wasn’t just a comeback of his body and play, it was a mental reset. He came back as a new player. And he won the cup” the hockey podcaster said.

“Do you feel like you achieved a comeback?” the question was asked and footage of the cup final played.

“Physically and mentally, yes” Ilya replied simply.

“What’s next for you?” a producer asked. Ilya shrugged with a bright smile. The show ended with the usual uplifting messages, videos of Ilya volunteering with kids, and people commenting on his hockey prowess. It was a fluffy piece with honesty people wouldn’t expect from Ilya.

Shane was sitting with his leg crossed on the couch almost too casual. It felt wrong, like wearing someone else’s expression. He stood up and went into his room. He wasn’t upset, he wasn’t angry. He just missed him, and how easy things used to be.

“Shane” his mother knocked on his bedroom door. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and she pushed the door open and closed it behind her.

“You okay baby?” she asked as she sat on the bed next to him. She grabbed one of his hands and put both of hers on it.

“Yeah” he said, not entirely believing it.

“He seems like a really special person” Yuna said.

“He is” Shane said quietly.

“Was he, is he the one you’re upset over?” Yuna asked, they’d seen it. How could he deny it? Every touch was stamped into his skin, Shane couldn’t lie but he couldn’t be truthful.

"Was I that obvious?" Shane asked with a nervous chuckle. Yuna shrugged.

"You're my only child Shane, I know you" She replied. "I think" she said carefully, "Maybe you should talk to him, it doesn't seem as unrequited as you said baby".

“We can’t talk about this Mom” Shane said simply.

“Okay” she replied, but the understanding was clear as she rubbed a gentle hand down his back.

 

*
July
Hollander Cottage

 

Shane was at his parents house bent over the grill counting slowly in his head like every time he cooked steaks. He’d tried every kitchen timer and it was always too done or not done enough no matter what, for some reason counting to a predetermined number made for a perfectly cooked medium steak. He was in the middle of counting when the news breaks.

“Holy shit” Yuna said from a sun chair on the deck.

“What?” his Dad asked.

“Ilya Rozanov” she stuttered. Shane snapped his head to his mother, metal tongs clattering to the deck. She blinked at her phone screen, eyes wide. The worst possible options went through his head: married, injured, outed, deported, dead?

“What? Rozanov what?” Shane urged. She flipped her cellphone to show him the screen and Shane’s eyes moved quickly across the phone screen. His stomach flipped.

“Jesus Christ Mom, I thought he died or something” Shane complained, the panic in his body subsiding to a hum of something else that was too fragile to name. Hope maybe?

“I mean his career died, but he’s fine” Yuna said. “Maybe he did get a concussion in the cup finals” she muttered to herself.

“What am I missing?” David asked as he wiped foam from his beer off of his lip. Shane and Yuna were all keyed up and he could have been on vacation he was so relaxed.

“Rozanov got traded to Ottawa” Yuna said as Shane’s eyes continued to scan the statement.

There was no fucking way. There was no reason. Why would he come to Ottawa? Why the fuck would he be in Ottawa?

“Holy shit” Shane muttered, passing the phone back to his mother. The Centaurs were a losing team, they hadn’t made playoffs in as long as he could remember.

“Well hey, I guess maybe you two can be friends again. We should buy tickets before they get too expensive” David suggested from his chair and Yuna shot him a disbelieving look.

Shane’s phone buzzed no more than fifteen times in the next minute.

 

Hayden: WTF is he stalking you or something?

 

Jackie: Call me when you stop having a panic attack. Love you!

 

Group Message with Tim and Wyatt:

Tim: HOLY FUCKING FUCK

Wyatt: I’m going to cry

Wyatt: Shane please tell me you had a part in this. I’m going to kiss you on the mouth.

Wyatt: Oh my fucking god. This is the best day of my life.

Tim: Wyatt if you don’t give me tickets for the opener I will kill you in your sleep.

Wyatt: Shane I need to know what he likes. I want him to feel welcome

Wyatt: Should i give him a welcome basket or something?

Wyatt: Oh my god Lisa’s going to want to invite him over

Tim: I am fucking coming over lmk when please omhg

Tim: He likes women, get him a bunch of those

 

Pucksluts Groupchat

John (beer league): HOLY FUCKGNG SHUT

Joey (beer league): What?

Steven (beer league): I think I just came in my pants in the Tim Hortons

Lucas (beer league): Bro. BRO. WTF is going on?????

Bryan (beer league): I just fell to my knees

 

Shane burned the fucking steaks.

 

*
July
Boston

 

Ilya’s trade to Ottawa goes through, things are quiet at first. Then they explode. He spends too much time trying to figure out if he should reach out to Shane, or saying anything to him at all. He decides against it. Everyone looks at him like he was mid mental breakdown, the team asked him if they did something wrong. His answer is simple and consistent, no you didn’t do anything wrong and this is for me.

The team throws him a night out full of drinking and begging him to stay, he accepts it and one drink and makes his way home without any regrets.

His locker was cleared out already from the end of the season, and he knew logically that there was no reason to go back to the rink. He wasn’t a sentimental person, if he was maybe he’d care more that he was leaving a city he grew up in and became a man in. He’d borrowed parts of people he came into contact with in Boston, he’d borrowed nights out with Marley doing unspeakable things. He’d lent himself to this team, his body to the city.

He’d said all the goodbyes and thank yous there were to say, and dismissed the begging that followed for him to stay. He loaded his gear into his newest and now only car. A practical SUV, black and luxurious, boring. All of his sports cars had new homes now. He didn’t want to be flashy anymore, he didn’t want things that meant nothing around him anymore. The SUV would be good in the snow and would be easy to make the drive over when he left tomorrow.

Ilya left his place furnished when he sold it, he didn’t care for the meaningless art on the walls that made it feel as somber as a museum. He took some clothes, donated the rest that he wouldn’t have a use for.

He was moving light, things didn’t matter. The moving company had his boxes, he carried with him the things he couldn’t risk losing like photos of his mother, important documents, and a stolen ugly blanket that stopped smelling like Shane and started smelling like Ilya too long ago.

 

*
Four Days Later
Ottawa

 

Ilya sat in a chair across from the head coach’s chair and looked around the office.

 

“Sorry” Coach Wiebe said as he closed the door behind him. “One of my kids jammed a crayon up her nose, and my wife is freaking out crying. She wanted to know if she should take her to the ER” he said sitting down in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair with exasperation. He was young, he’d played a few years before Ilya started and from what Ilya could remember was middle of the pack in terms of talent. It was only his second season as the head coach. He reached over the table and shook his hand in a firm shake.

“What color was it?” Ilya asked, he couldn’t help himself.

Wiebe looked at him with an incredulous expression, “I didn’t ask” he replied and then paused. “Should I have asked that?” he wondered. Ilya bit his lip to fight off a smirk.

“I feel like yellow would be most forgiving” Ilya replied. Wiebe chuckled and shrugged.

“Well it’s nice to meet you, officially” Wiebe said, leaning back in his chair. “I hope you don’t take this wrong because I am thrilled but why the fuck are you here kid?” Wiebe asked. Ilya let a short laugh slip from his lips. It was the question everyone was asking, he was choosing to be honest with a very small group of people.

“I came here for myself” Ilya shrugged, “And someone else maybe” he picked at the hem of his shirt.

Wiebe shook his head, “Ah got it, I’ve done that before” he tapped on the wedding ring on his hand. “Girlfriend or fiance?” he asked. Ilya tilted his head.

“Not exactly” he replied. Fear sar cool in his chest.

Wiebe froze, “She married?” he asked carefully. Ilya shook his head. He was getting a little too much satisfaction over watching this unfold despite the nerves.

“Moved for family then” he continued.

“Dead and Russian” Ilya replied, offering nothing else.

“Shit sorry. Okay, you’re here to adopt a cat or something? You want me to keep guessing?” Wiebe said with raised eyebrows.

“I am, uh bisexual” Ilya said simply, and carefully watched Wiebe's response. He let out a deep sigh and Ilya’s hackles raised.

“Thank god, I thought you were going to say something fucking crazy” he said, slapping his palm on the table. “So you’re here for a guy” he said like it was totally normal.

“Yes” Ilya replied.

“So I just got lucky working in Ottawa is what I’m hearing? You didn’t hear that I was the coach and came rushing to play for me?” he joked, and Ilya’s shoulders dropped an inch.

“I would play for overturned bucket if it was in Ottawa” Ilya replied. Wiebe shrugged as if to say it was good enough for him.

“Do people know?” he asked

“I haven’t” Ilya started, “Nobody knows” he said and itched his neck. “I am Russian citizen, could be bad if people knew. I like not being in prison. I like playing hockey. Would be big deal” he said simply. A flash of recognition went across his face.

“Canada has protections for that kind of thing, political asylum” Wiebe said. Ilya nodded, he knew. He had done his research and was already in contact with an immigration attorney. “I won’t say anything” Wiebe replied. “I know I’m part of the older generation of players that uh weren’t the kindest towards that sort of thing. But there are plenty of us out there that get it” he coughed. Ilya struggled to place exactly what he was saying.

“Ah you mean like players who support” Ilya said nodding.

“I mean” Wiebe shifted, “Players who aren’t totally straight” he said. Ilya ran his eyes over him, his tight body that mirrored Ilya’s just a moment ago, eyes darting around looking for danger.

“Ah” Ilya replied simply.

“Anyway” Wiebe said, “I’m not saying a word. If you choose to tell the team let me know. I won’t accept any fuck fuck games. Neither will management. We have a good group of guys” Wiebe said simply.

“Okay” Ilya replied.

“I want you to be happy here. I know it’s not Boston” he said.

“I don’t want Boston, I outgrew Boston” Ilya replied simply.

“Well, I can’t promise you a cup now or even in five years Rozanov. I won’t lie to you. What I can promise is that you will have an impact. We have guys who could be really good, who could have discipline. We have a rookie coming in I think could play on your line and hold his own. They don’t have the experience and the vision you do, they need mentorship” Wiebe said.

Ilya never really mentored someone, he treated his rookies like everyone else on his team, an asset to win. He’d have less responsibility this year without being a captain, It wouldn’t be a bad idea to pick a rookie or two and pour what he had into them.

“I want you working with me. I want you working with the players. The C is spoken for this year, but I’m giving you an A” he said simply. Ilya nodded, it was all the things he knew already. He knew he wouldn’t be winning a cup, let alone a majority of the games here. He knew that, he’d accepted that.

“Thank you Coach” Ilya said respectfully.

“I’m new at this job and I haven’t played more than some pickup games in a few years. I’m trying to approach this with no ego” Wiebe said. It was a rare thing for a coach to say and offer. They shook hands and Ilya left with his head high.

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter, they will meet again I swear, I know you all want to kill me.

I bulked up the interview we saw part of with Shane to make it more interesting. The documentary is supposed to be cheesy inspirational like every sports docu is. It was mostly to give Ilya a chance to be like "damn I love him" without saying it. I am also not married to the current chapter count, I went ahead and added another one in for the current count because I want to make sure to feed you all some happiness after all the angry/sad/angst.

I'm also starting to think about things I plan to write in the future for these boys/new projects. I am not above asking for help, if there is a prompt or something you might want to see I am all ears!

Thanks for reading!!

Chapter 21: Ghost

Chapter Notes

Long awaited/reunited boysssssss.

 

Thanks for reading, the kudos, and the comments ( I read them all!!)

August
Ottawa

 

Suddenly Shane is being haunted, in his home and in his fucking city.

Shane didn’t watch horror movies, he hated them. He liked formulaic things where you could see the plot from the movie poster. He hated being scared, he hated sitting knowing something was going to jump out and surprise him. It was never the actor in makeup or the CGI beast that freaked him out, it was the anticipation and total lack of control. It was all too much.

Right now, Ilya Rozanov was haunting him like a fucking poltergeist.

He was somewhere, in Shane’s hometown and bound to show himself at some point. Things were moving around Shane’s place and weren’t where he’d left them, not because a ghost was actually fucking with him but because Shane was so incredibly unfocused he was fucking up his own routines. His socks were in his underwear drawer, the cans in the cabinet weren’t lined up correctly. He thinks he sees things in the corner of his eye all the time, a shadow of a familiar figure that is there and then gone. Shane swore he saw him one night in the hospital, a night when Boodrum from the Centaurs comes in with a few broken fingers from training camp and Shane is leaving a consult. He swears he sees the back of his head dipping out the ER door.

Others are seeing his ghost too. Shane’s Dad mentioned seeing Rozanov at the government building he works at and Shane tries not to choke on the chicken in his mouth.

His face is plastered around the city in colors and a jersey that made him look softer than Boston did, a cocky smirk still on his face and his stick resting atop his shoulders. Shane was paranoid, looking over his shoulder at every man over six foot in the fucking grocery store like he was being gang stalked.

Whenever he’s down in the emergency room, Lisa makes sure to keep him informed about how training camp is going and how great Ilya’s been. The team loves him, they’re starstruck by him. They can’t believe how good he is and how fun it is to be around him. Shane knew how it felt to be around Ilya, like sun on your skin after a long winter. Wyatt talks about him non-stop, and how they're becoming friends. Shane didn’t reach out, Ilya didn’t either. So Shane put his head down and continued being fucking haunted, working at the hospital, going to dinners at Lisa’s and Wyatt’s, going to hockey and pretending it meant nothing until it all meant something. Time moved on without his permission like it always did. Slow, haunting, and just a little hopeful.

 

*
September
Ottawa

 

Ilya was still getting used to being in Ottawa, and in being in a new locker room that had its own pecking order. Camp barely counted in terms of time around the team, there were way too many fucking hockey players all over between the hopefuls and the veterans and there was no use making connections until it was whittled down to the actual team. The team now was decided, and their first week of practices was rather heavy in conditioning.

He hadn’t done this part of things in a very long time, he’d been with Boston long enough that parts of the team and new additions moved around him, not the other way around. Ilya challenged himself to talk a little less than what was natural to him and observe more. He could tell from everyone that wasn’t exactly what they were expecting of him. He still made comments and jokes because he was never really that good at self control, but less than usual.

He walked through the locker room door after conditioning and hobbled to his stall to yank his skates off. He wasn’t tired, and looking around the locker room of his heaving teammates it was clear the conditioning was needed for some of them. He was pleasantly surprised with one of the rookies Haas, who was fast enough he could probably keep up with him if they were on the same line. Ilya sat in his locker and stripped off his pants in favor of some shorts. He was watching the team closely, listening to their conversations like he had for the past few weeks, listening for the words they used.

He was checking to see if there could be a space willing to hear him out if the time came, no, when the time came. He was still getting used to the idea of it. It was a crucial step, one of the many he'd written down in his notebook. THAT notebook, with his and Shane's handwriting intermingled. Ilya knew there was a logical progression of steps he needed to take. Talk to an immigration attorney and learn his options, done. He'd told his therapist, he'd accomplished that one. He needed to tell someone, Marley maybe. He needed to tell someone on this team, a player. He needed to talk to Shane, timing was TBD. Eventually, he'd need to tell a hell of whole lot more people if things went his way.

Knowing he was going to do those things didn't mean his body and brain always wanted to, Ilya's instinct was always going to be secretive, to protect himself.

There were a few players he knew would be perfectly fine when he decided to come clean. Troy Barrett for one. Despite his pretty rough reputation in Toronto, Ilya wasn’t blind. Troy was spending a lot of time around the social media guy Harris and looking at him like he was a fucking painting. Troy was known for siding with the bad guy in the room in Toronto, Ilya wondered how much of it was a self protective mechanism. Being part of the problem didn't make people consider you could be what you were criticizing. Something told Ilya he could trust him, but not right now.

Luca Haas was young, bright eyed, and wanting to please. He reminded him a bit of Shane when they were young. They shared a kind of lost look despite the incredible talent. Luca didn’t have a negative bone in his body. He was soft, gentle, and in a lot of ways Ilya was concerned the kid would have longevity in this sport with how kind he was.

Boodrum was even tempered, he smiled and laughed more than anyone Ilya ever met and had a way of putting people at ease. A man who had a gift like that couldn’t care about something as trivial about who he loved. Ilya was constantly assessing for threats, even if he knew coming out was part of coming here and proving he was worth it, it didn’t make things easier. He was still afraid.

Wyatt Hayes was the last in the room and threw himself onto the floor so he was on his back with his chest still heaving “I’m dead” he said and starfished his limbs out. Wyatt was definitely safe, he was endearingly excited to meet Ilya during camp and had offered almost too many times to help him move, show him around the city, or have him over for dinner. The man didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He was a safe choice of someone to test the waters with. Hayes had gone out of his way to make Ilya feel welcome and comfortable. He gave him a basket of things to welcome him to the team. Like an actual basket with things in it. Russian things he must have bought from some specialty store. He was always inviting him over for dinner once a week no matter how many times Ilya declined. He was kind, he was gentle, and he was careful with his words. He became the person Ilya sought out at team meetings and sat next to him.

“Get up Hazy we have lift” Boodrum nudged Wyatt with the toe of his shoe. Wyatt whined but sat up and started to strip his pads off.

“It’s different doing conditioning with all of this goalie shit on” he complained, “It's like heavier, so it’s harder for me you guys”.

Boodrum snorted, “It’s like heavier?” he questioned and a few of the guys laughed. “He is a genius”.

“There can only be one smart person in a marriage,” Wyatt said from the floor, holding up a single finger. “Some free advice for you kids” he said as he tucked his gear into his locker.

"Bro you're twenty seven" someone called from the other end of the lockeroom.

Ilya liked the group, maybe he didn’t like their hockey all that much but the team was good. They were relaxed and fun, they chirped but it was never personal. There weren’t jokes that cut him or targeted anyone or thing specifically, but he was watching carefully, almost waiting for it.

“Roz, you getting out to see the city much?” Choniard asked him.

“No” he replied, “Been busy doing things”. Choinard wasn’t bad either, they just hadn’t talked much.

“Like Russian mob things?” VanBeck asked.

“That’s a stereotype bro you can’t say that” Hazy interjected, and Ilya’s lips twitched into a smile.

Ilya dismissed them with a wave. “I am looking for a house, tired of living like poor person” Ilya said. It was ironic of course, he was staying in a very expensive hotel room in the city.

“Yea I saw your contract, you can’t cosplay as poor” Dykstra laughed.

“Cosplay is what?” Ilya asked.

“Like dress up. When people dress up like characters” Haas added quietly.

“Ah so like fluffy dog costume” Ilya said nodding, he’d seen some of those before.

“No that’s furries, different thing” Haas said. “I think” he stuttered and blushed. Ilya wanted to swaddle him like a tiny baby infant.

“Oh he thinks. Are you the spokesman for the furries? Elected official? Why do you know so much?” the conversation followed a few of the guys out of the door as it shut behind them.

“Wyatt get your ass up man” Boodrum yelled as he went towards the door. He was still mumbling to himself on the floor.

“Come Hazy, we must lift a million pounds to shut them up” Ilya said. He glanced up and smiled at him, Ilya extended a hand and Wyatt grabbed it and he hauled him to his feet.

“Just don’t make me throw anything out okay? My wife will beat my ass” he said as he turned towards his locker and yanked on a pair of basketball shorts and slid on shoes.

“You really like wife, hmm?” Ilya asked. He grinned and shrugged in reply.

“She’s the best, I’m an idiot and the worst and she sticks by me. She’s gorgeous man, great family, smart. She’s a doctor” he bragged. Ilya nodded thoughtfully.

“Sounds like a good one” Ilya replied.

“You could meet Lisa if you ever stopped coming up with excuses not to come over” he grinned and Ilya good naturedly.

“You like Ottawa?” Ilya asked.

“I’m just glad to be out of Toronto man” Wyatt said honestly, Toronto had a toxicity problem well known around the league. Hazy was too good to be a backup goalie there. “But yea, it’s been good. I’m just hoping we win a game or two this season, last year was rough” Wyatt said as they pushed open the door to the weight room. “Did you bring anyone with you to Ottawa?” Wyatt asked him.

“No” Ilya said simply.

“Lisa knows a lot of hot nurses and has them all over all the time. Work friends or whatever. You should come next time” Wyatt suggested. “I know you’re just going to say no or say you’re busy” Wyatt cut in before Ilya could say anything. “But you can always just hang out with me, Hollander comes all the time” he said like it was nothing. An off handed comment, a simple fact in his life, a routine even. Of course Ilya hadn’t breathed a word about why he was in Ottawa or Shane to anyone yet. He was working up to it, it was on the fucking list.

Ilya almost internally decapitated himself at the speed at which he snapped his neck in Wyatt’s direction. Before he could open his mouth someone was yelling at the group.

“Alright, enough fucking talking let’s go” their strength and conditioning coach clapped his hands loudly, they all snapped up to their feet. The conversation died between weights slamming on the ground, and drops of sweat on the floor. Ilya thought of nothing else other than Shane, and how they were being pulled into each other’s orbit. Ilya didn’t believe in signs from the universe, he didn’t believe in astrology, or having your palm read. He didn’t believe in god either. But something was in his favor, something had to be in their favor.

He tried to focus on the workout he really did, he was just having a really difficult time. By the time their workouts were done Ilya knew he needed to ice his leg and he needed answers.

“Hazy” Ilya said as they made it back to the locker room, he looked up at him lazily from a few stalls away. “Ice bath, come. Good for body, swelling" Ilya said as he grabbed his towel. He nodded and followed him into the training room wet area. Ilya kicked off his slides and slid into the cold pool, cursing in Russian, his curses echoed loudly off of the walls and tiled floors. Wyatt walked in after him and whined like a dog. Ilya let out a laugh at the man. One of the training staff shot them a dirty look and closed the wet room door.

“Fuck this is cold” he said, submerging himself to his shoulders and sucking in a deep breath as the freezing water nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

“It’s good for you” Wyatt said as his teeth chattered, “The first minute is always the worst, shit” he said.

“Recovery is important” Ilya said sarcastically even though they both knew it was. Ilya couldn’t wait any longer. “So you know Hollander” Ilya said as he released a deep breath, he hoped his restlessness would be written off as being cold.

Wyatt’s eyebrows scrunched together, “Fuck I can’t feel my toes” he complained. “Yea, he works at the hospital with Lisa. He comes over a bunch. He’s a, oh fuck this is cold” he mumbled, “great guy”.

“Which hospital?” Ilya asked.

“The Ottawa Hospital” he repled, “Lisa works in the emergency department”. Ilya tried to picture Shane working in a hospital, in pristine scrubs wearing some stupid footwear like crocs and a little badge hanging from his shirt pocket. It brought a smile to his lips.

“She usually brings home women for her work things, then Shane Hollander is in my living room” Wyatt said with a quiet laugh. “He helped me train over the summer after his games. He’s sharp as fuck, shoots hard too” he said.

“His games” Ilya echoed.

“He’s in beer league with my brother in-law” Wyatt said, his eyes searching Ilya’s face. “Aren’t you guys buddies?” he asked with curiosity.

“Have not seen him since coming here” Ilya said

“Ah, yea he stays pretty busy. Works a bunch and is always at his family’s cottage” Wyatt said. “I saw that ESPN thing you guys did, it was cool. You should come next time we hang out” he offered. “I’ve tried wingmanning for Shane but he does not need my help and won’t take it”.

Why? Because he already found someone? He didn’t want anyone? Asking felt too obvious.

“I’m straight but he makes me reconsider things you know?” Wyatt said. “You probably don’t need my help either” he said. Ilya needed to tell someone, and he needed to do it now before he convinced himself not to. There was no reason it couldn't be Hazy.

“I am bisexual” Ilya said suddenly, surprising really only himself.

Wyatt just glanced over at him, still shivering and teeth chattering and only gave a goofy thumbs up. Ilya exhaled a breath that was shaky not because of the frigid water temps.

“I’m not looking for someone” Ilya clarified.

“Oh? Got someone long distance?” he asked.

Yes, no.

Not a relationship, and the distance had nothing to do with mileage and everything to do with silence. The answer was too difficult to give.

“Ah, no” Ilya replied. But Wyatt was being totally normal. He knew Shane, maybe he could be honest. “I came here for someone” Ilya found himself saying, his limbs were finally numb to the freezing water and it didn’t feel like he was prying information from his core anymore.

“Tell me about them” Wyatt said, his body must be regulating too because he leaned his back against the concrete side and stretched his arms out like they were in a hot tub.

“I came here for Shane” Ilya said. Wyatt blinked at him.

“Hollander? Shane Hollander” he said with his mouth open. Ilya nodded and cleared his throat. “Holy shit that’s like the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. You and Shane? Oh shit, am I like fetishing? Sorry” he mumbled. Ilya let out a relieved laugh that bounced around the room.

“He is very sexy, yes” Ilya replied with a genuine grin.

“And such a nice guy, intelligent” Wyatt listed. “What a fucking catch dude” he stuck out his knuckles for a fist bump. Ilya shook his head and Wyatt’s smile dropped at whatever was on his face.

The door to the wet room swung open and Bood came in with slides that snapped off his feet and against the tile. He had a towel thrown over his shoulder. “What are you chucklefucks talking about” he grinned before stepping into the water. He hissed and waited for a response.

“Nothing” Hazy said quickly and shot a look at Ilya as if to say he had his back.

“It’s okay Hazy” Ilya breathed, Bood was his captain and he didn’t want to lie. He was going to tell the whole team he was bi at some point, it was on the list. The list had to be completed. “I was telling Hazy I moved here for a man, in a bisexual way”. Ilya carefully watched Bood who was just nodding.

“Can I say who, please?’ Wyatt was nearly vibrating.

“Shane Hollander” Ilya said simply, Bood sat up straight with a grin.

“Metros Hollander, the doctor at Boston? Hazy’s friend? That one?” he asked with interest.

“Yes” Ilya said simply. It was Bood’s turn to laugh, that loud ass laugh that was too loud to begin with and made worse by the echoing room. Ilya put his hands over his ears to dull the sound.

“So that documentary thing was just foreplay for you?” Bood grinned and it went to his eyes.

“For me, a little” Ilya shrugged.

“Damn, I gotta send that guy a fruit basket if he yarded your ass all the way out here to Canada for us” Bood chuckled.

“No more baskets please, what is it with Canada and baskets of things?” Ilya asked, he shot Hazy a look who just smiled.

“I can’t believe Shane didn’t tell me you guys are together” Wyatt said, a bit disappointed.

“We’re not” Ilya said as he glanced at the clock and saw that his ten minutes were up. He lifted himself out of the water and wrapped himself in a towel. He sat on the edge of the pool and stretched.

“You’re not together and you came down here for him?” Bood echoed. Ilya shrugged.

“Yes, needed to try” he replied simply. “I am not ready to talk about it to rest of team okay? And Hazy, keep your mouth shut to Shane, yes?” Ilya said.

“Of course” they both said. Ilya felt a little bit lighter, a little bit more like he could be himself and it wouldn't kill him.

They kept their word, but it didn’t stop Wyatt from cornering him every opportunity and asking more. Ilya did not give anymore, just that he was here for Shane and would seek him out when it was the right time. No, he didn’t know when that would be and no, Wyatt couldn’t be there when it happened.

Wyatt was however useful in providing intelligence. Shane was in an apartment near the canal, he ran there all the time, and he worked a lot of extra shifts. He sent him his hockey schedule and a link to a compilation of movie ‘meet cutes’ he thought would spark inspiration for Ilya. Ilya rolled his eyes, but he did watch them out of curiosity.

 

*
Five Days Later
Ottawa Community Hockey Rink

 

Ilya checked for the third time the address in his phone. He mapped it in his cellphone and waited five minutes until after puck drop so he would show up after the game had already started and he could slip in undetected. He was not here to be seen.

He pushed through the front door to the pro shop and walked by the teenager leaning at the register. He fumbled with his baseball hat one more time and entered into the rink, trying to find the least conspicuous spot possible where nobody would see him. The familiar sounds of the rink calmed his nerves just a bit, scratching skates on the ice and short barks of communication. Ilya found a spot high up in the rink, almost hugging the wall and settled in. He searched the ice and the bench, he didn’t have to look long until he found him. Hollander stuck out like a sore thumb, no, maybe like a traffic cone. He wore a ridiculously bright yellow jersey with HOLLANDER across the back and something unreadable on the front and was skating smoothly around the defensive end. He poke checked a forward on the other team and his defender collected the puck.

Shane turned on a dime and started skating the other direction, he stretched wide and received a pass mid stride and slowed the tempo down. Shane even at half speed played with the skill of a professional, he let the rest of the players come as fast as they could before he moved to the blue line in the center and passed. He was very clearly holding back, probably in the name of being a sportsman and a team player. Shane drifted out before cutting back through a lane, he bypassed an easy goal and waited, dropping a pass behind him to one of his teammates who buried it in the goal.

“Oh! Jonesy!” Shane yelled in celebration, his arm going up and a huge smile on his face as he went to his teammates and bumped into him. Ilya could see him laughing as the rest of their team went towards them.

Shane looked lighter, happier and more relaxed than he’d ever seen him. He was bright, even from where he was sitting and not just because of the god awful jersey.

Ilya’d seen a lot of sides of Shane. He’d seen him with a pinched face and unnaturally focused on fixing a problem, he’d seen his dark eyes glazed over with tears and devastation, he’d seen him smile in that small private way. He even remembered that look of determination he used to wear on the ice years ago, like every faceoff and pass decided if he lived or died. But this, the easy laughter and willingness to be free while people looked on was new.

This was a man in his element, in his hometown that he grew up in. Ilya was on the outside looking in.

Shane and his shift skated back to the bench and a new set of guys went onto the ice. Ilya barely watched the game, he only watched Shane. He watched his contained competence that he didn’t unleash on a bunch of former players, he watched him feed his team, laugh as he played and talk on the bench with the guys around him.

Ilya felt like he was on the other side of an aquarium wall watching some beautiful thing totally unaware it was even being observed. How many times did Shane sit on the other side of plexiglass and watch him like this? Why was this the first time Ilya slowed down just to watch something that he loved?

The hours flew by, something in his body settled a bit even just by being in his proximity. Ilya let his imagination wander a bit.

He considered what it would be like to drive him to his Sunday night games, or drink beers with his team in the locker room, and to walk out of the rink holding hands with him. He could picture Shane with him too, laughing with his teammates next to the grill, talking hockey. Maybe he’d wear Ilya’s jersey at home games and Ilya would smile at him after he scored. Maybe they’d fall asleep in minutes in their shared bed because their bodies slotted together so perfectly. He could picture Shane with him, only ever with him.

Ilya desperately wanted to feel that bright smile that he sent his teammate on the ice directed at him. He wanted it not to cost Shane anything to love Ilya. Shane should be loved in public and in private. Shane deserved all those things, and even if Ilya was still properly petrified, he was ready to give them.

Ilya wasn’t planning on talking to him today, he wasn’t planning on approaching him yet. He was going to do it in some way that was honest and private, and with the optimal conditions that didn’t make Shane run from him. He hadn’t quite figured that part out yet, the how.

Tonight was for Ilya and for his own selfish reasons, to be close and to see if Shane was happy.

He was. It was enough to tide him over,. Ilya waited until the game was over and all the players shook hands and went back to their locker rooms, he watched as Shane stripped his helmet off and his jersey and carried it with him. His face was more visible, his dark hair was longer and a bit wet against his head. He was relaxed, calm and in his element. None of the tension that seemed to arc in him like a down power line was there.

The placid control was also gone like it’d been massaged out of him like a nasty knot in his back. Or maybe Ilya was the knot. Maybe all his problems evaporated when he did, maybe Ilya was going to make Shane’s life worse.

Ilya knew that coming to Ottawa was a gamble. He was operating off of a guess, a hope that he could convince Shane into something serious. When was it going to be the right time? Who was to say Shane wasn’t already with someone else, someone who didn’t have to hide or want to hide? Wyatt assured him there was nothing, nobody. But Shane is private, people didn’t know things about him unless he wanted them to.

This thing between them altered Ilya, it swelled inside of him and expanded, like a wooden door in a heatwave. He’d always catch on the edge now when it came to Shane, every black head of hair, every pair of brown almond eyes, every quiet laugh that was more of a breath than a true laugh.

Ilya watched Shane until the top of his head disappeared off of the ice and he felt the loss immediately. His team was no doubt in the locker room pushing tabs through aluminum cans and popping bottle caps off with the edge of skate blades, laughing and drinking.

Ilya waited until the rink was empty and started his descent down the concrete stairs. He got to the ground level and looked out over the ice. It was carved up in a way that only happened in amateur leagues where being a Zamboni driver wasn’t a full time job. Shane’s blades made some of those cuts, forcing the ice to bend to his will, skillful and sharp. Something he did because he wanted to and found joy in it. He was glad Shane was playing again, for the love of the game instead of the torture of it.

Ilya felt a small smile on his face, a place like this was something more akin to religion than a church. A place that smelled like sweat, diesel and rubber in the air, a place where Shane’s laugh echoed still in his head from a thousand angles. Yes, he could pray to something here.

What would Shane think if he knew he was here? Watching from some dark corner of the rink and slipping out without saying anything? Ilya would never have to wonder, not for long really. Ilya walked towards the exit and cast one more look over his shoulder and froze. Shane was back on the black rubber floor by the boards, head tilted like a curious dog and eyes wide and fixed on him. He blinked at Ilya like he was an apparition that might vanish.

He didn’t plan to do this now, he wanted to come up with the right thing to say. The right time and the right strategy. He wasn’t ready. Panic flowed through him, adrenaline hit in his knees. He wanted to sprint, run. To not see whatever next emotion overtook Shane's face.

Ilya pushed out a breath and instead of leaving, he walked. He walked and closed the fifty foot distance between them. Shane stayed where he was, in an under armour shirt that was tight to his chest and bulging arms and sweatpants. His skates were still on and he balanced on his skateguards. He ran a hand through his hair to slick it back, it was long enough to tuck behind his ear and drop onto his neck. A few pieces of bangs on the side hung on his forehead. His eyes were lit with something akin to surprise.

“Ilya” Shane said, not a question or a statement, he said it like it meant something greater than just a name. He had that expression he had when he was processing something. He wasn’t able to see him in detail like this from his seat and from the rink earlier, he drank up every detail he could.

This was fine. It was just like running into someone you knew in the grocery store. Only if the grocery store was a scheduled game for their team you were supposed to know nothing about, and you were thirty minutes on the other side of the city at almost 12am trying to sneak out of the grocery store. Oh and if you were in love with him and it ended weird. Ilya cleared his throat. The ‘I was just in the neighborhood buying a canned good’ excuse wouldn’t work here.

“Shane” Ilya replied stupidly, his voice came out different. A little too heavy, like the past seven months had weighed about a thousand pounds on his chest and it was all released at once.

He wasn’t staring at Shane on a screen anymore, he was looking at Shane here and now and very much in front of him. They said nothing for more than a moment. Shane cleared his throat, and stuffed down the surprise.

“I hope the Cens aren’t so desperate they sent you to recruit from beer league” Shane said with a gentle smile.

“Ah, no” Ilya replied. Shane’s eyebrow quirked. “I was just ah” Ilya started and searched for some excuse. Thinking of investing in the ice rink? The shop has this very specific thing I like I needed at midnight? I was watching you because I’m in love with you and needed to make sure you were real, happy? He never finished his sentence. Shane quirked an eyebrow and looked as if he’d recovered from his surprise at least a bit.

“Go on” Shane prompted. Ilya said nothing. “You have my phone number, you know that right?” Shane said. Shane rightly assumed her was here for him. Of course he knew he had Shane's phone number, he stared at their texts most nights. He didn’t know if Shane would answer him, he’d spent hours typing out texts he never sent.

Ilya shrugged. “Who said I was here for you?” Ilya couldn’t help it, this was stable ground, bickering.

“Are you?” Shane asked, more forward than usual. Ilya wanted to sigh, this was rather pathetic.

“Yes” Ilya replied simply. “We were always better in person, phone is boring. You don’t answer me anyway” Ilya replied. Shane’s mouth tilted up in the corner.

“We’re worse in person” Shane replied, he crossed his arms over his chest and Ilya couldn’t help but run his eyes over them. “And no, I don’t know russian so I wasn’t sure what to reply” he said evenly. Right, the voicemail in Russian.

“So negative” Ilya tutted. They just stared at each other, Ilya felt a thousand pulses in his body, beating all out of order making his skin vibrate.

“Realistic” Shane countered. “Why now?” Shane wondered.

“Needed to get all the birds in a row first” Ilya said simply, jaw clenched and looking out onto the ice. His voice displayed none of the turbulence that was rocking his insides like a plane emergency landing.

“Ducks” Shane corrected, “Ducks in a row”. A few beats of silence passed between them. “And are they, in a row?” Shane asked.

Ilya shrugged, not all of them, but that could mean years. He was done waiting. He wasn’t ready to say that quite yet, not in a public rink.

“Why are you out here? Shouldn't you be in lockeroom drinking?” Ilya asked. Shane seemed as if he just realized where they were and looked around them.

“Oh” he said, his hand tugged at his collar. “I wanted to get some cardio in” he pointed a thumb behind him at the ice.

“You skated enough in game” Ilya said, Shane eyed him like he was waiting to be made fun of.

“Not fast enough” Shane replied.

“Go on then” Ilya said, tilting his head to the ice. Shane hesitated like he wasn’t sure what to do.

“I have extra skates in my car” Ilya said. Shane looked at him again and blinked.

“Okay” he said slowly and Ilya turned, walking quickly out the front door of the rink and nearly sprinted to his car once he was out of view. He wasn’t sure how this was happening, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He tried not to stall or think, because thinking would mean overthinking. He was panicking, proper panicking.

By the time he walked back into the rink Shane was already skating, long hard strides like he was sprinting in a track meet instead of skating on ice. Ilya watched him for a while, he was unguarded like this, pushing himself, breathing hard, cheeks pink. He came to a stop after a suicide and glided towards the bench where Ilya forgot he was supposed to be putting on his skates. His hands were shaking too much to tie them the way he liked. Two hockey sticks were propped up against the corner of the bench.

“These are yours?” Ilya asked, leaning his head down towards the bench. Shane nodded.

“You want to play?” Shane asked carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask, “1v1?” Shane offered.

“Duh Hollander” he said, grabbing both of the sticks and hurdling the boards. Ilya handed him a stick and watched him scoop up a puck and juggle it back and forth as his blade cut through the air.

Ilya just stood and watched him, too entranced by being in the same building with him. He skated around, everywhere but too close to Ilya.

He flipped up a puck on the edge of the stick and let it bounce to the ice and passed it to Ilya. Ilya found his grip on the stick, the tape wasn’t exactly how he liked it and it felt small in his hands with no gloves on. Ilya ran a thumb over the white tape on the top of the stick, black marker bled out almost to the frayed tape edge with YUNA written in neat capital letters.

Ilya moved the puck back and forth an inch or so before he turned and whipped it into the net.

“You should rotate your hips more, more power” Shane said from behind him, it was something Shane had told him at least one hundred times. It was nice to know that whatever changed between them, that didn’t. .

“Oh? Should I?” Ilya said.

Shane skated a bit closer, “It’s a scientific fact. You can’t argue with science” he told Ilya, eyes light with humor.

“I can argue with anything” Ilya said.

“I know” Shane said with a small smile. A few beats of silence passed. “You need to warm up” he said. Ilya sighed and took a few laps around the ice until his legs were warm and his knee was loose, he felt eyes following him the entire way. He came to a stop near Shane.

“How’s the knee?” Shane asked.

“Perfect” and took the puck to just below the blue line. “First to five goals” Ilya said. Shane took his possession first, skating a wide loop around the blue line before picking up the puck and holding his position.

“Why are you in Ottawa?” Shane asked, his eyebrows tugged together and dark eyes incredibly focused. Ilya stayed crouched, this was the easiest way to communicate for both of them. As if they weren’t talking at all, and were only playing a game. Ilya was more than comfortable following Shane’s lead.

“I liked the breakfast at the hotel last time. Ottawa Hilton has good bacon” Ilya said with a shrug.

Shane leaned to his left, dragging the puck across the ice. It skipped on a divot and it almost ran away from him. He reached for it with his stick which went straight like an extension of his arm and snagged it back before Ilya could check it away. Shane planted and spun, Ilya didn’t quite anticipate it and was a step behind him. Just enough space was left for Shane to shoot, the puck hit the back of the net and Ilya’s competitiveness flared. Ilya collected the puck from the net and went up towards the blue line where Shane was waiting for him.

“Why are you here? Ottawa.” Shane said simply and Ilya came to a stop.

“I have contract to play for team, is like a legal document” Ilya replied, flicking the puck on his stick the ice. Shane reached for it out of habit and Ilya pulled it closer to his body.

“Why did you pick Ottawa?” Shane repeated. Ilya was not going for finesse, he was trying for speed. “Answer the question” Shane said.

“You” Ilya replied and moved the puck in front of him. He moved quickly while Shane was distracted and shot the puck, Shane didn’t put his stick out and it sailed past him and into the net. Shane hadn't moved, the puck laid forgotten in the back of the net. His cheeks were flushed and his lips parted open.

Ilya made no move to collect it. “Why did you leave Boston?” Ilya asked.

“I outgrew it” Shane said, a startlingly close answer to the one he’d been gave anyone who asked him why he left the city.

“Shane” Ilya challenged.

“Ilya” Shane replied in a tone begging him not to ask more.

“Tell me, I want to hear you say it” Ilya said, he felt like begging.

“I needed to be home” Shane replied. “I needed to be” he said, “Not in Boston”.

“Not around me?” Ilya asked. He knew it already, it just needed to be in the open. It was the only way they could move forward.

“Not around you” Shane echoed. Ilya felt like everything hit him at once, all the longing, pain, and love. Every single last one of his fuck ups and how he might pay for it for the rest of his life.

“Should I go?” Ilya asked with sobering sincerity, he waited for an answer that scared him more than anything. That deep V appeared between Shane's eyebrows, and he pulled his lower lip into his mouth. Shane didn’t say a word, but he moved his head. Side to side once, twice. No. He didn’t want him to leave.

“Are you doing okay?” Shane must have watched it all pass through him, his face twisted in concern.

“Sometimes” Ilya said honestly, “Sometimes probably not”. Shane watched him carefully, eyes flitting around his face. His tongue darted out to lick his lip and his teeth replaced it.

“You think we should keep playing?” Shane asked.

Ilya turned as his reply and retrieved the puck, he dragged it with him to the blue line.

“What do I get if I win?” Ilya asked. Shane narrowed his eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked carefully.

“I want to talk to you” Ilya replied.

Shane raised an eyebrow. “We are talking now” he waved his stick between them.

“In private, maybe we have dinner.” Ilya said simply.

“And if I win?” Shane asked, his puffy lips tilted upwards and a slight blush on his cheeks. The freckles he loved so much bunched together like stars in the sky across his nose. It took everything in Ilya not to grab his chin and kiss him, let his body explain all the things he didn’t have the mind for or the words for now.

“It is not necessary for you to think about this” Ilya said with a grin.

“Fucking asshole” Shane scoffed and went to collect the puck.

They played for maybe fifteen minutes, growing in intensity and in tension but cut between laughs and glances. Ilya was smiling more than he had in too long, and he loved watching Shane bloom with competition. It was a close game, but Ilya pulled out all the stops and won.

Ilya had never pursued someone before, ever.

Sure, he’d had a habit of never going home alone when he was younger but most of those things fell into his lap. Of all the things he expected of tonight, this wasn’t it. Playing hockey with Shane in a small rink in Ottawa, trying to press out months of deep set wrinkles of pain and denial over a pickup game that would have never been possible a year ago.

Shane skated back to the bench and sat, slipping his skateguards on. Ilya skated to the other side of the boards and leaned on them.

“I can’t believe you’re here” Shane said quietly, all the distractions gone. No more skates and no more borrowed sticks, just two men who had hurt each other. Ilya gave no reply. “I didn’t know what was going on when I saw the trade” Shane said. Ilya held the space open between them with quiet. “You picked a losing team in a new country, you left a guaranteed cup” Shane looked at him.

“I did” he replied.

“And you just expected I’d be here, waiting for you? Am I getting this right?” Shane asked, it wasn’t snide. It was curious.

“Are you, waiting?” Ilya asked quietly.

Shane diverted his eyes for a second, “That doesn’t matter” he said just barely.

“It does to me,” Ilya replied. A loud metallic sound rang through the rink and it made Ilya jump. The garage door opened.

“Zamboni” Shane muttered and Ilya hopped the boards to get off the ice. Their bubble was briefly pierced. “I should get going anyway” he said, looking uncertain.

“When can I see you? To talk” Ilya asked, his hand ached to drag a finger over those freckles. He needed to be slow, disciplined, and not force Shane into anything he could handle right now.

Shane sighed, and eyed him like he was deciding if he was going to keep his word. “I work a lot this week, I’m off Monday”.

“Monday night we talk” Ilya said, he ran his eyes over Shane once more, wanting to collect him into his arms badly and just hold him there. Instead he nodded once, and turned.

“Goodnight Shane” he said over his shoulder and tried to breathe like everything was fine, like everything was normal.

Chapter End Notes

They are going to talk it out FULLY next chapter and we will get to watch Ilya Rozanov figure out how to date someone? How do you think he would do this?

Thanks for reading :0

Chapter 22: Monday You Can Fall Apart

Chapter Notes

Title courtesy of the cure.

Also, it's Monday for the boys. Also, they're going to talk if you stop reading my author note and start reading the fic.

bye bye, see you down there....

Eight Days Later- Monday

Ottawa

 

Shane’s skin felt like clothing he didn’t follow the care instructions for. His throat felt like wool that went through the washing machine, too tight, and misshapen from swallowing too much of his own stomach acid that wanted to come up SO badly. His hands felt too big, stretched out like the neck of a sleep shirt. 

He stood in front of his closet. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he felt so unsure over such a stupid choice, maybe while he was still playing hockey. He nearly couldn’t sleep trying to figure out which tie to wear before the draft.

Now he was paralyzed by a reasonably sized closet full of things. He had button down shirts, classy and sensible, professional. He had fancy scrubs that he bought that weren’t the crepe paper hospital ones that came out of the vending machines and made him itch. He had workout clothes, a few jackets. He had a few suits. Shane wondered if he should wear a suit. He thought of how Ilya would look at him if he showed up wearing a suit. He’d probably laugh him out of the country. It almost made Shane want to do it. 

Shane didn’t know what exactly he expected when Ilya texted his the address a few days ago of where to meet him. A restaurant maybe, maybe Ilya’s house. He didn’t exactly expect a hotel name to be sent to him. Maybe he should have, Ilya probably didn’t want to be seen in public with him. Ilya probably didn’t want him to be in his house where he lived, a hotel was neutral ground. 

Shane was exhausted. It was a week of next to no sleep, non-stop work, and when he did have a rare moment of downtime or lunch break he couldn’t stop over analyzing. There were too many times he sat with salad on his fork lost in thought, trying to decode the events of last week.

He took someone’s words at face value, he took everything Ilya said the last time they were in an Ottawa hotel room as gospel, as a fact. But Ilya’d said “yes” when he asked if he was here for him days ago. He said it automatically. Reflexively. That was such a strange day.

Shane remembered thinking that he’d finally done it, he'd gone fucking crazy as Ilya blinked back at him in the rink almost at the door to leave. But he’d never seen him look quite like that before, and he was unsure if his brain could conjure him looking so caught. How he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was and how Shane finally felt relief. They’d run into each other finally, they would talk awkwardly for a few moments, and he could stop waiting for it to happen like he was on death fucking row waiting to visit the executioner. Ilya looked just as terrified as Shane felt until he said his name. It melted off his face like a kid’s ice cream cone in the summer. There and then gone suddenly.

Ilya was here, in Ottawa. That had to count for something. Actions AND words meant something. Shane had no clue what to make of Ilya being in Ottawa, it made no sense to him. To push someone away and come to their city. It made even less sense for him to be at his rink so late at night. Shane gave him an out, a joke of an out, a pitch of an excuse to take, a bait hook dangling in front of him. Ilya didn’t take it. 

Shane wasn’t sure how far either of them were willing to take it. Then they were on the ice, eyes barely moving off of the other. Honesty bouncing around like the puck they passed between their sticks. Shane didn’t know what came over him, maybe it was because this hardly felt real. Ilya in his hometown on that chopped up ice. One of Shane’s junior hockey sticks in Ilya’s hands,  his eyes on him and words weighing heavy. Shane’s body couldn’t make sense of the stakes. Were they high? Were they low? Were the admissions made something to live between them in quiet? He thought all week about it all and came up with no answers. 

Shane felt sick today. Unsettled. Like he was digging his finger into fresh scab on a barely closed wound. He looked at his phone. A stupid, dumb thing made of plastic and metal and glass. He willed it to send an excuse text, to blow up, to ring. Shane pushed out a breath. He wasn’t going to cancel, he wasn’t going to flee, he was going to hear Ilya out. He was going to listen, keep his cards close to the vest. He would leave if he needed to, when the air was clear and there was clarity. He couldn’t keep making a ghost of a living and breathing man.

Shane closed his eyes and yanked a shirt out of his closet, he dressed without second guessing and without changing. A simple dark shirt and a jacket and jeans. He didn’t need to impress him, he didn’t need to do anything. 

Shane drove to the hotel and sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes. He looked at his phone every thirty seconds, at their text thread that was barren for so many months until just four days ago. 

 

I: Grand Drake Downtown. Room 512. 7pm.

S: Okay.

I:  Don’t chicken out.

S: I’m not a chicken.

 

Neither of them sent a confirmation text, or a follow up text. The information was there, there was nothing else to say until Shane decided to knock on the door. There was nothing to say if he didn’t. 

Shane watched the minutes on his phone tick by until it was 6:57. He needed to get out of the car, walk inside, take the elevator up, knock on the door. He needed to do it now. If he waited until 6:58, he would start the car and drive away. But what if the only thing that waited for him five stories up was more disappointment and heartbreak? 

His hand lingered at the steering wheel column, a finger circled the stupid push to start button. His foot flexed on the brake pedal, a press of his finger would be all it took to leave, a jerk of the gear shift. He could go away, home. 

 

....But. 

 

But what about…?

 

….Maybe.......

 

What if something else was up there? Five stories up from what felt like below sea level where Shane was drowning. What if there was something up there that he couldn’t see from his position? What if right now he was in a low valley and whatever could exist up there could feel like being on a mountaintop? Was a ‘what if’ enough to try? 

He looked at his phone again, it said 6:58. He pressed the button on his seat belt and let it snap back into the sheath on the door, he swung open his door and put as much space between him and the car as possible. He wrung his empty hands and stepped into the lobby. It was nice, too nice for a hookup hotel. 

Fuck, maybe he should have brought something. Wine maybe? No, that seemed presumptuous. Dessert? No, suggestive. He clicked the elevator button and said a silent prayer that it was ten stories up and he’d have some time to get a handle on himself as he waited for it. The elevator chimed and the door opened immediately. 

He could walk away right now, he could be in his car in a minute, he could be home in a half hour. He stepped in the elevator. The doors pulled together slowly, giving him every opportunity to stick a foot in the way or a hand. Hell if he breathed too hard they may open and earn him a few extra seconds of thinking. They closed with a quiet hush. The mirror surface of the doors showed a flushed man whose eyes were bright with fear and hope. He wanted to dent the reflection, he wanted to ask the man in the door what the fuck he was thinking. 

His finger shook as it extended, he clicked the button for floor 5. The elevator hummed and the floors ticked by, he stared at the emergency shut off button like he was a straight guy staring at a big chested blonde in a bar. He didn’t make a move though. The door opened too soon, the wall sconces were too dim in the hallway.  His shoes sank into plush carpet and the doors slid closed behind him. 

Shane moved until he saw the combination of numbers next to a door that were in his head for days. It was cracked open. The metal doorstop wedged it open just enough that it was a suggestion. It was like Ilya knew that maybe Shane made too many decisions since leaving his house, and knocking on the door would be the last straw to make him turn and leave. Or maybe Ilya asked for a room on the fifth floor so Shane wouldn’t come. 

He tried not to breathe, to just listen. He tried to think about what Ilya must be doing inside, on the other side of the stupid fish eye peep hole in the door. Maybe he was on the couch, comfortable like he was in a beach chair on vacation. Maybe he was nervous and pacing. Maybe he wasn’t inside at all, and it was a cruel final nail in the coffin that Ilya could never want someone like Shane and this was the only way he could get it across.

The door was open, all he had to do was push. It only had to open enough to accommodate him before it closed. That's what doors did. They closed, but sometimes they opened. There was no reason he couldn’t open this perfectly functional door, he was a perfectly functional guy. So he did, he pushed it open. The door swung open to a hallway, it was dim but at the end of the hallway opened to a large room. He flipped the door catch so it closed and the door closed behind him with a snap. Then the hallway wasn’t so empty. Ilya was strolling in his direction like he was in a park. He had a long sleeve on, sweatpants and his feet were bare. His curls were loose, not slicked down on the sides or stiff with some kind of product like it usually was. They hung in his face and he brushed one out of his eye, sharp eyes. 

The room felt like an airplane that lost cabin pressure, like everything Shane was thinking for the past year might get sucked out of his mouth as he gasped for air. 

“You are here” Ilya said like it was a revelation, stopping a few feet from Shane. 

“You invited me” Shane said, suddenly unsure if Ilya invited him. Ilya’s eyes went down Shane’s body as he nodded before circling back to Shane’s face. 

Something came over Ilya’s expression then. It was a suggestion of a smile, like he was afraid to commit to it. “I meant to send text to someone else” Ilya said, he strolled a bit closer. His hands were in his pockets. 

“I can leave” Shane offered, it was as much of a sarcastic joke as it was an offer. His body was already half turned to go to the door just behind him. 

“I do not think so” Ilya said, close enough to Shane that he reached one hand behind him over his shoulder and clipped the lock chain in the door and leaned away, arm brushing his shoulder as he retreated. He turned and walked. 

Who was Shane if he didn’t follow?

The hallway opened into a modern living room area with a large couch and a full kitchen. This wasn’t a fuck hotel, it was an expensive one. Two french doors were closed on the other side of the large couch, it could only be a bedroom. Shane’s eyes stuck to the doors for too long, long enough to feel a little too warm in his cheeks. 

“Nice place” Shane said.  

“Ah” Ilya said, looking around. “Temporary” he said with a shrug. Shane forced his eyes away from him, it hardly looked temporary. There were two large luggage bags in the living room against the wall that were open and messy, his team jackets and laptop and things were around the room. Ilya should be in some penthouse apartment, some sprawling house with clean lines and lots of glass. Shane knew realistically Ilya was trapped in a five year contract with Ottawa, but by the way he was living he could [acl and leave Canada in five minutes and never come back.

“So” Ilya said, “Dinner” he tilted his head to the kitchen. Neither of them moved, they just sized each other up. It felt almost like earlier in the week never happened, like this was the first time Shane had seen him. 

Maybe it was that there was no chance of anyone walking in on them now, they weren’t in public. The door had the chain on it, there was a bed practically calling to Shane behind a few curtain panels and wooden doors. It was going to be devastating in one way or another. He really didn’t want to cry on the way home again. Would Ilya do that? Buy him dinner and make him cry?

The counter top on the kitchen was stacked with paperwork which was shoved to one end and takeout boxes on the other. Was this a death row meal? A T-bone steak you gave your dog the night before putting it down? Shane pulled out a stool, he felt off balance. It was counter height but it felt like he was perched on stilts. Ilya moved to the other side of the counter and passed Shane a plate and opened the boxes of food. There were several, all good options that looked probably appetizing to someone who wasn’t about to vomit from anxiety. 

“Which do you want?” Ilya asked. Shane blinked. 

“Just do it” Shane said. 

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Pick for you?” Ilya asked, eyes running over the options. 

“No” Shane said, “Just do it, say what you want to say. I can’t pretend I want to eat salmon right now” he said honestly. 

Ilya closed up the boxes methodically, he turned and put them in the refrigerator, paying Shane no mind. He finally rounded the counter so there was no physical barrier between them. Ilya sat at the counter stool next to Shane’s close enough that their knees could bump if Shane wasn’t careful. He was so tired of being careful. 

“You are impatient, anyone tell you this?” Ilya asked, eyes lazily roaming over his face like he was trying to categorize him. 

“You’re taunting me” Shane said with a tight jaw. 

“I’m building expense” Ilya said. 

“Suspense” Shane corrected. Ilya rolled his eyes. 

“You wanted to talk” Shane said, “So talk”. Ilya nodded, he twisted so he was facing Shane. Ilya swallowed hard, he wasn’t building suspense, he was fighting the same thing Shane was or something a lot like it. 

“We make rules for talk” Ilya said. “We have conversation. Nobody leaves until we both agree we are done, yes?” Ilya said, creating a boundary Shane was desperate for. Shane nodded. Ilya looked at Shane expectantly. “No running. promise me” Ilya said, Shane nodded. 

“Just be honest with me, don’t try to make something sound better than it is. You don’t have to pull punches. Okay? Let’s just be honest” Shane asked like he was asking for a pardon for some crime. 

Ilya’s face twisted in confusion. “Why do you think I asked you here?” Ilya laid it between them like something fragile. 

“I don’t know” Shane said honestly. Ilya blinked, an incredulous laugh slipped through his parted lips before they snapped closed.

“I am sorry” Ilya said, it was simple. Way too fucking simple. “I am sorry for how things happened, how I said things then” Ilya said. “But Shane I told you at rink. I am in Ottawa for you” Ilya said. Shane watched him carefully.  “You think I come here, to what? Yell at you?” Ilya asked. When he said it like that, it sounded crazy. Ilya wasn’t cruel, he was defensive and a bit mean but they were different things.

“Not enough has changed from our last conversation for it to be anything else, we haven’t talked. What else am I supposed to think?” Shane said. There was a list of reasons they could never work, sure, Shane wasn’t his doctor anymore that was resolved. But Ilya didn’t want to be out, Ilya didn’t want more, he couldn’t lose Russia. He wanted to play hockey. Every barrier was still there for Shane to bang his hands up against. 

“Everything has changed” Ilya said immediately, eyes flashing. “I have changed” he said. His hands twisted together. “Look at me” Ilya said quietly. Shane was too weak to resist it. Ilya’s face was open, his eyes soft and begging. “I come here to be with you. I want more, all I do is want more of you” Ilya said and it knocked the air out of him like a soccer ball to the chest. 

“Since when?” it was a whisper.

Ilya chuckled, too low, something for himself. “You shook my hand twice” he replied. Shane felt the ridge between his eyebrows from confusion. 

“I don’t understand” is all he could afford. 

“You shook my hand twice when we met. I think who is this slow fucking hockey player with beautiful freckles?” Ilya said, a small smile on his mouth. It looked more natural there, like it wasn’t a rarity these days. “I think how can I know more about him, ask him why he shakes my hand twice? Ask how he is so perfect?” Ilya asked. “I thought of you, all the time. I wouldn’t let myself forget” he said, a finger tracing a vein in the counter top absentmindedly. “You disappear” Ilya said, “I do not stop thinking of where you go, who you might be” Ilya shrugged. “Then you are there in Boston” Ilya said.  “It was never enough, it will never be enough for me. I know this like I know my own name” he said. Something in his chest clicked, like a muscle popping back into place, it hitched his breath. 

It was everything he wanted to hear, he wanted to hear it back then. When they were warm to each other, when their space was shared, and the silences were earned and not vacant. He wanted to hear these words in a different hotel, a few kilometers away, many months in the past. But back then Ilya was still zipped up tight like a bulging carryon bag at its limit. In this hotel room he was open like his luggage in the corner, messy, things spilling out of the open clam shell, visible for eyes to see. 

He was here for him. For them. Asking for more. 

Shane’s eyes fell closed and he breathed. He deflated like a balloon when you didn;t pinch the gap closed. A gentle thumb came to rest on his chin, a pointer finger under his jaw. It was warm, and it was intimate. Shane blinked his eyes open and he saw the expression on Ilya’s face for what it was, fondness. Shane couldn’t look away from him, he was transformed into something soft he’d never let him see before. Ilya dropped his fingers from his face and the loss was immediate. 

“You want me” a statement, Shane stated. 

“I do, all of you” Ilya murmured. “And do you. Want me?” he asked, it was almost childlike how he asked. Like anyone could say no. The inevitability of it all struck Shane, he was always going to end up here, no matter what his job was or how they met. He was going to end up looking at Ilya, loving him and wanting him always and in every way. How could anyone not want him? Deep, complex, kind if you watched instead of just listened to him and the things he said. Ilya was soft, and so petrified of being soft he showed hardness. But this was Ilya, asking if he was wanted in a small voice, eyes glancing up through blonde lashes, the only thing stronger than Shane’s love for him was Ilya’s desire to be wanted. 

Shane wanted to tell him as much.

“I won’t compromise myself” Shane said evenly. “I want my parents to know me, I want to not hide who I am, who I..” love he almost said. 

“I told some of the team about me” Ilya said. He did?

"You did?" Shane asked.

"They did not care, neither did Coach" Ilya shrugged like it was nothing. He was lucky, but it wouldn't always be like that. If it came out, the fans, the league, everything could be called into question. Ilya could get pulled be the league, by his team if the reactions cost anyone money. His visa could be gone and then he'd be in Russia with god knows what happening to him.

"I can do those things Shane, I won't hide you or make you hide yourself" Ilya said.

“I won’t” Shane started, “I can’t be the thing responsible for taking hockey away, taking away Russia”. He wanted to set down the conversation, let it breathe.

“You gave me hockey back” Ilya said. “If it goes it is not because of you, it is because of them” he waved a hand towards the window, an audience of nobody. “I have nothing in Russia, haven’t for very long” he dismissed. “Everything is here” he motioned between them with a hand. “I was stupid and said things before because I am afraid” Ilya said. 

Shane scoffed, a harsh laugh coming out. Ilya raised an eyebrow. “I pour my chest out and you laugh in my face” Ilya said, a hand going to his chest. 

“You did it to me” Shane said, quick as a whip and it cracked across Ilya’s face. Regret left its lashings on his expression. 

“I did, no excuse” Ilya said.  “I don’t want destruction, not anymore” he said. 

“You could get let go, you could lose your visa and be deported. If they found out in Russia” Shane started. Ilya’s hand fell around Shane’s wrist, squeezing gently. 

“I am not stupid Hollander, I have plans” he said. “Stop coming up with reasons. I don’t care about them,” Ilya said. “If you don’t want me it is for reasons that are yours not mine”. Ilya was different, not so scared.

Maybe Shane could be less scared too. He sucked in a breath and released it. “I left Boston because I couldn’t stand being around you and not being with you” Shane said, his tone almost argumentative. “Wanting was never an issue for me. That's all I do. All I do is want you, want for you” he urged. “I want you to have a good life. To go home and play hockey. I want you to have that option, even if it’s not today. I don't want to be the reason you lose those things” he said. “You’ll grow to resent me” Shane said, “Maybe not now,” he paused. “You’ll resent me later”. 

“Resent” Ilya repeated, testing the word.  He said something that sounded a lot like a curse in Russian. His palms went to Shane’s cheeks, cradling his face gently. His eyes flickered back and forth rapidly but stuck on Shane’s. 

“How could I? Who knows me better than you? You have done more for me than anyone in my life has ever cared to” Ilya said, countering like it was a negotiation. “I’m not going to ruin anymore” Ilya said quietly, “Never you, I can not say the same about myself” he said. 

“I shouldn’t have said that to you” Shane replied, just as quiet. 

“I’m glad you did” Ilya said. It didn’t sound like a lie, it sounded like a roundabout thank you. Ilya looked down at his hands. “Is good to hear your behaviors out loud, others always let me get away with it. Not you” Ilya said.

It was Shane’s turn to reach out, to feel his skin. His hand crept across the counter until it rested atop Ilya’s. His thumb rubbed small circles on the top of his hand. Shane stared at their hands, how their skin was different, how there was no hesitancy in the movement. It was quiet for a while, long enough for Shane to sit in the feeling to trickle down his brain like water in a rain chain. 

Could it be that simple? 

He wants him, and he wants him back. 

Everything else was just details. 

Could it really breathe between them that easy?

“You really mean it, you want something with me?” Shane asked, his voice came from his chest.

“I want everything” Ilya replied. 

Shane glanced up at him to find Ilya leaned closer and was looking at him with a softness that was so unlike his usual expression. “I want you and me, only us. I want you in my bed, I want you at shitty games where I lose. I want to come home to you and watch you fold clothes. I want to see you with your family and go to your games” he said, his other hand stacking on top of Shane’s. A gentle squeeze. “Want to see your ass in those hospital pants” he added and Shane huffed out a laugh. 

“Fuck” Shane said, he wanted those things too. He just had to be brave enough to take them, to silence the voice in his head telling him this was an elaborate prank, another way to hurt him, that it could never work. But he’d always believed the words people said, and right now when Ilya was looking at him like this, he’d believe in anything. 

Shane stripped his hand from between Ilya’s, he stood, his legs brushing against his and slid his arms around him. Shane pressed the side of his face against Ilya’s neck and breathed him in. Ilya didn’t hesitate, his legs spread to accommodate Shane who only moved closer, his arms wrapped around his middle. It was everything.

“How stupid was I to be anywhere but right here?” Ilya asked, his lips opening and closing against the skin of Shane’s neck as he said it. 

Shane gripped him tighter. Shane was in love with him, the type of love that defined a person by destroying or changing everything in their life for the better. Ilya was being so open, so unguarded, so brave. 

“Want to fight and fuck” Ilya continued. A current ripped up Shane’s spine and he gasped against Ilya’s neck. “Want whatever you will give me, want you to take what you need. Always” he continued. “Tell me what you want Shane” Ilya whispered. 

“I want it too” Shane replied, his lips closing into a kiss over Ilya’s pulse that was sprinting against the skin of his neck. Ilya’s arms tightened, pulling Shane so he was nearly in his lap and there were more angles of their bodies touching than not. 

Was it really this easy? 

His spine wasn't as stiff, and it felt like he might collapse without the rigidity. The past week of worry and exhaustion came back and suddenly he had no energy to talk anymore.

“Are we done talking?” Shane asked, pressing a kiss behind Ilya’s ear, moving curls out of the way with his nose to hunt for skin. 

“You want to leave?” Ilya’s voice faltered.

“No. But I am tired. Tired of talking. We have to plan, go through more” Shane said, hands running circuits over his back. “Can we just lay down and close our eyes for a few minutes first?” Shane traced his features with his eyes. He was exhausted the whole week of build up led them here. His adrenaline dump only made it worse. 

“We are not done talking. You cannot leave until we are done talking, you remember rules” Ilya replied in his ear, his lips grazing the shell of it. Shane hummed. 

“Come to bed moy lyubimyy” Ilya muttered. If he had more energy he might ask what Ilya just said to him.

Shane removed himself from Ilya’s grasp slowly, and moved across the room to the french doors. He pulled them open and went into the room. He hesitated at the threshold and Ilya walked into his back, his arm wrapped around him and held him by the stomach to steady him.The room was normal, nice, and that wasn’t what made Shane stop. 

His grandmother’s quilt was spread over the bed, the ugly quilt, green like mold growing in a petri dish. The thing Shane threw over Ilya's legs when the only love he could accept was something meaningless, something that secretly meant something to Shane. Shane thought he’d lost it in the move, it must have been misplaced in a box left on the curb in Boston by movers. But it wasn’t lost, it was stolen.

Ilya had taken it from his house, the thing Shane gave to him. He was sleeping with it, he’d moved countries with it. This was real, this was something, everything. It’d been that way for a long time, longer maybe than either of them knew. All the nights Shane blinked at the slow rotation of ceiling fan blades desperate to have Ilya in the bed next to him in the cold space. Shane was in Ilya’s bed, keeping him warm. 

Ilya was sharp tongued and harsh, he gave the impression of not caring as often and loud as he could. But he was sticky-fingered. Ilya collected things from the people he cared about, tangible parts of them. His mother’s necklace for one, something that he held between his lips when he was distracted, something he pinched between his fingers when he needed strength or patience, something that sat on his chest- an ever present commitment to not forgetting her and to loving her. Ilya had Shane’s blanket, the one Ilya complained was scratchy and ugly and uncomfortable because it was. He’d taken it when he moved out of Shane’s home while he was licking his wounds like a kicked dog at his parent’s. He took it after Ilya told him they weren’t anything, that they meant nothing. Ilya stole it, that meant something. All that time, all those months of quiet, of nothing. He had it with him. He dragged it with him and his two suitcases here. It fucking meant something. 

If he already wasn’t desperately in love with him for quite a while, this would have been the moment of realization. 

He had a hunch that developed in the last five minutes that maybe Ilya was in love with him too. If Shane was less delirious he might laugh at how quickly the pendulum swung in his mind in his belief that Ilya hated him to be sure that Ilya loved him. 

Shane, who was careful with his words, became so unconcerned with them so quickly. He could care less, not when his family heirloom is on his bed and Ilya’s heart was at his back. Ilya was so brave in their conversation. Shane knew what it cost him to be like that. Shane could be brave for him too, Shane could dive in and split the surface tension with his hands and tell him just how much he wanted him.

It came out of Shane like an exhale of breath that was held too long. It wasn’t a choice, just a function of his body like his heart beating. “I love you” Shane said, he said it to the quilt, to the unoccupied space in front of him while Ilya was still behind him, a hand still firm on his stomach. “I love you Ilya” he said again. 

A sharp inhale behind him and tightening of arms around him like a vice grip followed his words. Shane didn’t need to see how his words played over his face or his eyes. 

He didn’t need to hear it back, not right now. 

He was content here, in a hotel bedroom staring at a bed that a thousand people slept in before, but Shane never had. Ilya was sleeping here, with a piece of Shane, with a part of him and his family long before this week. 

Shane didn’t need to hear a response from Ilya because he saw it with his eyes. Ilya was here in Shane’s country, he was here willing to ruin his life for something with him. It felt stupid that a quilt made it all make sense in Shane’s scattered brain. That all the sacrifices Ilya made, the effort he was making, all the improvements he was trying, were like little squares of himself sewn together all too much like the blanket in front of him. Making something whole from parts. 

Ilya loved him too, even if he might not say it right now.  

He turned Shane so they were face to face. Ilya catches him immediately, in that moment of hesitation where his mind is quiet, not wondering if he said too much or too little. Just quiet and in a little bit of peace. He kisses him. Soft, gentle, an answer to what Shane said and it’s like an anesthetic. He feels floaty, like he could close his eyes and drift into nothing. Like nothing happened before this moment and nothing would after. One of Ilya’s hands  slid through his hair, fingers dragging through the strands. His fingers dipped into the divots in his skull and smoothed down the hair on his neck. 

Shane tried to deepen the kiss, and Ilya chuckled into his mouth. “Ah, no. We rest now” he said simply and walked them both to the bed. He pulled on Shane’s sleeve until the jacket came off of him.

“We’re done talking right?” Shane asked.

“Hmm?” Ilya asked as he watched Shane stepping out of his pants and folding them. 

“You said I couldn’t leave until we were both done talking” Shane said into his neck.

“I will never be done talking” Ilya said as he tugged his own pants down and yanked his shirt off. 

They settled into the bed at the same time, sliding under the comforter and the ugly quilt. Bare legs tangled and Ilya yanked Shane’s body back against him so his back was at Ilya’s stomach and Ilya’s face was buried in his neck. 

“Shane” Ilya said.

“Mmmm?” was all he could force himself to say. 

“I will always be too much like myself. Defensive, too sad. I am not fixed” Ilya said from behind him. “I will try to be better but I cannot say I always will be”.

“I love you like this” he said sleepily. “I’m boring, I might still run sometimes” Shane mumbled. There was a moment of quiet where only the sheets rustled as Ilya moved behind him. 

“What a privilege to be able to chase you” Ilya told him, with only sincerity in his voice. “Sleep”.

“Only for an hour okay?” Shane mumbled. Ilya gave his reply in Russian, something melodic that dipped low and swooped high in a pleasant way that made him crash. 

*
Ilya

Ilya might never sleep again, ever. He could live with that. Too much was happening.

Ilya didn’t move, he didn’t breathe too hard. He didn’t care if the arm wrapped around Shane’s waist felt like it fell off of him like a reptile tail because he stopped feeling it an hour ago. Shane slept neatly, quietly.. He slept like a child with a hand under one cheek. That’s how perfect he was. Everything was perfect, his hair, his broad shoulders, the freckles on them. The color of his eyes and the shape of his lips. His brain, his intensity and kindness. Shane was predictable, Ilya knew his patterns but sometimes he did something Ilya could have never expected. 

Shane loved him, Shane Hollander was in love with him. The boy he criticized in his mind for being perfect boy in Saskatchewan in 2008 was a perfect man now, a perfect man who looked inside Ilya and found something worth loving. Not just loving, something worth being in love with. His initial reaction was to think he didn’t deserve it. A voice in his head that sounded as awful lot like Shane pointed out Shane didn’t make stupid choices, he didn’t invest in people who weren’t worth it.

Ilya felt joy and sorrow in equal parts. He was incredulous. He couldn't believe that he was here and Shane was tucked into him breathing evenly. Ilya still needed to ask him somethings when he woke up, they needed to figure out details, and Shane wanted to plan. He ran his fingers gently over Shane's stomach, drawing small circles there that were more for him than for the sleeping man. Ilya wasn't quite sure what to do next. They'd skipped the easy parts.

They missed someone walking up to the other at the bar or at a game and getting hit on, they missed a first date and the torture of getting to know someone. How if it went well you asked to see them again, maybe fell into bed after a respectable amount of dates. They would have gotten to the parts where you slowly unraveled yourself, past the facade of who you wanted someone to know you as and to who they actually were. He would have brought him around his friends, and he'd meet Shane's parents. They'd say they loved each other, and maybe moved in. After a respectable amount of time, they'd get married. Ilya felt cheated out of that. He wouldn't change how things happened with them, shifting dynamics and things blurring into something else. He'd never change it, but he wanted to do what he should have done years ago. He wanted to convince Shane into a relationship with him not just with words, but how it was done traditionally. Shane’s breathing changed as Ilya gently rocked him, Shane asked for an hour of rest and he’d given him an extra twenty minutes. His mouth opened with a quiet gasp. Shane pushed his body back against Ilya’s with a hum. They didn’t say anything for a while, just pressed against each other in the quiet. 

Shane’s fingers twitched over the blanket.

“My grandmother made this for me” Shane said, fingers pinching the quilt. Ilya had forgotten all about that Shane likely didn't know he'd stolen it from him. "She made it for me when she was in the hospital and sick, right before she died" he said quietly. Ah fuck, he'd stolen a fucking family heirloom. He was so selfish. “I love that you had it all this time” Shane said, and it stopped Ilya in his thought process. He cleared his throat. There it was again, love, said like it was a fact like it didn't kill him to say it out loud. “You love a lot of things tonight” Ilya said a little shy. Shane lifted his body and turned so instead they were face to face. His hair was stuck up strange from Ilya's fingers in it and it made him look younger. “I love pretty much everything when it comes to you” Shane said, face like calm waters and eyes lit with joy. Someone who was stupid might accuse him of blushing but Shane didn’t say a word, he wasn't stupid. “Have you ever been in a relationship before?” Ilya asked him. "No, not anything committed" Shane said, "You?". “No” Ilya replied. “I’m not sure I know how to" Ilya said. “I don’t think there is a handbook" Shane said a hand sliding up Ilya's side gently, goosebumps chased his path. "If you want to be, in a relationship I mean. We can just talk, about easy stuff and whatever else. Spend time together” Shane said. He made something so complicated sound so simple. "I do" Ilya said, pulling Shane closer so the top of his head tucked under Ilya's chin. “Will you go on date with me?" he asked.

Chapter End Notes

HEYYYY :)

I hope this helped with the emotional edging I’ve been accused of by many comments lmao or maybe not! I don't know, this is a chapter I could edit for weeks and not feel 100% certain about but I'm sending it anyway.

I really wanted there to be emotional equality in this talk. It’s so unrealistic for people to entirely undo years of repression and defense mechanisms because they went to therapy or want someone to love them back in a very short time period. As much as I like playing fast and loose with accuracy, I want human emotions/experiences to be accurate if they can be.

They are still flawed people , and I wanted there to be moments where Ilya is brave and he is scared in this talk. Ilya says how much he cares and shows it in every word but ‘I love you’. I wanted there to be moments where Shane is freaking out and where Shane steps up and does the scary thing. Shane is the one who says the L word, not caring if it is returned. That is the plot of this fic, meeting the other where they are at. Going out on a limb!

The last chapter is ahead. I intend it to be long and cover a lot of sweet coupley things with zero angst. Ilya so badly wants to live out the typical couple progression and I’m going to give it to him. Here are some things I want to touch on maybe, tell me what I’m missing or what you would like to see!!

First Date/ “First Kiss”
‘First’ “sleepover”/ fuckin
Meeting the friends (Hayden and separately Cens maybe?)
Meeting the family
Being 'public'
Saying I love you
Moving In
Engagement
Marriage

No promises they all make it in.

 

Shameless self plug. I've started another series for HR, it's focused on Ilya and based around Russian proverbs and a character study of him. If you feel like reading it, go ahead it's called "A Russian Son" and it's on my page. There's only one chapter right now but I will have more time when this bad boy is wrapped up.

I plan to write more longer more romance form fics too but am still toying around with what I'd like to do and might experiment with formats and stuff.

Thank you for reading. I'll hopefully have the final update up next week but no promises.

Chapter 23: The Plan

Chapter Summary

Some well earned happy/sappy/

Chapter Notes

OKAY. I GET IT. MESSAGE RECEIVED! YOU WANT THE WHOLE LIST. HERE is SOME of it... DAMN. There is too much to do in one chapter honestly, so surprise. Another two chapters will be added to round us out to an even 25. Sorry to be the boy who cried wolf about the ending but idgaf, I really am not adding more after 25 chapters I mean it.

Five Days Later
Ottawa

 

He put the car in park and hopped out, nearly jogging to get the door for Shane. His door was already open and he was half out of the car and looking up at Ilya like he was some kind of endangered species.

“What are you doing?” Shane asked, eyes pacing around confused as Ilya crowded his space.

“Opening door” he replied.

Shane scrunched his nose up, “I’ve been doing that for a few decades, I got it” Shane said simply. Ilya hadn’t exactly told Shane his plans to not rewrite history, but to make this, what would be both of their first committed relationship into something classic and not so horribly complex.

“What is it with you and doors tonight?” Shane asked as he closed his own door. Ilya dropped the keys with the valet. He’d been at the door of Shane’s house when he picked him up waiting patiently on the porch.

“You sure you want to do this?” Shane asked for probably the thirtieth time in as many minutes, looking around at the amount of people walking around.

Ilya knew they both stuck out like sore thumbs, Ilya was tall and more famous in Ottawa than he was in Boston. Shane was gorgeous, lots of people would be looking at them. Ilya wouldn’t do anything gay at dinner, not in public. People knew they were friends, meeting a friend for dinner was normal. Meeting your guy friend for a two person dinner at an upscale french restaurant with candle light was…normal? Ilya hoped that his Europeanness would be doing a lot of heavy lifting if anyone looked too closely. There would be a time to not give any fuck at all in public, but they weren’t quite there yet. It was a progression.

“Come” Ilya replied, placing his hand briefly at Shane’s back before releasing it. They were seated quickly, at a table out of the way from other diners and handed menus that had french on them and no pricing.

Shane looked beautiful, as he always did. He looked soft in the warm dim lighting, and his lip was curved up at the corner. Ilya wondered how much of that smile he’d earned opposed to what Shane decided to give him.

“So, you come here often?” Ilya asked, a stupid line he’d seen in a movie. Shane did that breathy laugh he loved more than anything.

“No, can’t say I have” he replied.

Waiters passed through with nothing ordered aside from a drink each that Shane ordered in french, the waiter looked at Shane just a little too much and instead of being annoyed Ilya was overjoyed. Nothing was going to kill his good mood. Ilya almost vomited from Shane’s perfect accent and how his mouth moved around the french words. He was going to have to be careful if he was doing this the way he wanted to. He was going to have to be on his best fucking behavior tonight if Shane was going to look like that and speak french in front of him.

Ilya took a sip of his vodka and watched as Shane drank from his wine glass, the picture of class.

“What is your favorite color?” Ilya asked. Shane smirked, it was a juvenile question. “Green like the woods” Shane replied, he opened his mouth as if to ask Ilya the same question but Ilya interrupted him.

“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Ilya leaned his elbow on the table and put his chin in his palm. The action made his button down stretch tightly across his back.

“A hockey player” Shane replied.

“What is your favorite food?” Ilya asked rapidly. Shane lifted one of his perfect eyebrows into a perfect arch.

“Is there a reason you’re asking me so many questions in a row like this?” Shane wondered.

“I am trying to get to know you, this is first date” Ilya said quietly as he leaned across the table. Shane chuckled.

“I think we’re a little past that don’t you think?” he asked in the same mock whisper tone.

That’s what he didn’t want, he didn’t want to skip the inbetweens. Sure, he knew how Shane worked, the things that drove him crazy, and the deep things about him. But they’d missed out so much of that surface level knowledge. Ilya wanted it, he wanted to know everything about Shane and for Shane to know everything about him.

“I want what we missed out on because of this” Ilya said. “I want us not to be past that” he said, feeling a little ridiculous.

Shane smiled, genuine and sweet. He looked away for a moment and pressed his lips together as if trying to contain his smile. Ilya wanted to reach across the table and stop him, he should never smother such a beautiful thing. Instead he settled for the toe of his shoe rubbing against Shane’s under the table.

“You do?” Shane asked.

“Badly” Ilya replied.The waiter came over again, they hadn’t discussed anything on the menu.

“I don’t know, order whatever. I will eat” Ilya dismissed with a wave of his hand. Shane did, he ordered something in gorgeous french and Ilya watched his lips move with fascination. When the waiter was gone, Shane’s attention snapped back on Ilya.

“Is that why you’re opening doors and you wouldn’t let me kiss you?” Shane asked, the parts clicking into place. “And we’re in some fancy place you don’t understand the language of? Trying to make up for lost time or something”.

“Yes, not very good to kiss before first date. Don’t want to give you wrong idea” Ilya said with a smile.

He was fucking happy, he was fucking in love, and Shane was looking at him and Shane loved him too. It felt right, and Ilya noticed he wasn’t waiting for something to crush him or for the tablecloth to be ripped off and everything to crash. He let his eyes wander around the restaurant, he didn’t care if people knew. “Fancy place because you are fancy guy” he finished.

“Ilya” Shane said, laughter poorly disguised in his quiet voice. “You already kissed me last week” Shane said quietly.

“Eh that was not a date though” Ilya said, extending a long pointer finger at Shane.

“You invited me over to your hotel, you bought dinner” he reminded him. Shit he was right, he hadn’t thought this far ahead at that time. It was okay, Ilya could bicker his way out of it.

“You didn’t eat it, just refused it and napped and barely talked to me” Ilya said, joking. They’d talked that night a lot, so much. Shane told him everything that he’d done while he was in Ottawa and Ilya told him all the things he’d done in Boston while they laid in bed together, bodies slotted together like tongue and groove planks. They’d talked until six in the morning and until they fell asleep. Shane told him he loved him maybe a hundred times.

Shane tilted his head in a deeply affectionate way that made Ilya need to clear his throat. “Right and you kissed me. A few times if I remember correctly” Shane said, cheeks rosy.

Ilya shifted in his seat, he wanted to climb over the table and really kiss him “I don’t think so, you must have been dreaming” he said, grabbing his vodka glass and taking a sip, letting the burn ground him. He was on a date with a man he’d known more than half his life, they’d had sex, they’d lived together for some time, they’d broken each other’s hearts, and they chose each other.

“So you’re serious about this then?” Shane asked.

“Death, very deathly serious” Ilya replied. Shane looked around the restaurant, at the other couples or the tables filled with families. Nobody was paying them any mind. “We will go slow, very slow” Ilya said. “So slow you’ll ask, why are we going this slow?” he said.

Shane leaned forward a bit. “I’m saying that now though” Shane pointed out. He leaned forward even more, “So if I asked you to come inside tonight when you drop me off? If I asked you to stay the night, would you?” he asked, his eyes still light with humor but something burning a bit deeper in them.

Ilya looked at his lips, how soft they were and could only think about how badly he wanted to capture them between his own. He swallowed hard, enough that it made a sound and Shane’s lips twitched into a smile.

“I don’t think so” Ilya replied. “I am not a slut Shane Hollander” he tried to joke his way out of the tension but Shane gave him a look showing him he didn’t buy it.

Shane hummed, “So how long then do I have to wait? Weeks? Months?” Shane asked.

It was all scheduled out in his notebook, their notebook. Ilya was never a planner, Shane made him one. All of his research generally said sleeping with someone after date five was okay if you wanted it to be serious. Any sooner could work depending on the couple, any later the person might not think you were into them.

“You will just have to keep saying yes to dinner and will have to find out” Ilya replied, it was nice to flirt like this. Half serious, half competitive, something he could never have with someone else.

“And you think I’ll just wait around for you?” Shane asked, his fingers on either side of the stem of his glass. Six months ago, the question would have sent Ilya into a panic. Into a goddamned tail spin. Now he knew he would wait for him, Shane loved him.

“I think you will” Ilya said with confidence.

“Okay” Shane agreed, leaning back a bit in his chair and nodding his head slightly. “I’ll agree to whatever this is because you want it” he said with his hands up. “I can go slow, I’ll follow your lead” he said.

Shane tugged at the clean ironed collar of his shirt and slipped two top buttons out. The tan skin of his neck and collarbone became visible. Ilya sipped more vodka. “You don’t need to bring me to fancy dinners though we could just go get a salad or something, walk, or talk. Talking means letting me ask you questions too” Shane said. He paused for a moment before saying “You won me over on a couch just talking” Shane offered. Shane won him over way before that.

“If I ever get a salad bring me to hospital” Ilya said. “You still have it? The couch?”.

“Of course it’s in my place” he said as if he was confused. Good, Ilya thought. He’d be back on it in a few weeks if everything went well.

“If you couldn’t play hockey, and couldn’t be medical person. What would you do?” Ilya asked.

Shane thought about it for a minute, “Maybe an architect? I’d want to design really beautiful homes” he said.

“Mr. Real Estate” Ilya teased,

“Shut up” he said with a smile. “It’s something I want to do, at least once. There’s a parcel of land near my parent’s lake house that’s been up for sale for a while, it’s on the lake. I’m waiting for the price to come down a bit, if it does I want to build a house on it” Shane said.

“Monopoly man, investment man” Ilya smirked. Shane rolled his eyes. Ilya filed it away, like everything Shane has ever told him.

“What about you, hockey is off the table. What would you do?” Shane asked, his question was a bit more tense, like Shane was worried saying it might speak it into existence for Ilya.

“Something with animals I think, maybe vet or animal shelter worker” he said. “I will want us to get a dog” Ilya said with a shrug. Maybe it was a crazy thing to say in a relationship so new, but this was fucking crazy. Ilya was in Ottawa, they loved each other. Ilya wasn’t going to let it just go away, he was in it for the long haul and he wanted a dog.

“That’s pretty heavy for a first date, assuming I want a dog with you” Shane said. Damn, he was fucking this up.

Their food came, it was something, he didn’t care about it. Ilya was going to leave hungry so he could watch everything Shane did. They sat at the table for hours talking until it was finally time to leave. Shane waited with a barely concealed smile for Ilya to open his car door when the valet brought the car. He slid into the seat and his head turned to watch Ilya through the windshield. Ilya got into the car and looked over at Shane in the passenger seat. It would be really nice to lean over and kiss him right now.

Ilya moved his hand to the gear shift, they drove to Shane’s home in the quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged. Ilya was second guessing his plan by the time he pulled up into Shane’s driveway. He shut the car off and Shane looked over at him expectantly.

“You don’t need to open my door” he said. Ilya smiled and flung the door open, Shane waited anyway. Ilya pulled it open and Shane sighed.

“Thank you for dinner” he said warmly. Ilya walked with him until they were at the front door of the apartment walkup Shane was in.

“You’re really committing to this huh?” Shane joked, but his joke stopped as Ilya’s two hands went to his cheeks and held him there. Shane’s eyes slipped low, not closed but not all the way open and looked at Ilya’s face. One of his hands drifted down to Shane’s neck to touch the skin exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. Ilya moved towards him slowly until their lips were touching. It was chaste and loving, and Shane’s hand covered Ilya’s where it rested on his face. Their lips were in no rush, Ilya was in no rush. If he did this right, maybe he could convince Shane to keep him forever.

Ilya broke the kiss before it became too heated, he rested his forehead against Shane’s.

“Ilya, we’re outside” Shane whispered, a careful warning.

“I know” he replied. “This was good date, good kiss too” he said against his mouth. “You should see me again” Ilya suggested, he felt his smile against his mouth and his quiet laugh. Shane pressed his lips to his again and pulled back..

“Maybe. When were you thinking? I heard if you don’t schedule a date while you’re still together they might not text you after” Shane said, leaning back a bit.

“I guess you will have to wait and see if I text” Ilya said. “Good night Shane” he said, dropping one more kiss to his lips before pulling away. He forced himself to walk away, and to not look back until he was behind the wheel of his car. Shane hadn’t moved, he was just watching Ilya like he couldn’t be bothered to do anything else with a grin on his face. Ilya glanced down at his phone and typed a quick message and sent it.

I: Tomorrow night too soon?

 

He waited, watching Shane until he saw Shane get the notification. He swiped his phone open and laughed and sent a reply.

 

S: Who is this? Don’t have your number saved.

 

*
Four Weeks Later
Ottawa

 

Ilya was about to explode, actually fucking explode.

Everyone knew it. His teammates were looking at him recently like something was wrong with him. He was laughing too loudly. He was always busy before and after practices. For the past week or so, he was on edge about everything. They didn’t know what was wrong with him, Wyatt narrowed his eyes at Ilya a few times like he knew he wasn’t telling him something big but he never pushed.

Ilya was jerking off every day, twice a day even. It was torture, it was being a teenager all over again. He was seeing Shane as often as he could, sometimes just for a few minutes where he’d sit in the driveway of his apartment and talk for 15 minutes after one of Shane’s long hospital shifts and while Ilya was heading to practice. They talked on the phone, over text as much as possible, enough he worried he might be annoying him.

They’d had four dates, four good ones. Dinner that first time, nature preserve walks, ice time together at the rink. Shane took Ilya to a movie at an international film place playing a Russian movie and spent the entire movie rubbing his fingers against Ilya’s inner thigh. He thought he was going to detonate.

Each time they saw each other Shane gave him a look that made his fingers curl into fists and his knuckles turn white. They’d been kissing more, sure. Sometimes when they saw each other it was all they did when they got into the car or in the entryway of Shane’s apartment. Ilya refused to go any further than just the entryway of Shane’s place He knew himself.

Ilya cleared his throat and tried not to be aware that this was in fact their fifth date as Shane walked ahead of him at the farmer’s market and was looking at two heads of lettuce that were virtually the same. He looked at them like if he chose the wrong one the world might explode.

Ilya was fine just watching him pick produce. They were going back to Shane’s to cook together. Ilya would have to go past the entry way, into the kitchen, into the living room even. There’d be the couch, his bed was somewhere in the place. It was date number five, he was within range of sex.

Shane looked around the booths next to the produce and when his eyes found Ilya’s he smiled and tilted his head over. Ilya went like the good dog he was becoming, going wherever his owner called.

“Pick the vegetables, gonna do marinated chicken” Shane said, nodding towards the rows of produce. Ilya selected a few bell peppers and an onion.

“For grill?” he said, Shane handed them to the person at the stand and paid. They wandered around the stalls until Ilya started getting impatient and was tugging on the bottom of Shane’s shirt hem like a child.

“Okay, Jesus,” Shane said, shrugging him off with an eyeroll. It was a nice day, still warm for what should be summer tapering off into fall. The walk back to Shane’s home was not far.

“It is fifth date you know” Ilya said as they walked. Shane glanced over at him.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Shane asked. Then a beat later said, “Oh, does that correlate to your dating schedule or something?” looking at Ilya, when he didn’t see a reaction from Ilya it seemed to confirm it. “Oh” he grinned. “What do I get for the fifth date? Do I get to hold your hand? Second base?” Shane asked, grinning like a teenager.

“Nobody knows how much of an asshole you can be, everyone thinks you are nice” Ilya mumbled.

“Okay so that’s not it then. Maybe some over the pants hand stuff” Shane kept prodding. Ilya was so suppressed he sucked in some air at even the joke of it.

“Shut up” Ilya said, serious but fond.

Ilya followed Shane in the door of the house and immediately pushed him up against the front door. The groceries hit the floor probably destroying Shane’s twelve dollar organic lemon and lettuces but neither of them cared.

Ilya was burning. He was on fucking fire, and Shane was an accelerant. Every time Ilya thought he was going to pull away, Shane chased him. They were making out, hot, dirty, too wet with teeth and tongues and enough pressure it hurt a little bit. Ilya’s knee parted Shane’s legs and he pressed until he felt his hardness on his thigh. Shane gasped into Ilya’s mouth, his hands dropping to his ass and moving around to his hip and lower, and, oh fuck.

“Stop” Ilya said as he pulled his head away fast and dragged the rest of his body away. He whined like a kicked dog, Shane was plastered up against the door, red cheeked, shirt askew, obviously hard in his shorts. His mouth was bright red, and his chin was slick from Ilya’s spit. It was probably gross, and the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“Fuck” Ilya complained. Shane’s chest rose and fell with effort and his head tilted back against the door. A smile flickered on his face.

“You’re my boyfriend right?” Ilya asked him then and Shane barked a laugh, pushing off the door and leaning down to gather the things he’d dropped.

“Ilya I’m in love with you, I might have mentioned it a few times” Shane said as if it was obvious as he walked by him and grabbed his hand, pulling him with him into his apartment. It was smaller than his old place, but just as neat and clean, very Shane.

“Is that a yes?” Ilya asked. He’d never tire of hearing Shane say he loved him.

“I don’t know, I usually like to have sex before I commit to a relationship. What if you’re a lousy lay?” Shane said. He was prodding him, trying to see how far he was willing to take it. Ilya stalked towards him, Shane didn’t run, just dug in his heels and stared him down. Ilya set the bag on the counter and lifted Shane up to sit on the counter too.

“Nobody will ever fuck you like I do” Ilya said as he buried his face in Shane’s neck and sucked and nibbled at his skin. He made his way to his ear and licked the soft skin behind it, Shane flinched.

“You should prove it” Shane said. Ilya dropped one more kiss on his neck, and squeezed his waist before taking his hands off of him.

“We should cook” Ilya said.

“I’m not hungry” Shane told him.

“You have been talking about market all day” Ilya said, trying his best not to look at him.

“Ilya” Shane said, a serious note in his voice. He turned to look at him. “Can you at least let me in on what’s going on in your head?” he requested.

“I just want to wait a bit, that’s all” Ilya said, stroking a finger over the freckles on Shane’s cheeks and the thousand more than had come out in the sun of late summer.

“We’ve done it before, we don’t need to wait” Shane reminded him. He knows, he thinks about it all the time, how Shane looked, how he sounded, how his body tasted, and god how he felt.

“I want to do this right” Ilya said, tracing his finger over Shane’s heavy bottom lip.

“Right by whose standards? Who is this third party in our relationship that is deciding when we get to have sex?” Shane asked, when he put it like that it did sound stupid.

“Magazines, forums, people online” Ilya replied honestly.

“What magazines?” Shane asked, eyebrows nearly in his hairline. Ilya would rather die than say Cosmopolitan, and other girly magazines.

“New Yorker, National Geographic” he replied with a shrug. Shane muttered under his breath and walked by him into the living room and threw himself on the couch.

“What if we break up, will you have sex with me then?” Shane asked.

“Do not joke like that Hollander, you have been my boyfriend for two minutes” Ilya warned, wagging a finger and throwing himself over the low back of the couch so he was on his back. He settled so his head was in Shane’s lap. Shane ran his fingers through his hair, twisting a curl on his finger every once and a while.

“Was there anyone else, after me I mean?” Ilya asked, staring at the blank white ceiling of Shane’s living room. He felt Shane’s hand stop moving. It was a question he really didn’t want to know the answer to but asked anyway.

“No, of course not” Shane replied, and his hand moved again. “You?” he asked, his voice a little too nonchalant to be believable.

“No” Ilya replied back as he sat up and faced Shane.

Shane climbed on top of Ilya on their couch, strong thighs holding him still. Shane kissed him like he was the antidote to some snake bite. He scaled him with his hands going everywhere, their bodies rubbing.

Ilya whined, yea, he fucking whined when the friction was just right and they pressed into each other and fought off a thrust. Shane was all over him, saying nasty things in his ear just as often as he was saying sweet things. Shane did it again, slower then a bit rougher until Ilya had resorted to throwing him off of him and onto the soft couch and moving to the other side. His chest heaving watching Shane. Shane was the picture of ease, legs spread, clearly still interested in finishing what he started. Ilya was almost in tears he wanted to touch him so badly.

He and Shane didn’t have a long sexual history together, things went to shit pretty quickly. But even now, Ilya could see that Shane was always holding something back from him in the past, something he probably didn’t want damaged or exposed to someone who was treating him as disposable at the time. Whatever barriers Shane threw up then were gone.

“You don’t have to touch me” Shane offered. One of his hands was limp on the couch and the other moved up to his neck. His hand rubbed against his chest. Ilya watched his hand run down his stomach and grip his shirt hem. He yanked it over his head and laid it on the couch next to him, folding it into a neat pile.

“What are you doing?” Ilya gaped.

“It’s the fifth date right? You’re worried about me thinking you’re ‘slutty’ or something if you fuck me” Shane rolled his eyes. “I’ll do it then” he said.

His voice was low and his hand hadn't stopped moving. It was running over his firm stomach now, hard lines and soft skin. It went down until he was gripping himself over his shorts. Shane let out a little sigh and Ilya almost jumped to his feet.

“You can just watch me if you want” Shane offered, “It doesn’t count if you don’t touch me”.

Ilya groaned and threw his head back which clunked into the couch with a muted sound. Shane took that as an invitation. The sound of a zipper made Ilya’s head snap up, Shane shimmied his shorts down until they were hooked around one ankle. He pulled his underwear down next and Ilya had to look away. He was going to fucking explode.

“Hey” Shane called to him quietly and Ilya couldn’t look at him. “I thought of us every day, how good you felt inside of me. How good I wanted to be for you” Shane said and Ilya’s hand dropped to his own lap. He heard the sound of Shane spitting into his own hand and looked up.

Shane was naked, his ass on the edge of the couch and legs spread, he was hard, and Shane’s eyes were black. One hand rested at the base of him while the other drifted down, a finger circling that spot that Ilya….FUCK!

“Date is over!” Ilya all but yelled and stood too quickly, he almost tripped over the coffee table as he jumped up and ran to Shane’s front door.

“Ilya, wait. I’m sorry” Shane called from somewhere behind him. Ilya left everything behind, not even bothering to grab his keys or his phone and nearly running to the door. He walked outside the apartment door and closed it behind him. He breathed two deep breaths and then walked back inside. Shane was up, hopping into his boxers, clearly trying to come after him when Ilya moved into the living room and pushed him back onto the couch. Shane went willingly, too confused to understand what was going on.

“What?” Shane asked before Ilya sucked every bit of oxygen from his lungs with a kiss.

“I left, fifth date is over. I am back now. Can we fuck now please?” he almost begged. Shane blinked at him.

“Upstairs” Shane said simply.

Ilya didn’t want to wait any longer, he grabbed Shane and pulled him around the apartment, he’d barely even seen it. They’d been all over each other since they got in the door.

Ilya made out with him, hot breath, biting, pushing Shane around as he tried to find the fucking staircase. Shane pushed him back into the wall, smiling into the kiss and stripping the sweatshirt off of Ilya’s body with his hands on his chest and stomach. They were both smiling, panting, and didn’t disconnect their mouths as Shane climbed the stairs backwards as Ilya chased him upstairs.

 

*
November
Ottawa

 

“Okay listen up” Bood’s voice boomed across the room. Their preseason schedule ended with a pretty rough game tonight against Edmonton. Ilya couldn’t ignore that they were an average to bad team right now. There were flashes of hope over the past few games, strong connections or talent that could be refined into something decent but it wasn’t going to happen overnight or even this season.

Rarely did coaches actually have different makers dress for preseason games. Ilya spent a lot of time in a suit watching from the box, just like tonight. He lingered in the locker room as the team undressed and slapped his teammates on the backs.

“Preseason is done, we have worked hard. We will keep working hard, tomorrow’s practice is at my house. Team barbecue, bring your people” he said simply. Ilya grabbed his cellphone and his car keys from his stall.

Hazy made a beeline over to him. “Roz” he said and tilted his head towards the locker room door with urgency. Hazy made his way to the door and went out into the hallway, Ilya followed behind him.

“You good Hazy?” Ilya asked.

“Have you talked to Shane?” he asked, almost bouncing off the walls.

“Today?” Ilya asked, suddenly worried about if something happened. Shane was supposed to be on shift at the hospital.

“No” Hazy shook his head, “Since you’ve been here? You’re always running out of here I haven’t been able to ask if you guys talked yet” he wondered.

Ah so he was just prying. Ilya settled a bit. “Why Hazy?”.

“Well, would it be crazy if I invited him with me tomorrow? Lisa is working and she can’t come but I know Shane isn’t working. It could be perfect, he would see you with the team being all funny. He wouldn’t even know it was a set up, you could make your move” Hazy said with a hopeful look in his eye.

Ilya wanted to open his mouth and just tell him it wasn’t necessary, they were in love he didn’t need to be set up with his own boyfriend. But it would be kind of fun, and it would give Ilya an excuse to skip to the next thing in his book. Shane meeting his friends.

He’d told the rest of the team recently that he’s bisexual, and nobody really gave a shit and people seemed even happy for him. Sure there were some jokes, but they were fun. Ilya made the worst ones out of the group. But Shane, that was being held close to his chest still. He had to do it though, it was part of the plan.

“Sure Hazy, is fine” Ilya said before slapping him on the shoulder and driving over to Shane’s and using his key to let himself in and wait for him to come home. Shane already had a text on his phone by the time Ilya could talk to him about Wyatt insisting he come to the barbeque. Shane gave Ilya an uncertain look.

“I want them to know you, I want them to know me too” Ilya said simply.

Shane agreed immediately. He was also immediately on board with fucking with Hazy. He replied he would go and asked Hazy to pick him up and bring him over.

Ilya headed over the next afternoon to Bood’s and made sure he beat Shane and Hazy there. He sat on the front porch and waited, greeting the guys as they made their way into the backyard and waved them off. He chuckled to himself as he saw Hazy’s car parking down the road. Shane hopped out of the passenger seat, already smiling and holding a bottle of wine like a good boy. He was talking to Wyatt but his eyes were already on Ilya.

Wyatt eyes picked Ilya up from about twenty feet away and shot him a thumbs up. “Ilya! Hey man!” he said, sounding like the worst actor to ever act ever.

“Hazy” Ilya replied with a nod as the two men walked up the front steps. Ilya’s eyes were locked with Shane’s, Shane was smiling at him.

“Ilya this is my friend Shane Hollander” he said, moving stiff and voice too robotic. It took everything in Ilya not to laugh.

“Shane” Ilya nodded.

“Ilya” Shane replied. Ilya raised an eyebrow at him and Shane continued forward, swinging a leg on either side of Ilya and capturing his mouth in a hot kiss. Ilya let his hands rest on Shane’s waist and tried to lean into the joke and not think about how fucking hot it was to do this in front of people they knew.

Ilya would have gone for longer if Wyatt hadn’t started choking on his own spit. Shane climbed off of him, patted his cheek, and grabbed his hand so they were still joined.

“Holy shit, oh fuck” Hazy said with his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

“Wyatt, you know my boyfriend Ilya? What a small world” Shane joked and checked him with his shoulder.

“Boyfriend?” he whispered.

“Come on” Shane said as they went through the front door. “I’ll fill you in after a beer” he said. Ilya was like a pig in shit. They made their way into the backyard, it smelled like smoke and the team and their spouses were lounging around talking.

“Hey fuckers” Ilya shouted at the group huddled around a few tables leaning over their plates. They all snapped their heads over, a large chorus of yelling and cheers at Ilya’s arrival.

“Jesus” Shane muttered from next to him.

They all looked over at him expectantly, then at Shane and then at their hands still clasped together. Some of their eyes were wide enough to flop out, while some of them just grinned. Haasy looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“This is Shane, my boyfriend. Be nice to him, he is socially awkward. I am going to talk to Bood” Ilya said and let go of his hand and pushed him towards the table with his team. Shane gaped at Ilya and stumbled forward.

“Go make friends lyubimyy” he winked at Shane. Shane didn’t know what the endearment meant, but still blinked at him in disbelief. Ever one for a challenge, Shane squared his shoulders and walked over to the table and plopped down in an open chair. Ilya went towards the grill where Bood was shaking his head at him.

“You’re going to be in the dog house my friend” Bood said with a smirk.

“Woof” Ilya said in response. “Is fine, he will be fixing everyone’s hockey in the next five minutes. Happy like clam” he said with a smile.

“So boyfriend huh?” Bood asked as he flipped a few burgers, the hiss of the grill and the flash of heat at his side did nothing to make him look away from Shane who looked like he was holding court. All of his teammates were fully rotated and facing him.

“Yep” Ilya popped the p part.

“He good to you?” Bood asked.

“The best, good for me too” he replied and watched as Shane’s eyes flickered towards him and narrowed briefly before being pulled back into whatever conversation he was in with Dykstra who was blinking at him with raised eyebrows.

Ilya just stood with Bood for a while, only watching Shane and the reactions to Shane. Listening to bouts of laughter and how they all gravitated towards him. Shane was always a confident man in Boston, but here in Ottawa he was truly magnetic. He was holding something back at the time, maybe for the sake of professionalism. But here Shane was funny, and so smart, and laughed freely and it looked so incredibly good on him.

It all felt fake, so much of his life lately felt like a dream. Touching Shane, laughing with him, the soft tenor of his voice when he told him how much he loved him. Being with him in public and not being scared. Ilya actually wanted more than anything for the sections of his life to be kneaded into one thing that couldn’t be separated so easily.

It was all nice and fun to watch until Ilya noticed that Barrett was blinking at Shane like he was seeing the sun for the first time and Ilya decided he’d had enough of that. Shane was turned fully away from him Ilya now, in whatever conversation that was going on. He stalked his way over, and stood behind his chair and let his hand rest between his shoulder blades in a slightly possessive way.

“Roz what the fuck is wrong with you? Why were you keeping him from us?” Choinard asked and Ilya let out a snort.

“Ah is he giving you real estate advice? Fixing your fucked up wrist shot?” he smiled proudly and got some chuckles.

“No, I was telling them that you cry to that animated Anastasia movie” Shane said over his shoulder and several of the guys laughed at him.

“Not crying, allergic reaction to Russian suffering” Ilya started. “Is a historical documentary” Ilya insisted.

“Isn’t there a talking bat?” Luca asked quietly. Ilya glared at him and he looked down guiltily.

He looked at the group and saw Barrett was still staring at Shane, he moved his hand from Shane’s back to curl around his neck, his finger brushing the dark hairs there. Barrett could look at how beautiful Shane was but that was it, he could fuck all the way off. Barrett must have felt Ilya staring at him because his eyes moved to him and widened before darting away.

“So are we getting a story of all this” Hazy said, waving a hand between the two of them

“No” Shane replied at the same time Ilya said “Yes”. Shane glanced over at him and Ilya amended his answer to “no” quietly.

 

*
December
Ottawa

 

“You’re sure?” The question was a loaded one, a little too late to answer as Ilya tracked the silhouette of a body behind the frosted glass insert heading for the door. “We can go home” Shane offered and it wasn’t an empty one.

Ilya didn’t have enough time to unpack how much he liked Shane calling somewhere home. Shane was half turned like he might head back to the car. He looked so good, so soft in a nice sweater and his hair tucked behind his ears. A bit of nervousness was frosting his expression.

“You trying to talk me out of it?” Ilya asked, his fingers rubbing the front of Shane’s hand.

It was somehow the most surprising and unsurprising thing in the world that Shane was more nervous about Ilya meeting his parents than he was. Shane was perfect, as usual. It was Ilya who wasn’t so squeaky clean and had a reputation to make up for.

Shane’s eyes flicked to Ilya’s, they held tension around the corners that made them a bit squinted. He rubbed a hand on his low back encouragingly and shook his head. Ilya could handle an inquisition, in fact he welcomed it. Anyone who wanted to be with Shane deserved to be questioned and criticized within an inch of their lives. He only deserved the best, and somehow Ilya was enough for him.

It would never get old, thinking of himself as Shane’s and thinking of Shane as his. The door swung open and Shane was stiff at his side, snapping to attention like his five foot nothing mother was a war general or something.

“Shane” she smiled warmly, eyes settling on her son and wrapping her arms around him as he stepped forward towards her.

“Hey Mom” he said, muffled into her hair. Ilya met her eyes as she was hugging her son. They were sharp and calculating eyes, the same color as Shane’s but a different shape. She released her son and stood looking at Ilya.

“Well?” she prompted her son, looking rather serious.

“Mom, Ilya Rozanov. Ilya, this is my Mom” Shane said, sounding like a scolded child so much it made Ilya’s lips lift.

“Don’t be so excited lyubimyy, sounds like you are going to be put down” Ilya teased and smiled at his mother who looked as if she was teetering towards amusement.

“Ilya” Shane muttered under his breath in warning.

“Hello Shane’s Mom, Mrs. Hollander” Ilya said and stuck out his hand. She shook it firmer than a woman her size seemed capable of.

“Yuna please, come inside Ilya” Yuna insisted. Shane went first and shot him a look, and Ilya followed like he always intended to.

Yuna turned “Shoes off please” and her eyes flickered down to Ilya’s shoes already neatly lined up next to Shane and his socked feet on her floor. She nodded once like that was some kind of complex test he’d passed. Shane trained him enough at his house for Ilya to know the drill.

“Ilya, I’d say you’re having a great season so far but I'm not in the habit of lying” Yuna said as they walked deeper in the house.

“Jesus Mom” Shane complained. Ilya chuckled.

“Yes, rebuilding year. Maybe rebuilding decade” he conceded as they came into the living room. Ilya’s eyes roamed around the place.

“David” Yuna called out the back sliding door. David Hollander came inside the house and he was quite his wife’s opposite. Immediately warm with bright blue eyes and an openness that Shane hadn’t inherited exactly.

“Hey buddy” he said as he grabbed Shane in a tight hug. “Ah Rozanov” David said next, he was wearing an apron like a Dad on a TV show. His smile held no malice and his face was open. He was nothing like the father Ilya had, even at first impression.

Ilya had seen these people, years ago at the draft, at the World Prospect Cups. He had their ideas of them from Shane, and they undoubtedly had their own formed opinions about him.

“Ilya please” he gently corrected and stuck out his hand. David took it and smiled, “Ilya” he repeated. “I hope you don’t mind pasta for dinner”.

“No, I like pasta” he replied.

“Come sit” Yuna waved them over to the table. It was set up with cups and glasses, and a pitcher of iced tea sat on the table.

“You have been playing well Ilya, I will correct myself” Yuna said, “It’s just mostly everyone else suffering” she said with a shrug.

“That’s not true Mom, Luca Haas is playing well, he’s leading the rookies in points. Barrett has been solid, Wyatt has a save percentage greater than most of the conference” Shane argued.

“Which would be a lot more impressive if they were winning, you can’t win with just a first line” Yuna said, replying to her son. Ilya’s lips pulled into a smile, it was like watching two Shanes.

“It’s not Wyatt’s fault their defense is lacking is all I’m saying, he is impressive regardless of their record” Shane countered.

“No, it’s the organization that is lacking Shane, don’t misunderstand me. They valued Ilya’s contract this go around which they should but they clearly didn’t anticipate his availability and they pulled up Haas instead of taking some defensive talent is all I’m saying. They aren’t balanced this year” she replied as she took a sip from her tea.

“I agree, we lack depth defensively” Ilya added and it was like Shane and his mother forgot he was there for a moment.

“See honey, even Ilya agrees” Yuna said like that settled it.

 

“We all agree, I agree” Shane insisted exasperated.

“So Ilya” Yuna said, focusing her laser vision on Ilya. “Why did you come to Ottawa?” she asked. Shane sighed and his forehead rested in one of his palms. Ilya was thrilled, Yuna was like a mafia boss he had to prove himself worthy to. He wanted to prove himself worthy.

“I came to Ottawa for Shane, to be near him” Ilya said simply.

“Even though Boston drafted you, number one” Yuna asked. “Which was a mistake by the way” she said and Ilya’s soft smile turned into a full grin.

“We agree to disagree” he shrugged and she narrowed her eyes.

“Mom” Shane warned.

“What? Shane, loyalty is important” Yuna said simply.

“I agree” Ilya said simply, “There are more important things in life than hockey though” Ilya said, glancing at his side where Shane was still melting into the table. “My loyalty is to Shane, not organization” he said simply.

David turned the corner and tugged off his apron, throwing it over the backs of one of the empty chairs. “David, Ilya was just explaining that he came to Ottawa for Shane” Yuna said to her husband.

“We knew that, we saw the documentary kid” David winked at Ilya. Sure, he’d been pretty transparent if someone knew what they were looking at. “I guess we just didn’t quite anticipate you were interested in Shane, given all the other media over the years” David waved his hand around.

“Yes, is true. I was with many women for many years, is not lie. But I am bisexual” Ilya shrugged.

“Shane told us he loves you” Yuna said, like it was a fact. It was nice hearing it from someone else, even if it felt like he was on trial. He glanced over at Shane, who looked mortified. Ilya rubbed a comforting hand on his back, and Yuna’s eyes followed his movements.

“Is this serious to you? Because he was pretty upset when he came here from Boston” Yuna asked, David to his credit looked like he didn’t want to be part of this conversation.

“Ilya, you don’t have to answer her” Shane said firmly. Ilya waved him off, he could handle this.

“Fine. I’m going to get the liquor if we’re doing this yakuza shit Mom” Shane said, pushing himself back from the table and disappearing somewhere in the house. They all watched Shane leave, and Ilya turned to Yuna.

“I am here for Shane. I love hockey and I love winning. But I love your son much more, I have not told him yet” he said simply. “Shane and I have not had normal relationship, none of this has been normal. I have loved him for long time, yes, but he has not always felt that maybe. I want him to feel it and know it before he hears it from me” Ilya said. “Maybe is stupid, but I have time to make up for” he said.

Yuna blinked at him, and between blinks her eyes softened just a bit. They were just as dark as Shane’s and no less expressive. “I have only ever been in love once, only Shane. I don’t intend to stop loving him” Ilya said. “I would appreciate being able to tell him that in our own time, not while defending us here” Ilya asked respectfully and quietly as he heard a kitchen cabinet slam shut. David looked at his wife, who nodded once hard.

Shane came barreling through the door a few bottles in his hands, namely a large clear one with Russian lettering on it he placed in front of Ilya. He picked up the bottle and looked at it.

“Good stuff” he said simply.

“Ah” David replied, “I try to get the Russian stuff” he shrugged. The visit crescendoed fast, and was smooth sailing afterwards. Ilya figured the best proof that he was good for their son was watching them. Ilya would not perform, he would not pretend to be anything other than who he was. He doted on Shane because he could now, because he always wanted to, not because of watchful eyes.

Chapter End Notes

HII

Check out some of my new multi chapter fics if u care to....

https://archiveofourown.org/works/84712921/chapters/223539696 - Romcomy with ZERO angst to make up for this fic.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/84301046/chapters/222337466- Ilya character study with flowery ass language.

Chapter 24: To Build Something

Chapter Notes

HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY- thanks for reading. Ilya's getting some internal relief and reflection. I've really been feeling his voice more for these last few chapters, poor sad guy deserves some joy, a wee bit of angst, a lot of promise.

Two big relationship events are happening here with some brief mentions of the littler ones for quality over quantity.

Don't stake me because everything in the list maybe didn't actually make the cut.

Ilya was lying on his side, one of Shane’s arms was thrown over his shoulders. It was the afternoon, a lazy one they'd spent in bed twisted in each other pretending no schedules existed. This was rare, a day where their days off lined up perfectly and there was nothing to do but whatever they wanted. Shane still woke up too early, he still lifted and ran and insisted on his routine and his alarm clock. But when he was done, he'd crawl back into bed smelling his a shower and he'd drape himself over Ilya like he was some kind of blanket. They'd kiss, and have lazy sex stacked against each other like spoons the way Shane put them in the cutlery drawer. That finished maybe a half hour ago, now they were just together, enjoying the quiet and the press of warm skin. Ilya replied to a text on his phone.

Ilya: Marley

Cliff: Bro, miss you. What are you doing rn?

Cliff: Looking forward to hanging after the game this week

Ilya: Miss you too

Ilya: Just got done fucking my incredibly sexy boyfriend Shane Hollander. Want to come out with team after we beat you? No clubs like Boston but okay bars.

 

“Ilya what the fuck?” Shane asked in shock, blinking at the screen of his phone over Ilya’s shoulder.

“What?” he shrugged, “You said I could tell someone other than team” Ilya grinned, he turned his head to capture Shane’s lips with his. Shane was still frozen.

“You couldn’t ease into it at all?” Shane stated more than asked when they seperated.

“No” he teased. “Anyway you are making real WAG debut this game, he should know” Ilya flicked an eyebrow up. Shane sighed, long and deep. They’d been softly fighting over this for the past few days, Shane wanted to wait to sit up in the family box, Ilya very much didn’t want him to wait. Ilya also wanted him to wear his jersey. Shane watched almost every game of Ilya’s at home, or at work, on the TV at his parents or with the WAGS. It was safest for him not to be in the rink for now. It would be his first game in the arena and only for Ilya, not for work, or for anyone else.

Shane didn’t want to be hidden but he didn’t want to make a spectacle, not until Ilya was 100% safe and staying in Canada. Shane and his parents were given Ilya’s family tickets instead, it was much more explainable that a good Ottawa boy like Shane would take his parents to a game, especially when his former Boston team was in town. Ilya knew Shane was going to wear his jersey, he felt it in his bones.

“Marley is good” Ilya said, grabbing Shane’s hand and pumping it once. “He will be happy, he likes you. He will be happy for us” Ilya said.

“You could at least tell him not to spread that around” Shane suggested.

Cliff: ..bro

Cliff: If you’re fucking with me, that’s not cool. If you’re serious, damn lol. Great pull. I love Hollzy.

Cliff: Also going to Ottawa makes way more sense. Lover boy Roz.

Ilya: Do not tell people. Could get deported to Russia and go to jail. Bad!

Ilya: See you in few days

 

“There, done” Ilya muttered.

“You’re ridiculous” Shane replied. Maybe he was. But he was also fucking happy.

Ilya was glad he found hockey again. He was glad he had Shane, really had him. He had a life that he could have never imagined for himself. He woke up most mornings with Shane, he had the key code to his front door, and called him on his work breaks. He saw him in his glasses, barefoot in his boxers. Smiles and laughs cost Ilya nothing.

Ilya skated, played, helped develop the younger guys. Yes, he lost, and they were losing a lot. But winning was privilege and not a priority when it felt like he was getting away with robbing a bank in every other part of his life. He was finally full. It didn’t feel like all the cliches people said, it didn’t feel like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.

Happiness was not the absence of pain. He still woke up some days and had to fight himself to stand up, to be awake and be present. There were seasons now though, seasons of nothing but sunshine that pulled him through the times where winter felt too much like Russia and every bad thing that ever happened to him.

He still stared at family pictures in the Hollander’s house and wished his family could live between the borders of a picture frame happy. Even if only in a photo and never in real life. He was still possessed with envy and selfishness and stupidity, even if he was finally able to show his softness too. He still was afraid of the unknown and about what could happen. He had a bottle of prescribed pills for his sadness in the house that Shane put into a pill organizer every week for him so he wouldn’t have to look at the orange bottle and think of his mother. He still needed professional help, and talking sometimes did nothing but make it worse. He was still frustrated, angry, and broken. This life now was not a fix all, it didn’t erase him or the things that came before it. He was full, so full of a lot of things. Full enough when the bad things came back stronger than a memory and it hit him, it wasn’t like being blown off of his feet anymore.

He wasn’t a tea kettle whistling for minutes from the pressure build up with nobody to move it off the burner. There were eyes on him, from many angles. Eyes he let see him.

Everything he had was fought for and sacrificed for. He fought for hockey. He sacrificed to be in Canada. He struggled to be a man worthy of the person whose arm was draped across his chest in his bed. He was earning the slow respect of Yuna Hollander, and had the closest thing to a mother and father in his corner than he could have ever imagined with Shane’s parents. He’d found a team who knew him, accepted him, and cared about him. It was thrilling, but mostly it was boring and stable.

Ilya flipped so he was facing Shane, chest to chest. He leaned forward and gave him a gentle kiss, one that was loving and not rushed. One of a thousand he’d give him this week because he could and because there was a time when he couldn’t so easily give himself over.

“You know, I’m starting to wonder if you’re using me” Shane said against the skin of his chest, the words just a soft brush of lips.

“Oh?” Ilya replied, his hand smoothing down over his back and down to his ass and gave it a soft pat.

“Maybe you’re just here for somewhere to sleep and for sex” Shane opened his mouth against his chest and kissed him.

It wasn’t all he was there for. Ilya was barely at his rental place, most of his clothes migrated to Shane’s apartment. Their blanket was here on their couch in Shane’s living room. Slowly, the place was filled in a bit more, lived in. There were still too many coasters on the coffee table that Ilya still needed an occasional glare to remember to use, but there were bits of him here too. Socks stuck behind the laundry basket and wall because he missed the throw, a plastic toothbrush that was next to Shane’s organic bamboo one. Ilya’s pillow almost as a flat as a newspaper was on Shane’s bed despite his hatred for it.

“Don’t forget the food” Ilya smirked. “You give me key, and tell me to come when I want” Ilya said, “I want”.

“You can stop pretending you’re looking for a house you know” Shane said, moving to kiss his stomach once before resting his chin on his abs and looking up at him. Ilya smiled at those beautiful eyes and freckles. It never got old.

“Just move in, officially” Shane said.

“Hollander, we have been together for seven months. Is too soon” Ilya said. Ilya was committed to making this a real relationship. There was a time to say ‘I love you’ that wasn’t considered love bombing. There was a time where it was okay to talk about moving in. There was a time to get engaged. He wanted all of it, he wanted it less than he wanted to fuck it up though.

Shane raised an amused eyebrow at him. “You’re ridiculous you know that?” he said, tilting his head so his cheek was nearly on his stomach. It was warm. “We’ve known each other since we were seventeen Ilya, you’ve lived with me before. I cut you open one time”.

“Yea well I’ve been inside of your..“ he started and Shane bit him on the stomach, honest to god bit him like he was a dog with a chew toy. “Ow” Ilya said but didn’t move. Shane’s eyes were so bright and more almond shaped than usual from his smile. He looked young, and he looked unburdened. It was a fucking gift to see him like this.

“I love you” Shane rolled his eyes. “I feel like you can move in probably”.

“Not yet, need to keep you honest woman. Worth nothing to me without virginity intact” Ilya shook his head. Shane just rolled his eyes. “All the magazines say red flag to move in before one year” Ilya told him, he smoothed a hand over Shane’s hair.

“Hmm, so after a year is fine?” Shane said. “Fine. I’d like to build us a house. Somewhere by the water, in the woods maybe. It will take a while, we should start now and you can move in when its done. It can be somewhere we can have some peace.” Shane said and pressed a kiss to his rapidly beating heart.

He had peace here, now. With Shane talking about their future so simply, so easily. He could see it, a property down by the lake near his parent’s cottage, far enough from the city but close enough for them to go to work without wasting away on a commute.

Shane would want glass windows, he would want a view, he would want a place where Ilya could feel the sun on his face after being in the dark for so long. They’d build a dock so they could kayak together and swim in the lake and lazily kiss on the boards warmed by the sun.

There would be a yard for the dog they rescued together, and water from their own well because Shane would like that sort of thing. There would be a firepit to laugh with friends over where they could yell and trash talk and he could watch the flames glow in Shane’s eyes like they were hot coals. They’d have a mirrored gym and they’d compete in it as always, eyes catching with heat in the reflection. There would be a grill that David would run like the navy and a kitchen Yuna would take over on visits. There would be enough bedrooms for friends to crash, and for small children to grow into people inside of. He hoped those people were just like Shane someday.

Shane talked about their future with an ease Ilya couldn’t fathom, he talked about Ilya like a certain and concrete thing that would never change, never be unwanted.

Of course Ilya loved him, what other option could there ever be than loving Shane Hollander? It was something he was meant to do in this lifetime and any other he was lucky enough to have. In every possible reality he would have found himself here, skin on skin, lost in thoughts of the future, feeling something he thought was reserved for others but never thought was for him.

Shane was for him though.

Love could be for him.

Happiness was for them.

Shane’s eyes closed as Ilya rubbed a thumb on his cheek bone. The words were right there. The words that had to come before the house, the kids, the life- a life he could smile at when it was his time to leave earth. I love you. They were simple words. Words he hadn’t felt in his mother tongue in too many years. He’d heard it in Russian movies, while walking past couples engrossed in each other in Moscow streets, in his mother’s voice in memories he wasn’t sure were pure anymore or if he’d changed them as he recalled it over the years. He hadn’t felt them pass his lips, he couldn’t place the last time. But he could do it now, Shane wouldn’t know what they meant but Ilya would.

“Ya tebya lyublyu” Ilya said, the words he lived so long wanting to hear directed at him, wanting to feel, and so certain he never deserved. They felt funny in his mouth, they made his lips feel numb like after a cavity filling. Shane’s eyes closed and he had a smile on his lips. He didn’t know the words, but he knew the sound, he knew the feeling.

“I love you too” Shane replied.

 

*
August
Ottawa

 

Ilya clasped the mug between his hands. It was ceramic, the handle was a little too small for his large fingers and it was sloped in a way that suggested it was made by hand. The contents were hot, some warm tea that had no sugar in it, no fruit, and smelled like someone else’s culture. Yuna could have easily given him a shitty lipton tea bag, she didn’t. She gave him the expensive stuff. Yuna was like that, never outwardly accepting of him with Shane aside from smiles and diligently serving him. There was never a sitcom style ‘welcome to the family kid’ message from her, but David said it word for word the first time he’d left their house.

Shane was much like his mother, their approval came in their decisions and actions before it came in their words. Ilya had no doubt in the coming years he’d pry open Yuna like he’d managed to do with Shane. For now, he would sip the expensive tea she deemed him worthy of even if it was too bitter for him.

The phone sat on speaker on the table between the four of them like it was some family dish being shared. It was strange, it really wasn’t something about anyone other than him and Shane, but Yuna and David insisted on being there.

“I’m sorry” the lawyer said, “It’s going to take some time. Since Ilya was already in the application process for citizenship in the US it is going to take us longer” she said apologetically. “Probably at least another year, maybe two” she replied. The words hung over the table like a nasty odor. He was expecting this, it didn’t mean it didn’t suck.

He wanted to be Canadian. He wanted to hum to O’Canada before his games and feel like he was part of it. He wanted to be a countryman of the place that made Shane Hollander. He wanted to stay forever, and he wanted to be proud of the man he loved loudly and without consequence.

He was just trying to run at the time he applied in the US, he was in Boston for years, he thought it was the right call. Ilya didn’t look at Shane, Shane’s who’d been pacing for the past two days ever since the immigration attorney asked to schedule a call.

“Can’t we just bribe someone” Shane muttered next to him.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and chose to believe that Mr. Hollander has a rather edgy sense of humor” the lawyer said in a dry voice.

“Shane!” Yuna admonished her son. “That isn’t something to joke about”. Ilya heard how the rage was possessing Shane like some kind of poltergeist and knew he wasn’t joking. Shane rarely got mad, but when he did it took over him.

“This is bullshit”, he was like a hissing cat, his haunches raised at the threat, little claws extended. Yes, his Shane was like a cat. He curled up in your lap when he felt like it and when nobody was looking. He acted up sometimes with company present and he had a spot behind his ear that made him close his eyes and lean into touch. He was elusive at times, and he was ready to be vicious at a moment’s notice if needed.

Ilya’s hand went to his on the top of the table and covered it, Yuna watched the touch.

“Shane” Ilya said quietly. “We wait, is okay. Is my fault anyway” Ilya said simply because it was true. On one of the truly rare full days off together he was here, disappointing Shane again. He couldn’t do anything but wait, immigration took time. Shane grumbled something under his breath.

“Thank you Genevieve, talk soon” Ilya said and ended the call.

“It’s not your fault Ilya, this is fucking bullshit” Shane said immediately, his head fell into one of his hands. Ilya reached over and rubbed circles on his back, it was tight with tension.

“I know it’s tough honey” Yuna said.

“You don’t know Mom, you’ve never had to worry about being deported to a country that would kill you for who you love. You never had to worry about Dad like this” Shane said, cheeks red. Ilya shifted in his seat.

“Can I finish or are you not done biting my head off?” she asked her son with a tone and a raised eyebrow issued to mothers at birth. Shane just sighed and waved a hand around for her to continue.

“You’re right, I don’t know and I’ve never had to deal with that. But Ilya is paying her good money, she is a good attorney. It’s out of your control, both of you” Yuna said, “There’s always asylum if something goes wrong. I’m sorry”.

Ilya glanced over at Shane, they both knew it meant waiting longer, potentially years. The fears that they would be seen too close with mouths connected, that something could leave the locker room and make its way up the MHL chain to a less friendly ear. An ear who wouldn’t look on this kindly.

Ilya was still at risk, unmoored between countries like an unmanned boat stuck between a rogue wave and paradise.

They both knew Yuna was right, asylum could be applied for after things blew up but it wasn’t certain. It wasn’t a get out of jail free card, which might be what he needed.

“We will wait” Ilya said, turning to Shane. He ran a finger down his cheek. “I am in no rush moya lyubov” he breathed, “I am here with you, and that is good enough”. Shane’s buried his face in his hands, palms pressing to his eyes.

“This isn’t fair for you” Shane said simply, “You shouldn’t have to fucking hide who you are. You shouldn’t have to fucking wait” he said, angry tears filled his eyes when he looked up at him. Ilya gently took his jaw in one hand and pressed a soft kiss to his lips and pushed his hair off of his forehead. Shane sniffed and leaned his head against his shoulder. Yuna smiled sadly at them and David was wiping away his own tears.

They needed away from this table, although there were more happy times at it than not, Ilya didn’t want to be at it right now.

“Let’s take a drive, maybe a walk too?” he suggested to him.

He anticipated this call, this answer, the wrench in the plan. He’d also anticipated needing to drag Shane out of the negative pit he was lowering himself deeper into. “Yuna there is time before dinner?” he asked looking at her. She had a sadness in her eyes that he watched her lock away before nodding at them.

“Of course” she said, “We can wait until you’re back to start, no rush” she said.

Ilya grabbed Shane’s keys and they went to the car, Shane was stewing and the car ride was quiet. Ilya knew that sometimes he just needed to wait Shane out, when he was ready to say something he would. The drive was short, only a few minutes to the end of a paved road. He parked the car on the side in the grass. He tilted his head down the gravel road and waited for Shane to fall into stride next to him. They walked for a few minutes with no words between them, light filtered through the tree canopy above them and birds sang. Light and life went on as it always did.

Shane started talking fifteen minutes into their walk. “I know I should be grateful. Fuck, that we’re even here, that we’re doing this. I know I should be” Shane said, he kicked a rock and it went into the woods. “I just want you to be here” Shane said, “I want Canada to be yours as much as mine” he said. “You shouldn’t have to fucking worry about this” he said.

“I know, I want it too” he replied. “But this is the tax for loving you, I will pay it” Ilya said, grabbing Shane’s hand and squeezing it.

Shane glanced over at him and stopped walking suddenly. Ilya’s arm stretched to accommodate the sudden stoppage and he didn’t let go of his hand.

“Let’s just get married” Shane said. Ilya glanced up at him, he was red in the face and his expression was twisted up. He would, he would marry him in a minute. But not for this, not for an easy way out. It’s all anyone would think of them, including the government. Ilya didn’t want to cheat, marriage and citizenship was part of the plan, the long game of a happy life together. He’d waited for every relationship milestone, he was going to wait for this one too.

“Do not play with my heart Shane” Ilya replied, tugging Shane by the hand until he was chest to chest with him.

“I’m dead serious. I feel sometimes like you’re going to slip right out of my fingers” Shane said, face scrunched. It wasn’t the face of a man who was proposing, it was the one of a man who was drowning. "We love each other, I would do fucking anything for you Ilya. Anything. Let's get married".

“I know the feeling” Ilya replied, hand squeezing Shane’s tighter. Shane felt so deeply, and he cared so much. He tugged him until they were hugging, they were out of the tree cover now and in a large grassy lot on a lake. Ilya felt the sun on his shoulders and the warmth of it on Shane’s dark hair. "Not like this, not this way" he said against his hair.

“You don’t want to marry me?” Shane mumbled his reply.

“Shane” he scoffed like it was the most inconceivable thing in the world. “Of course I want to marry you” he said, arms tightening around him. He dropped a kiss to his neck, his chin, and a soft one to his lips. “We can even do it right here. We will build the cottage here, we will build a dock on the water. I will propose here. We will get married here” Ilya said, separating from Shane so he could look at him properly. “Our friends will come, the team, annoying friend Hayden will come. Your family will come. We will eat, and laugh, and they will drink too much and you will hate how much cleaning we will need to do to the house and that shoes will be worn inside. But I will marry you, and you will never get rid of me” Ilya said simply. “But we will do this in years, when it is all ready. Not because of me” Ilya ran his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip and gave him a peck on the mouth. Shane blinked, eyes shifting over his face.

“I bought this, is in our names” Ilya said, raising an arm to the area around them. The lake was clear, a gentle breeze rolled through. “We can build whatever you want here” he told him. Ilya didn’t say they could build just the house there, because he wanted to build many things with Shane in this small pocket of quiet.

“I just love you” Shane said, “So fucking much and I don’t know what to do with it sometimes” Shane said.

“I know” Ilya said, he knew the feeling too well.

Chapter End Notes

IDK shit about immigration, don't roast me.

The final chapter will drop sometime next week and that will in fact be the end. I like round numbers and 25 is nice.

Thank you for all for reading, kuddos, and especially the comments. It's been really cool seeing what people pick up on, you all have given me lots of motivation to keep writing and to try out new things.

Feel free to check out my other work(s) in progress if u care!

Chapter 25: Goal.

Chapter Notes

Last one!

One Year Later
Ottawa

 

Ilya gets to Shane’s apartment late, sometime after 10pm. He’s showered and in his suit. Shane would be just getting home from the hospital if not beating Ilya home by a few minutes. Ilya liked home games, he liked coming home to Shane or finding him hanging around the locker room after the game. He unlocked the front door and saw that the lamp was on in the kitchen. He kicked off his shoes by the door and padded in. “Shane” he called. He was at the kitchen table with a mug of tea.

“Hi” Shane shot him a tired smile, he was wearing his glasses and he had that pinched up face he usually had when he was fighting a headache. He slipped his suit jacket off and threw it over the back of one of the chairs.

“How was day?” Ilya asked, leaning down to kiss him deeply. Domestically.

“Busy, didn’t sit down until I was driving home. Five surgeries today, fucking brutal” he said, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. Ilya moved to stand upright and Shane grabbed his tie and held him in place and tilted his head up to kiss him again deeply. Ilya scooted his chair back and sat on Shane’s lap and hummed against his mouth.

Shane groaned out a huff, “This chair is going to break” he mumbled into his neck.

“We need new ones for cottage anyway” Ilya told him, placing a kiss on his pulse. Shane made a noise of agreement and his arms tightened around him.

“Good game, Lisa and I watched most of it. That goal in the second was a beauty” Shane said, a bit breathy as Ilya continued his path up and down his neck and jaw.

“Montreal are bunch of clowns” Ilya mumbled.

“Yes” Shane replied with a quiet laugh. “I like when you remind them that” he said.

“Let's go to bed” Ilya whispered in Shane’s ear and let his tongue drag over the soft spot behind his ear. Shane sucked in a sharp breath,

“We were going to study tonight” he replied, a bit breathless as one of his fingers coiled around one of Ilya's curls. “And you’re going to ice that shoulder. Don’t try to distract me, I saw that hit” Shane told him.

“Let’s go to bed” Ilya insisted. Shane just patted his butt in dismissal.

“I’ll be really fucking pissed if you don’t pass the test” Shane said, pushing his shoulders gently. Ilya sighed by climbed off of him. Ilya was nearing the end of the immigration process, he would be taking the citizenship test soon. He was stressed about it, as usual, not nearly as stressed as Shane was.

“I waited for you to have dinner, come on” Shane told him.

“Okay” he moaned.

“Mom dropped off that soup you like and Dad made some stuff” Shane said from the table. Ilya opened the fridge and pulled out a few containers.

Sometimes he was still struck by it, the ease of everything. Walking out of a game and getting texts from Shane’s parents who came to every game they could and watched the rest of them. Coming home to Shane, awake, sleepy, waiting for him. He had a key to his apartment, he slept in his bed every night, their house they were building together was halfway done. The way that he woke up with Shane’s face on his chest. How his team knew Shane, asked about him, cared about Ilya. Somewhere along the way it stopped feeling borrowed, it stopped feeling like after one argument or a shitty game it would all be taken away from him, it started feeling like something that was earned. Like hitting a PR because you worked all summer to improve something, like a league high contract because you proved you were worth it.

Like being in love because you allowed yourself to be despite all the fear that lived in you and all the people that wronged you. Ilya let himself love and he let himself be loved.

Ilya filled up two plates, proud that he knew what Shane liked without being asked. He heated Shane’s up first and placed it in front of him on the table.

“Thanks” he said with a smile. Ilya sat with his plate a minute later.

“So, we talking hockey or are we studying first” Shane offered. He smiled, Shane always had something to say.

“Hockey first” he conceded.

“What was that thing you tried with Haas?” Shane asked, a cocky little grin on his face.

“Ah, that. Just something I came up with” Ilya replied. Shane snorted, something so undignified and so not Shane, something he’d picked up from Ilya.

“Yeah it looked familiar” Shane laughed. He had maybe stolen a play Shane ran in his own game last week, most of the Cens had gone out to watch Shane play and chirp him from the bleachers. Ilya and Haas stole it and were work shopping it the whole week in practice. Haas had scored off of it. Ilya knew Shane would pick it up instantly.

“You almost lost it in transition in the third, second shift in. Missed Troy coming up the lane, would have been an easy goal” he said.

“I cannot fight with you about something I haven’t seen yet” Ilya sighed.

“Well you should have seen it, your head was down” Shane said, “They’ll bring it up in film I’m sure” he relented between bites of food.

“Anything else my favorite coach?” Ilya grinned.

“Not for now” Shane shrugged, “Study time” he said. This became something of a habit, late night studying, and because they made everything a competition Shane was studying with him, Shane was very diligently learning Russian in his spare time, which was very little to begin with. He’d picked it up quickly. Ilya started by teaching him all the dirty things to say to him but Shane took a genuine interest in wanting to know Ilya in his language too. It’d made him cry for longer than he cared to admit when Shane told him.

“Approximately how many Canadians served in the first world war” Shane had his glasses on and was looking at the pink note card in his hand. He looked like a hot librarian or history teacher. “A- seven thousand, B- eight million, C- about sixty thousand, D- more than six hundred thousand” Shane finished.

“D” Ilya replied.

“Good” Shane said and flipped to the next card.

“Tell me three facts about yourself in Russian” Ilya responded.

“Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu nashu zhizn'. Tvoi glaza golubyye” Shane said. His pronunciation wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t as good as it could be.

“Ah, you say I love you. I love our life. My eyes are blue, last one was fact about me. You fail quiz” Ilya repeated back in English. “You must round your letters more still, words sit in back of throat almost” he said. Shane mimicked the sound until it was round enough to Ilya’s liking.

“Give an example of how you can show responsibility and participate in your community” Shane asked, “This is so easy” he said.

“I can be very good looking on TV in Canada” Ilya smirked. Shane raised an eyebrow and waited. “I can also volunteer at animal shelter or pickup trash” he said, equally enthused.

“Tell me what english word is for Chaynik” Ilya asked him.

Shane’s tongue poked out to wet his lips with concentration as the thought. “I don’t know” he said after a minute.

“Teapot” Ilya said with a tsk. Shane mumbled under his breath. “I am winning right now” Ilya goaded.

“How is the Cabinet Minister chosen” Shane asked.

“Prime Minister” Ilya replied. “Translate something from Russian into English for me” Ilya said.

Shane’s eyebrows raised. “What do you want me to translate?” he asked.

Ilya shrugged. “Whatever you want”. Shane sat quietly for a minute, long enough Ilya thought he might have gotten lost somewhere in his head. Shane stood up from the table and grabbed his cellphone off of the counter. He fiddled it with for a minute before he heard his own voice playing over the speaker.

He sounded broken, lonely, “Shane” he said like it was a prayer, a cry out to some god. A sad call for something that wasn’t in his reach.

Ilya’s eyes went to Shane’s who settled back into the chair across from him, the table near his hands scattered with multicolor notecards. Shane watched him in that way he used to when he was testing Ilya’s limits, back when the two of them were in a gym strengthening his body, pushing him almost to failure, he had the same assessing look on his face. His Russian words moved quickly, a yearning in his voice he’d never heard before. He sounded like someone who was lost, who was drowning, someone who was close to giving up but wanted to keep fighting. It was the voicemail he’d left Shane, walking the streets of Boston after winning the cup. He should have been happy, he should have been with his team and thinking of nothing else. All he was thinking about was Shane, about the possibility of Shane being with him, if someone else had him already.

Shane paused the voicemail after a few Russian words. “I know I shouldn’t call” his voice said reverently, eyes fixed on the phone like it held the answers. He played a few more seconds of Ilya’s words and Ilya let his eyes close and he thought of who he was then, how lost he was, how he missed Shane like an absent limb.

“I know I shouldn’t want to but it is stupid to pretend I want anything but you” Shane said in English. He’d decided that night to put everything on the line, leave his team, move to a new country, unsure of how Shane would receive him, if he even wanted him. Ilya was brave, and so cowardly, leaving a message in Russian.

“You should be here, I want you here” Shane muttered. “I hope for something, you’re waiting for me, but I hope for something you are” Shane replied and the message ended. Quiet fell between them. "I don't know that word" he said.

“Your tenses were off” Ilya said thickly. “The something is sake” he said. Shane shrugged, the wheels spinning in his head as he filled the gaps with the word. A smile reached his eyes.

“You kept that” Ilya’s voice was paper thin, a syllable away from disappearing between them.

“Of course I did” Shane smiled, eyes a little watery but not enough to break the barrier of his lashes. “I just came out of surgery when I saw it, listened to it probably a hundred times. Never knew what it meant, I just knew you didn’t want me to” he said simply, coming around the table so he could rest his chest on Ilya’s back, he wrapped his arms around the chair and him, his chin fell on his shoulder.

“I spent way too long figuring out what I should say to you that night” Shane said. “I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me” Shane said. It was so bittersweet, remembering the pain they put each other through and getting to live on the other side of it. In a life that was safe, boring in the most amazing way. "I wanted to be there, I wanted to be there to watch you win. I wish I was. I wish you had family there for you, I was so fucking selfish" Shane sniffed.

"No, no" Ilya said, "Never selfish, it was the right thing for you. Right thing for me maybe too" Ilya said. "You needed to leave, and I needed to chase you malysh" Ilya insisted. "Maybe we wouldn't be here if it didn't happen this way" he said, leaning back so he could look at him Shane squinted at him, cheeks a light pink. He pressed a kiss to the side of Ilya's head.

"Little guy? Have you been calling me little guy? You're an inch shorter than me asshole" he mumbled into his hair, Shane made asshole sound like a term of endearment. Ilya's chest felt so fucking full. His life was perfect, more than he ever deserved. He was happier than his mother could ever imagine for his son. He chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest that felt so fucking warm and full.

“Your Russian is getting better” Ilya grasped Shane’s hand in his. “What does this one mean?” Ilya asked, “Tebe sleduyet vyyti za menya zamuzh, lyubov moya”.

“You should marry me” Shane translated. “My love” he finished with a grin.

“So?” Ilya asked, dropping a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I thought you wanted to wait until the cottage” Shane said, his lips against Ilya’s neck. He needed to see him, to look in his eyes. Ilya brushed Shane’s arms off of him gently and turned, facing him.

“I don’t think I can wait” Ilya told him, the back of his fingers brushing down his cheek and gently grabbing his chin. “I think now is good time if you want me, still can get married at the cottage if you want” he said simply.

“Okay” Shane replied with a smile, they leaned into each other until their lips became one shared shape.

 

It was easy to be happy in big life events, to think how good you have it when your life is perfect. It means infinitely more to be happy here eating dinner cooked by family on a Thursday night, a night they’ve had a hundred times and will have thousands more of. A night where Shane was speaking in his mother tongue, in the language he first was told he was loved, and Ilya was fighting to be in a county where Shane was raised. A night where the only thing remarkable is what they worked to build, how they treated each other, how they chose to love each other.

Chapter End Notes

The end! :)

 

There is beauty in the mundane, and although this could have ended with weddings/kids/big life events, they deserved a quiet night together doing what they never thought would be possible with each other, that is the ending I liked for them at least!

I am a chronic overthinker and have not written anything this long to completion like ever. In the case of this story, I wrote the first chapter and didn’t really plan at all. I didn’t really have a plot (whoops), I kinda just threw it together as I went. I always approached writing as something that needed to be really solid and finished before sharing so this was a good practice in creativity and being improvy. It felt like a group project as I borrowed some ideas from your comments which I loved!

Thank you so much for your kind words and feedback that helped me grow as an amateur writer!

Check out my other WIP's on my profile if you care to and again, thank you so much!