Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Gilbert Comeau, Patrice Drapeau, Original Characters, Brandon Wiebe

Additional Tags:

The Shane/Ilya/Svetlana Love Triangle No One Was Asking For, Svetlana POV, Voyageurs Group Chat, movie industry, Rose Finally Takes the Stage, Sexism, Less Slurs Than Usual, But There Are Still Slurs, Racism, We're Approaching 1930s Race Science Here, Ilya POV, Stress Relief Shane Hollander Method, discussions of domestic violence

Language:

English

Series:

Part 13 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-18 Completed: 2026-06-28 Words: 16,105 Chapters: 4/4

Hope of My Eyes

Summary

Rose Landry seeks financing for an ambitious new project that would merge her two great loves: acting and hockey.

Notes

Finally getting to some of the stuff I was daydreaming like. . . last year? I'm bad with time. Forgot when I read the books, but the show came out this year I'm pretty sure. It took like 200k words for this to at least make sense to some other people lmao.

Still working on comments but when I started this I thought I would get maybe one or two per fic, if that. I'll be chipping at it but I'm not sure how long it will take. Blanket thanks for everyone who is reading and commenting in the meantime!

Chapter 1

Patrice Drapeau added Soren Miitka to Voyageur Vets (w/o Shane and Jake)

Soren Miitka
just how many fucking group chats am I supposed to keep track of?

Hayden Pike
I told Theriault we shouldn't have them on ice together for too long
he seemed pissed but agreed
putting Jake back with me on second and Jeremy on first

David Taylor
wtf happened last night

Lewis Bilash
@Soren_Miitka just make sure to check the name of the chat before you accidentally bitch about Shane *to* Shane
but wtf did happen last night?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
standard rookie bullshit
I don't think this fight is about that
Mitty you were there what went down?

Soren Miitka
I wasn't "there"
I was in the back of the plane and Shane and Jake were talking
No I don't know what about because I wasn't paying attention
then I heard Jake mention Thompson all pissed off

Greg Cornick
Wayne Thompson?

Soren Miitka
I assume so
he said something like "I didn't know Thompson was going to do that"

Gilbert Comeau
no one thinks he knew

Patrice Drapeau
well

Hayden Pike
no one with sense thinks Jake knew Thompson would kill his wife and kid
stop scrolling shitty gossip blogs Patrice

Patrice Drapeau
my point is there are people who think Jake knew about Thompson
something at least

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
ok but who would be stupid enough to say that to his face?

Patrice Drapeau
uh have you met Shane?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
why would they be talking about fucking Thompson in the first place?
Mitty must have heard wrong

Soren Miitka
I did not hear wrong
btw I haven't asked the entire time I've been here
but what happened that day?
did Merrell actually know?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
he did not know shit
that was the week Xie came out and after that dipshit Kent went full KKK on socials
it was right before we made playoffs

Gilbert Comeau
no Thompson went apeshit right after we made playoffs
and before we played the Bears

Lewis Bilash
wrong dude
we played the Bears with like three call ups
remember Garrett and Pinkman were injured earlier in the season

Gilbert Comeau
not the playoff series the Bears
the random game before that
before Rozanov's accident

David Taylor
yeah we played the Bears the day after the Thompson thing
that game was a fucking shitshow

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
whatever
point is no one was thinking about Thompson
we were still arguing about the showers and Xie
and Jeremy was telling us about getting bjs from Fernando

David Taylor
yeah and we thought Fernando would be the twink
because Jeremy made it sound like he was *getting* the blow jobs

Soren Miitka
this is not the time for another conference on what exactly makes a twink

Hayden Pike
guys please

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
so anyway this happened the day Shane brought Cassie to the rink and we did team yoga

Gilbert Comeau
Cassandra is very hot

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
she is but focus
we're doing yoga
Thompson and Jeremy and Jake were not there
it was great because Cassie has a great ass
then we're getting ready for drills and Thompson comes to the locker room to get his backpack

Gilbert Comeau
and he looks fucking pissed off
so we ask him what's wrong and he tells us he's been suspended
because Theriault would rather defend fags than stand up for people who've been loyal for years or whatever
and he leaves

David Taylor
and we all assume it has to do with Xie

Patrice Drapeau
everyone was kind of already pissed at him for embarrassing the entire team
but Xie got really mad because it turns out he doesn't know wtf is going on

Gilbert Comeau
remember Beaty almost got into a fight with Rime?
or was it Aubrey?
whoever it was he's traded now

Patrice Drapeau
and Babikov was there too so Xie was not about back down

Hayden Pike
he actually didn't know what was happening

Gilbert Comeau
and then Jeremy started yelling Thompson tried to kill him

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
Jake was trying to sort us all out

Soren Miitka
where the fuck was Shane?

Patrice Drapeau
not with us
I guess we all assumed he was talking to Theriault
or Thompson

Gilbert Comeau
anyway after we calmed down Jake asked where Thompson went
and then went to look for him?

Hayden Pike
guys this doesn't fucking matter right now
just
let's get through this next game
Shane and Jake will calm down

When Svetlana Vetrova was eleven years old, she went on a school trip to the Royal Botanic Gardens in Trinidad where a teacher had given a lecture about the rare ghost orchid. The white, deceptively simple looking flower was nearly impossible to grow outside of its native locales since it required not only high humidity, but a very specific fungal partner. To make matters worse, the orchid was a target of exotic plant poachers that damaged its environment.

One of Svetlana's schoolmates had complained that there way prettier orchids in the garden and so it didn't make sense that poachers would care about one that looked like any random weed. Idiot. Eleven was old enough to understand that things were valuable not because they were pretty, but because they were rare. Difficult to keep. Fussy. And a weed, no matter how pretty, could grow anywhere.

Later, Svetlana would remember the ghost orchid whenever she saw Ilya Rozanov skating. He was fast and precise, so agile that he glided around other players as though the blades of his skates were connected directly to the bones of his feet. The way he controlled the puck made her consider that he was moving it with his mind rather than a hockey stick.

"Is he really your son?" Svetlana had asked her father once.

"No," he had said. "I wish he was."

Svetlana occasionally wondered if he'd ever said that to Ilya, but she'd never asked him.

In any case, Ilya resembled generic pretty orchids when he was standing around pouting and looking off into the distance with his soulful blue eyes. Or at his phone screen, which he did more often than not lately. His old phone, the one Svetlana had retrieved from the Boston police after his horrid accident last year.

She had expected him to dump the thing since she'd gotten him a new phone while he'd still been in the hospital. Obviously, he had not. No, Ilya had charged the phone with a manic look in his eyes and seemed crestfallen the moment it turned on and he checked. . . whatever he'd wanted to check. The phone had ended up in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, where he'd continued checking it daily before going to bed. Every time Svetlana saw him doing it, she noticed him adopt the air of a kicked dog.

Of course, she'd left him to it. Svetlana had been curious--who wouldn't be?--but she had rules about how much time and effort she invested into Ilya Rozanov. The last thing Svetlana would allow herself was to become like her late mother: a desperate phantom chasing after a barely-interested hockey player. No, it didn't matter if said hockey player was her father's legacy, thank you very much.

She could still have him and be reasonable, though. And care for him. Ilya sure needed care, much like the fragile ghost orchids. On her more fanciful days, she imagined that she might be his fungus. In complimentary way, both to him and herself. The fungus, after all, could survive without the ghost orchid.

"What's so funny, Ilyusha?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said, immediately. The delighted little grin fell off his face and he put his old phone aside.

Svetlana raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, what are you working on?" asked Ilya.

They were in his apartment in Boston, comfortable and only half dressed though it was early afternoon. Svetlana wore her oldest Rozanov jersey and Ilya lounged near her in black boxers. It was how they spent most of their time lately. Where Svetlana spent more and more of her precious time. She was with Ilya every chance they got and since she could work remotely from anywhere and he needed to go to the rink daily, it made sense that they stayed at his place. Svetlana had considered buying an apartment of her own nearer to the rink, but her better judgment had prevailed.

It was no less needy to buy property for a man than it was to simply stay at his place.

"I'm reviewing a script that someone is pitching to my production company," said Svetlana. "It's about a trans Olympic figure skater struggling with their gender identity."

"Huh," said Ilya. "Is there hot, scary sex in it? Your last movie had hot, scary sex."

The last (and first) film Svetlana bankrolled had been about a first time mother struggling with postpartum depression. The director loved elevated horror and her pitch about demonic possession as a metaphor for the isolation and loss of identity inherent to motherhood had been quite passionate. Ilya, sweetheart that he was, had had tried to be supportive, but the premier had been right after one of his games. He'd fallen asleep on Svetlana's shoulder and woken in the middle of the film to the sound of theatrical moaning. His mouth had fallen open at the sight on the screen, where the lead was getting railed by a muscular, demonic figure.

The reception with critics had been mixed, but the film had made modest profits on limited release and seemed to be developing a small cult following. Svetlana was cautiously satisfied and ready to move to a new project.

"No hot, scary sex yet," said Svetlana. "But I'll talk to Rose Landry about it."

"Rose Landry?" Ilya perked up. "You're gonna put Rose Landry in one of your movies?"

"Maybe," said Svetlana. "She asked for a meeting to pitch the idea. I'm meeting her before your game today."

"Yes, you should bankroll Rose Landry's movie!" said Ilya. He jumped from his side of the couch over to hers, prompting her to put aside her laptop with a short laugh. Grinning, big and goofy, he wrapped an arm around her waist. "Then introduce us so I can try to win her over. If she fucks me, I will be king of the locker room. More than I already am!"

"I hear Rose Landry is a huge hockey fan," said Svetlana. She'd also heard that Shane Hollander was her favorite player, but that wasn't an important detail right now.

"See? It's meant to be!"

"Oh? Can you get me two tickets for today's game?" asked Svetlana.

"Yes, of course!" Ilya stood up and reached for the phone on the other side of the couch. Then, he remembered that it was his old phone and looked around.

"You left it in the bedroom," said Svetlana.

"Right!" Ilya smiled sheepishly. "We're destroying the Voyageurs later today. Rose Landry will love it!" He said as he headed for the bedroom.

Not necessarily, but it would be an excellent game regardless.

The moment Ilya was gone, Svetlana gave up and did something she'd been considering for a while now. She reached for Ilya's old phone and unlocked it (they'd known the passcodes to each other's phones for years). Right as it unlocked, a new message popped on the screen.

From Jane (Montreal): asshole.

Sevtlana opened the chat.

Jane (Montreal)

Lily (Boston)
tease yourself with your fake cock baby
push the tip only
not too deep

Jane (Montreal)
ok
what are you doing?

Lily (Boston)
hanging out with Sveta

Jane (Montreal)
asshole

Svetlana closed the screen and put the phone right where Ilya left it.

"Tickets ready!" said Ilya as he walked back into the living room. Svetlana heard her phone vibrating. "Two seats in the luxury box just for you. Our--hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Svetlana, opening her arms. Immediately, he got on the couch next to her and laid his head on her lap. Svetlana traced one of his eyebrows gently.

He closed his eyes and sighed. "Our new social media guy wants me to get on my knees and beg you to invite Rose Landry to meet me and the rest of the team."

"As if you don't spend enough time on your knees for me."

Ilya chuckled and did not open his eyes.

"It will be a business meeting," added Svetlana, burying a hand in his curls as she looked him over.

He looked good, to her great relief. She reached down to caress the scar on his inner thigh, still an angry, reddish line. Ilya spread his legs a bit so she could examine him to her satisfaction. The scar on his right forehead, near his temple, was fading much faster. Which he liked to complain about since he'd decided his scars were badass.

The accident cost him some muscle mass that he hadn't fully regained during his summer bulk. Svetlana had been worried that the season would be too hard on him, that his performance would suffer. Or worse--that his body would. Neither had been the case so far. Ilya was on track to beat his goals record this year, with Shane Hollander a couple of goals behind. Though he'd started the season lighter, he also seemed to be losing less weight than usual.

Hard to tell why, but Svetlana credited the fact that he hadn't returned to Moscow last summer. The doctors, both from the Bears and from Mass Gen, had been adamant that a flight across the world was unnecessarily risky while he was still recovering. Alexei had tried to guilt him into doing it anyway, until Svetlana got a hold of him and threatened to have him butchered in one of the casinos where he wasted Ilya's hard earned money if he didn't shut the fuck up about it.

Another more common theory was that Ilya had been saved by pure love. That he had given up his club rat drinking and womanizing for. . . well. Her. WAGs were practically abuzz about it: the league's most notorious bad boy tamed by the love of a good woman who stood by him while the world speculated that he was a good-for-nothing drunk driver.

Svetlana thought she knew better. As she moved on to trace the bear tattoo on Ilya's chest, she mused that she'd given herself too much credit. She must have, or she wouldn't be so surprised about Montreal Jane's continued presence in Ilya's life. Svetlana had known of her, of course. There was little about Ilya she didn't know. What little of it there was, she'd chosen not to know.

She'd assumed Jane was simply a flavor of the month, someone kinky enough that Ilya bragged about in the locker room. She did not for once imagine that she was the one Ilya had been very obviously pining for.

Who was she? Why did she insist that Ilya keep her a secret? And Svetlana knew that she was the one demanding it.

"You have to get ready for your game, Ilyusha," she said, leaning down to peck him on the lips.

He sighed and got up. "Text me if you will bring Rose Landy, alright?"

"Of course."

He grabbed both phones before going back to the bedroom.

Rose Landry's people had sent Svetlana's people reservations to a private table at one of Boston's most exclusive French cuisine restaurants. A tall waiter wearing a nice button down shirt led her to the private table, set up next to a mural of the Parisian skyline, and offered her a bottle of expensive wine. Courtesy of Ms. Landry, of course. Svetlana memorized the label to check the estimated price later. Just how badly did Landry want to impress her? Would she even know how?

When her team reached out, Svetlana decided to look into America's sweetheart. Rose Landry had been born in Michigan, the third of four children, and raised in an upper middle class suburb in Detroit. Her parents held administrative roles for the city's local government. According to Mrs. Landry, young Rose had fallen in love with acting in kindergarten after being cast as the Virgin Mary for the family church's production of the birth of Jesus Christ.

When she was eight, she'd starred in a cute Disney movie about a plucky tomboy who stood up to mean girl cheerleaders. Svetlana had watched the film, which had been pretty terrible, truth be told. A resentful little story, rife with jabs at traditionally feminine interests (such as cheerleading) and constantly praising its heroine for wanting to play videogames and watch sports with her brothers.

Of course, eight year old Rose Landry could not be held responsible for the script. Or the fact that she'd been very charming and engaging while trashing all the cheerleaders for being such girls. Svetlana could see why she continued to be cast in supporting roles until her big break as the femme fatale for the X films when she turned eighteen.

More relevant to the present, Landry was considered a significant draw at the box office. She was one of the few child performers who had successfully transitioned to adult roles. By some definitions of "adult", anyway. The X-films were commercial trash of minimal artistic value. Landry did well in them, but all that was required of her was that she show up and look hot in a skintight leather suit. Sometimes, it was red.

Over the last couple of years, she had ventured into more serious roles. Most notably, she'd starred in a biopic of a Sandra Girard, a French woman who had been a spy for the Allies during World War II. The film had been a modest financial success thanks to Landry's army of sweaty, horny fanboys, but critics had not been kind to Landry or her attempt at a French accent. At around the same time, Landry's on-and-off relationship with British actor Colin Giles seemed to implode after he was caught kissing a male model by paparazzi.

In other words, Rose Landry was not having a very good year even though she was more famous than ever.

She arrived at the restaurant alone, two minutes early with her distinctive red hair wrapped under a tasteful white scarf that matched a cream dress suit accentuating her curves. A pair of sensible heels finished the look. She was as beautiful in person as she looked in her movies, perhaps more so since she wore more natural make up. The smile she offered Svetlana was warm and her handshake firm, but something about her still seemed nervous.

Fair enough. At least for now, Svetlana had all the power. She was the one with the money. By all reports, Landry's contract with the X-film producers was not exactly favorable to her in terms of money or freedom to manage her own schedule.

"Thank you for meeting me," she said.

"Of course," said Svetlana. "I'm a big fan of your work." It wasn't a lie, exactly. Svetlana appreciated success.

"Thank you," said Landry, nodding. "I loved The Mistake, hence why I reached out with my friend's script."

Svetlana nodded. "I'll be sure to relay your kind words to the director. All I can take credit for is making an investment."

"A very successful one, it seems." Landry smiled. "Let me be direct--I'm hoping you will be even more successful when you take on my project."

"The script intrigues me," conceded Svetlana, raising her wine glass. "I was surprised by how much hockey is in it, considering the initial pitch was about a figure skater."

"Indirect commentary on gender roles," said Landry. "Both men and women play hockey and both men and women are figure skaters, but both sports bring specific images to the public's mind."

Yes, Svetlana understood. Once, she'd begged to play hockey only to be informed that it was for boys, and didn't she want to watch the beautiful figure skaters dance? Had she been interested in figure skating at all, she couldn't have expected the same financial success of even a mediocre MLH player. Not even as an Olympian.

"Ladies," the waiter re-introduced himself. "Might we discuss the day's specials?"

Svetlana ordered a steak and Landry ordered a plain salad with sauteed sea bass. They went on to discuss the script in some detail. Landry was adamant that she wanted the lead role without watering the concept down to attract a more general audience. No romance with some generic male actor, or even another big name, just for the sake of marketing.

"Of course," said Svetlana. The script would be hindered and watered down by some tedious romance subplot. "That being said, we have to keep in mind budgetary constraints. My production company is small; I may not be able to offer a competitive salary for an actress of your. . . caliber."

Svetlana's pause was deliberate. While Landry had considerable box office draw, she did not have the reputation necessary to carry a prestige horror film. If she knew anything about her business, then she understood that just as well as Svetlana did.

"This is a passion project for me," said Landry, with a gentle smile. "I am more than willing to do the job for a less money. Upfront, of course. I'm confident in the project and with an appropriate contract, I know my time will be more than fairly compensated."

So she wanted a cut of the box office. Svetlana smiled and tipped her wine battle. Her instincts weren't bad, though it was doubtful that a film about a figure skater drawn to a male hockey player--because she wanted to trade bodies and lives with him--had mass appeal. It appealed to Svetlana, though, and she was the one with the money.

"Another concern that I have is that figure skaters have a certain body type," said Svetlana.

"You think I'm too fat for the role," said Landry, with a tight smile.

"Not fat," said Svetlana. "But taller, curvier, and broader in the chest and hips." She suspected Landry knew this, or ought to. She'd seen figure skaters, presumably. "I envision quite a bit of skating in the project, with stunt doubles and professional skaters to make it look authentic, and we would have trouble finding a figure skater with your overall silhouette."

"Respectfully, I disagree," said Landry. "People of all sizes practice figure skating and stunt doubles are enthusiastic and willing to learn all sorts of skills for a film. The rest can be accomplished with proper direction, editing, and lighting."

Svetlana hummed, considering the point. She wasn't wrong and it was notable that she hadn't promised to torture herself into an unnaturally low weight, as was the fad for actors aching to shed a frivolous image.

"Besides," Landry added, "the role also calls for a fair amount of hockey. I think we can agree that my. . . larger frame will make it easier for me to pass for a man."

"True," said Svetlana.

"I could do more of those stunts too." Landry smile, lighter and more genuine than she had all night. "I have three brothers; all of them are serious hockey players, though none have been drafted for the MLH. The family is hopeful for our youngest--he just turned seventeen."

"So hockey is what drew you to the project?"

"Partly," said Landry.

She went on discuss the current MLH season with enthusiasm and considerable insight. The Voyageurs were indeed her favorite team. She knew the players' names, their strengths and weaknesses, and seemed excited that finally, it seemed that post-Hollander draftees were showing some promise. A part of Svetlana had wondered if she'd only said she liked the Voyageurs in a couple of interviews because the team had become famous in the general population last season.

"The last Stanley Cup series was practically a religious experience at my house," she said. "That last goal. . ." She sighed and gave a wistful look. "My little brother might commit crimes for an autographed Xie jersey."

"How about something from a Bear?"

"Like most teen boys into hockey, he idolizes Rozanov," said Landry. "Oh, I almost forgot. He's your boyfriend."

"On that note," said Svetlana, choosing not to clarify that, "he's gotten us tickets for the upcoming Bears-Voyageurs match. The luxury box."

"Oh my God, yes!" said Landry, beaming before blushing. "Sorry, trying to be cool. I wish I'd brought my Hollander jersey on the trip."

Voyageur Next Generation

James Wagner
you think this is my fault?

Dylan Xie
what specifically?

James Wagner
Merrell and Jeremy switching lines

Jeremy McAllister
nah bro
that's Shane and Jake beefing
fuck only knows what that's about

Cole Passey
yeah man
they totally forgot about the thing in Dallas
thank God

Mykola Koval
they argue about Thompson

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
how the fuck do you know that?

Mykola Koval
I hear others talking about it

Dylan Xie
dude do you know English?
have you known English this whole time?

Mykola Koval
I understand some
like names
they say everything in front of me but I only hear name and them being mad

Jeremy McAllister
but what's there to argue about Thompson?
that was forever ago

Dylan Xie
we don't know they're arguing about Thompson
it's just they kinda hate each other

Cole Passey
but why?
I'm fucking dying to know

Nikolai Babikov
just vague dislike
now they're straight up giving each other the silent treatment
hilarious

James Wagner
so you don't think Merrell is mad at me?

Cole Passey
then he wouldn't ask to be put in your line

James Wagner
maybe he wants to punish me

Dylan Xie
punish how?

Nikolai Babikov
nah Jake is nice

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
they need to get over this
have that dumbass fistfight to settle the SportsBet pool

Cole Passey
we should put them in a cage match

Dylan Xie
yeah force them to talk it out

Cole Passey
nah
force them to have that fist fight
winner wins argument

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
fucking dumbass

Mykola Koval
could we bet on this since not hockey game?

James Wagner
we shouldn't be on SportsBet at all

Jeremy McAllister
we could make it a charity thing
lots of people want to see Jake and Shane beat each other up

Nikolai Babikov
nah
neither of them can fight so if they went at it it'd look stupid as hell
it's really funny when forwards try to fight
they don't know what they're doing

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
yeah that's why this is a stupid idea
because Hollander and Merrell are not boxers

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Voyageur Vets (w/o Shane and Jake)

Hayden Pike
anyway so that didn't work

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
wait you had a plan?

Hayden Pike
I thought if Theriault messed with the lines Shane and Jake would get embarrassed and apologize to each other

Patrice Drapeau
masterful gambit dipshit

Soren Miitka
so it didn't work?

Hayden Pike
Shane says he has nothing to apologize for and Jake said he doesn't want an apology anyway
and they're saying they don't care about the change

Greg Cornick
nice they're already agreeing

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
man come on

Greg Cornick
it can only be a step in the right direction

Gilbert Comeau
this game is gonna be a shitshow

Lewis Balish
bros the SportsBet pool on the Shane/Jake fist fight just reached a million USD

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
what the fuck

David Taylor
I didn't do anything!!!

Hayden Pike
fuck me

Patrice Drapeau
David why the fuck is your "cousin" in SportsBet forum saying Shane and Jake are fighting?

Soren Miitka
this team is fucking crazy

David Taylor
so I bitched a bit in the family group chat

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
congratulations on getting Shane to learn your name in the stupidest way imaginable

David Taylor
he already knows my name!
and it's not a fucking secret Shane and Jake can't stand each other

Greg Cornick
how come the pool is like 5-1 that Jake will win?

Patrice Drapeau
are you seriously asking that?

Greg Cornick
Shane is a little bigger than Jake!
and he went kinda crazy last season

Hayden Pike
he's back to normal though

Lewis Balish
it's because Shane is Asian
duh

Greg Cornick
but his dad is white so it cancels out
it's not like he looks like Dylan

Hayden Pike
oh my god

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
I can't believe we decided Jeremy is the team dumbass when Greg is dropping race science on the chat on a weekly fucking basis

Greg Cornick
fucking Bilash is the one who brought up race

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
everyone just shut the fuck up
we need to get through this game so Shane can hook up with Lily and chill out
then we can go home and in a week we won't even remember this bullshit

The Bears' lead social media manager was excited that Rose Landry wanted to meet the team. To put it very mildly. Elias Durham, a short man with light brown eyes and frosted tips, was a bit of a nepo baby (though who was Svetlana to judge?). He'd graduated Harvard with combined degrees in marketing and data science and replaced the Bears comms manager from last season. Ilya had complained to her that he felt a little singled out since Elias kept sitting him down in front of a camera to ask him stupid questions from the fans way more than he did for the other Bears.

"It's funnier when he bothers Wynn," Ilya said as he got ready for the rink one morning. "He gets this frown-y look on his face and thinks really hard about every question. What's your favorite ice cream flavor? Favorite TV show? Favorite captain? He said me, by the way. I hope Hollander saw that!"

In other words, Elias knew which of his players got the most traction online and what to ask to get maximum engagement. He greeted Svetlana and Landry at the rink parking lot, restraining himself from whipping out a camera right away, and personally escorted them to the luxury box.

"No one else will be using the box today," he assured them.

Svetlana wondered how they'd managed that. Bears-Voyageur games were almost always sold out. The fans who were willing to pay for the luxury box surely would have it reserved months in advance for this particular game. She didn't care enough about the details to ask about them.

Instead, she settled in the comfortable seats at the luxury box, adjusted the seat's recline angle, and asked for a glass of sparkling water. Beside her, Landry settled as well, asking for a can of Coke Zero as she opened her phone and began to scroll.

"If my schedule was a little more predictable, I would reserve the luxury box at the Detroit stadium," said Landry. "I like the seats closer to the players, though."

"Got a bit of a thing for them?" asked Svetlana.

"Much to my shame," said Landry, with a sheepish glance her way. "They're not exactly an intellectual bunch, are they?"

"I don't what you mean," said Svetlana. She considered adding something specific about Ilya's more vapid moments, but Landry didn't know her Ilyusha enough to understand such a joke.

"Oh, the Voyageurs altered their lines," said Landry.

"Really?" Svetlana checked her own phone.

They'd swapped Jake Merrell and Jeremy McAllister. An interesting but ultimately logical move. Merrell was good player and still in his prime, but he'd been in the league for a long time and might be making noise about retirement. Or could be expected to start making noise about retirement in the next few years. McAllister, on the other hand, was still very young and had shown steady improvement since the beginning of his career. He needed to be tested in more high stakes positions before they got stuck with him in the first line during the play offs without getting him ready for the added stress.

Of course, basic talent management was not an exciting explanation for Henry Theriault's sudden flexibility. Not when rumors of a Hollander-Merrell feud had been brewing for months. Certainly not when one of the low tier Voyageurs had allegedly complained to a cousin about his teammates' sudden argument and said cousin had breathlessly informed SportsBet bros. The leading theory on Svetlana's feed was that Hollander and Merrell had come to blows on the plane and the new cut on Merrell's lip was evidence of it.

Svetlana could have sworn she'd seen Merrell getting hit during the Voyageurs' last game against the Diamonds in Dallas, but the internet was not about to let minor things like facts get in their way of their fun.

"Oh my God," said Landry. "There's a blog post going viral that Shane Hollander is having an affair with Jake Merrell's wife."

"What's their 'evidence'?" Svetlana said, with an annoyed sigh. She'd only met Xiaoyan Merrell a couple of times, but she hadn't gotten the impression that she would be the type to cheat on her husband with his captain.

"Let me send you the link," said Landry. "Could I have your number?"

After a moment of consideration, Svetlana gave Landry her personal number. Whether or not she went ahead with the film, it wouldn't hurt to have a personal connection with a prominent actor.

The so-called evidence of Shane Hollander's affair with Xiaoyan Merrell was a single picture of them together at the last MLH awards. They weren't even standing particularly close, thought Xiaoyan was looking up at Hollander with a smile on her face, quite beautiful in a fine red dress. Hollander seemed to be staring at the vicinity of his feet. Other supporting details included the fact that both Xiaoyan and Hollander were attractive Asian people and that Shane's only other known girlfriend since high school had been Asian as well.

The post was less than five hundred words long and had been published earlier in the year. Before it had been linked to the SportsBet forums about ten minutes ago, it'd gotten maybe twenty mocking comments. Unfortunately, it served gambler's fevered delusions to give it more credit than it was due today.

"Nonsense," said Svetlana.

Down on the ice, the teams finally began to file out to greet the fans to much applause and fanfare. Svetlana smiled when the jumbotron focused on Ilya's smirking face, prompting the fans to explode into ecstatic cheers. All thoughts about the Hollander-Merrell affair vanished from her mind.

Fifteen minutes into first period, after several checks and blocked passes, Wynn scored the first goal of the game. The crowd cheered, getting louder as Wynn and Ilya skated towards each other for their usual spectacle. Of course, they were projected on the jumbotron, flushed and happy as they went for their kiss. They were so excited that Ilya's lips landed on Wynn's nose. Landry let out an excited snort, then shot Svetlana a nervous look.

"Are you on betting on whether or not they'll kiss on the mouth?" asked Svetlana. That was the other big wager on SportsBet for this game.

"Uh. . ." Landry regarded her for a moment. "Well, they are escalating."

Svetlana let the subsequent silence stretch until Landry fidgeted and looked back at her phone screen. If she wasn't brave enough ask a direct question, Svetlana would not volunteer an answer.

"Does it not bother you?" asked Landry.

"No," said Svetlana. "It's a little hot, isn't it?"

Landry's only response was a noncommittal smile. Perhaps she had some Midwestern hang ups about that. Or she'd suggested a threesome to her ex and he'd turned her down. It wasn't Svetlana's business. She turned her attention back to the ice, where the second line forwards were getting ready for a face off.

A potential threesome with Kalle Wynn wasn't the reason the gimmick with the kisses didn't bother Svetlana. She supposed she'd be open to the idea--Wynn was beautiful and quite skilled, not to mention all the homoeroticism with Ilya was giving pause to the sweaty trolls who speculated about whether or not Ilya's pure Aryan genes would purify the bloodline of the children he would surely be having with her.

Ilya hated them, much like he'd hated the way his father had assured people that "good Rozanov breeding" would ensure he didn't succumb to his lazier impulses. Were the kisses his form of rebellion? A couple of times, she'd heard Alexei screeching at him to stop over the phone. Was he trying to get himself fucking exiled?

Was he?

She hadn't discussed it with Ilya at all. The closest they'd come to it was one day while watching one of the Admirals' games. During intermission, ESPN had played some highlights of a Bears game and joked that fans were enjoying the Rozanov-Wynn kisses a little too much.

"Why are you doing that?" Svetlana had asked him.

Ilya had shrugged. "It's funny," he'd said, without looking at her.

Svetlana hadn't pushed. Mostly, she was hoping the entire thing would blow up in Ilya's face. It would be so easy to keep him out of Moscow indefinitely if the Kremlin threatened to have him arrested.

Sometimes, Svetlana wondered if she'd orchestrated the Merrell-Wynn trade. But no. She did not know that Ilya would develop this transparent crush, much less that Wynn would be too autistic to care that he was being called a fag by every hockey bro homophobe in North America. If he'd even noticed. Wynn seemed to view hockey fans and most of his teammates with an air of impatient disgust that Svetlana found compelling.

The buzzer announced a goal from Hayden Pike, the second of the game, off an assist from Jake Merrell. Landry stood up to clap loudly, loyal Voyageurs fan that she was. "Get them!" yelled Landry.

A couple of minutes later, Hollander won a face off against Ilya and weaved between him and Damian Cook. He passed to McAllister, evaded a check from Ginan, accepted a pass. Ilya stole the puck and skated, passing to Wynn when Hollander caught up to him.

"You've been with him a long time right?" asked Landry.

"In a manner of speaking," said Svetlana. "The first time we met, he was eight, but we didn't become friends until a few years later."

"How sweet."

Not really, Svetlana didn't say. Even back then, Ilya had already been wounded, hiding and pretending that he wasn't. He would sit next to them patiently while Svetlana's friend Katya smoked and blew smog in his direction. She'd always poked and teased him, acting like she was the eleven year old. Little Ilyusha watched, never responding. After his mother killed herself, it'd seemed like he stopped noticing.

The crowd let out a happy gasp as J. J. Boiziau got into a scuffle with Lance Ginan down on the rink. It took four other players to separate them and by the end of it all and despite Hollander's attempt to argue that they'd both been at fault, Boiziau got a two minute penalty.

"Bullshit," breathed Landry.

The Voyageurs sent out Merrell and Hollander with Babikov and Miitka. So the alleged feud between Hollander and Merrell hadn't destroyed their PPD unit. Hollander won another face off--Svetlana would be giving Ilya shit about this later--and they were off. Merrell and Hollander kept passing to each other, furiously defending the puck. If they were in fact arguing, it wasn't affecting their teamwork.

Svetlana leaned forward as they made it deep into the Bears' zone. If they pulled a goal off a PK, she would not suck Ilya's dick for the next month--Marlow checked Hollander against the boards, giving Ilya enough space to retrieve the puck. Merrell gave chase. Fifty-two seconds left on the power play.

"Almost, come on!" said Landry.

With three second left, Ilya buried the puck and noise hit the stadium like a lightning strike.

Not an assist from Wynn this time, so no kiss. The game was two-to-one at the end of first period.

"What are the odds for this one, you think?" said Landry.

"Too early to tell," said Svetlana. "Both teams are playing really well."

"So much for that feud." Landry shrugged and pushed the button to call the attendant.

The bros hadn't given up on it. SportsBet still favored the Bears to win, though that betting pool had a fraction of the activity that the Hollander-Merrell fist fight boasted. That was shortly followed by the Roz-Wynn mouth kiss enthusiasts. Svetlana pulled up Hockinator's livestream, curious about what the resentful little troll was making of all this.

Folks, this is some of the best hockey of the season and I'd rather discuss that than this nonsense about Hollander and Merrell's wife. How are we at the point where we're reporting 'news' about two people being in the same building once? This is absurd. It's a post from one of those stupid teens Xie brought into the league--

For the love of God, man. Everything goes back to Xie with you.

--not everything! This does! Check the 'source' from this TMZ article. It's one of those make up influencers who only started flooding our space with bullshit after Xie joined.

Meanwhile, the Hollander-Merrell fist fight pool was close to two million USD. The bros were furiously speculating about who was to blame for the failure of their PPD unit at the end of first period. As if letting a single goal through was such a great humiliation.

Elias returned in before the second period started to ask if Landry would like to go and meet the team during the second intermission. Of course, she said yes, though she also added that she and her family were Voyageur fans when he asked who her favorite player was.

"Sadly, I can't get you an audience with any of them," said Elias.

Svetlana wondered about that. The Voyageurs would get just as much publicity from being seen with Landry as the Bears.

"Well, I'm sure my little brother would sneak a signed Rozanov jersey past our parents," said Landry.

"Perfect," said Elias, smiling broadly. "I will see you ladies after the second period."

The beginning of second period was a flurry of blocked shots from both teams, each making the crowd buzz with frustrated excitement. One particularly tense moment had Merrell crashing into Hollander near the boards and sending them both tumbling. Ilya paused in near them, obviously tense. A hush fell over the crowd.

Merrell got up first. He slid over to Hollander, stopped in front of him and after a moment, offered him a hand up. The crowd cheered when Hollander accepted.

"Okay, I have to admit a part of me is kind of curious about who would win that fist fight," admitted Landry.

"Hollander," said Svetlana, remembering how vicious he had been during last season's playoffs.

The medics cleared both Voyageurs in less than a minute and the match continued. More of the same. Both teams were playing aggressively, specially Hollander and Ilya, but the goalies were blocking every shot. Thirteen minutes in a few line switches later, Ilya scored again, giving the Bears a solid three-to-one lead. No with Wynn--not that it mattered, but. . . well, Svetlana admitted that it mattered to her.

A new betting pool appeared on the SportBet screen: would Ilya score a hat trick this game?

"I'm putting twenty against that," said Landry.

Svetlana did not gamble, but if she did, she'd go for Ilya. The game was barely halfway through.

Before the second period ended, Hollander managed a goal with a fairly impressive backhand move. Svetlana joined the cheering. Credit where credit was due. The Voyageurs would be enter third period in better spirits if they were only down one point.

Not that it mattered. After it was all said and done, third period turned into a bit of a slog. Neither team scored again. There were no more penalties. Hollander and Merrell did not come to blows and Ilya and Wynn did not kiss on the mouth.

Voyageurs

Jake Merrell
who the fuck dragged my wife into this?

David Taylor
dude swear on my life I never mentioned her to my shit cousin
here screenshot of exactly what I said in the family group chat
.png
I am *never* lending this bitch money again

Shane Hollander
that's your big concern right now Merrell?
you buying into this post about me having an affair with your wife

Jake Merrell
fuck you Hollander
as if she would let you touch her

Shane Hollander
I don't *want* to touch her

Hayden Pike
guys please let's all calm down
we all know fans like to say the wildest things
there are rumors about Shane and I fucking
thanks to everyone who keeps calling me his work wife

Lewis Bilash
this is Xie again

Dylan Xie
fucking excuse me?

Lewis Bilash
one of your fans made the post about Shane and Merrell's wife

Dylan Xie
am I responsible for everything someone wearing a Xie jersey says now?

Gilbert Comeau
never the fuck mind
did you see the news?
Rose Landry is hanging out with the Bears tonight

Shane Hollander
am I the only one who cares we just got our asses kicked?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
3-2 is disappointing but I wouldn't go that far

Patrice Drapeau
we are still invited to the screaming huddle
Vinny says bears are dying to gloat

Greg Cornick
vinny?

Patrice Drapeau
Vincent St. Simon

Dylan Xie
oh so you can be friends with random Bears and not me?

Patrice Drapeau
unlike you and Ryan Price we are not fucking

Dylan Xie
I told you guys I never fucked Ryan Price

Gilbert Comeau
obviously he would be the one fucking you

Shane Hollander
stop it
we are not derailing with yet another discussion of gay sex

Cole Passey
but we can go party with the Bears right?
I wanna meet Rose Landry

Shane Hollander
we can go
but everyone be fucking professional
we don't need more embarrassment tonight

Ilya seemed taken aback when Svetlana told him that she'd be joining him at The Screaming Huddle. He didn't quite relax when she explained that it was a work meeting for her because Rose Landry seemed to be a genuine fan of the sport.

"Though she's more interested in Shane Hollander and the Voyageurs," she added.

"Alright," said Ilya. "You want us together?"

"Yes," said Svetlana. "Could you be my arm candy for tonight?"

This would be the point were Ilya would smirk and make a joke about always being at her service, but his demeanor had taken the distant edge that indicated he was stressed and trying to hide it. "Yeah, I can do that," he said, expression serious. "But I have plans for later."

"Oh?"

"I need a few hours," said Ilya. "Three to four hours at some point tonight."

"Of course," said Svetlana, kissing his chin. "I need time to myself tonight too so I can rest up before a meeting tomorrow. About whether or not we'll be moving forward with Landry's hockey movie."

She didn't ask what he needed time to because she didn't want watch him come up with a stupid lie. Something about having to help a teammate, she bet. A middle-of-the-night emergency that he somehow knew about ahead of time.

Assuming that he would lie at all. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would look at Svetlana in the eyes and inform her that Montreal Jane had already reserved his dick for the evening, sorry; he wasn't always at Svetlana's service after all.

Svetlana squared her shoulders. She was the one who'd decided not to make things exclusive with Ilya, so she had no grounds to pout because he'd gone and found himself additional lovers. Acting the jilted lover was not behavior she allowed herself.

That didn't mean that she couldn't look amazing for the evening. She selected a light pink sequin dress that edged towards transparency around key areas of her body and high heels that put her almost at eye level with Ilya. To finish the look, she picked a pale silk button down shirt for Ilya himself that would look the same color as her dress in certain lights. Petty? Perhaps. The flex was for Landry, Svetlana told herself.

Ilya selected his lime green Bentley to pick up Landry (try as she might, Svetlana could never get him to buy a car in a reasonable color). For her, he turned on his charm offensive and quickly complimented her little black dress.

"And I liked your last movie too," he added, as he opened the car door for her. "Critics are liars; your French accent is good. I know French people; this is how they talk."

"Thank you," said Landry, seemingly unbothered by the reminder of poor reviews. "You played really well today."

"Always do," said Ilya. "Picking up Wynn next. Hollander will have my head if I don't bring him."

By the time they made it to Wynn's apartment, there were pictures of Ilya and Landry's brief interaction all over social media. From several angles, all from assorted Landry fans passing by. Or on stake out, waiting for her to leave the hotel. Svetlana's favorite comments were the one asking who the hell the guy with the phenomenal ass was. The more famous Ilya got, the better as far as she was concerned.

This was probably the perfect time to reach out to Coca Cola.

Wynn was at the car less than a minute after Ilya texted him to come down, dressed in jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a dark fuzzy jacket. His everyday uniform, in other words.

"Hello," he told Landry when they were introduced, with the usual amount of intense eye contact before turning to Ilya. "Please hurry. Shane is waiting."

On the way to The Screaming Huddle, Landry tried to engage Wynn in conversation with limited success until she mentioned that she wanted to incorporate hockey into her next project.

"In what way?" he asked, turning his brilliant green eyes on her.

Landry started explaining the idea to him and he listened, staying silent through the occasional pause when any other person would've made some encouraging or questioning gesture.

To her credit, Landry pushed through with sustained enthusiasm.

"But why doesn't she just play for the PWHL?" Wynn finally asked as they were escorted to The Screaming Huddle's VIP lounge.

"In this story, men's hockey is a metaphor for masculinity," Landry said, "which the protagonist feels is beyond them. That's the main conflict."

"I thought the conflict would be whether or not the hockey player serial killer is real," said Wynn.

"We're still sorting out the details," said Svetlana.

Wynn nodded. "It would be fun to play a murderous hockey player. Will he kill his teammates?"

"Baby, strange thing to say next to a teammate," said Ilya, a delighted grin on his face.

"Why?" asked Wynn. Something caught his attention. "There's Shane." He walked away from them without saying goodbye.

"Oh!" Landry smiled. "And here I was planning to ask for an introduction."

Svetlana looked at Ilya.

"Ah," said Ilya. Instead of offering to make the introduction himself, as Svetlana expected. Hadn't he declared that he and Hollander were cordial now? "Better to leave them alone for a bit. They are boring and will only sit quietly and watch tape--our last game--together."

Interesting, thought Svetlana. Why wouldn't Ilya want to introduce Hollander and Landry? Was he really so determined to add the actress to his little black book? He didn't seem particularly attracted to her so far. Svetlana knew what a crush looked like on Ilyusha.

"I see Xie over there," said Ilya. "You said in car that your brother likes him, yes? He was my winger last All Star game. I introduce you two first."

Chapter End Notes

Finally we arrive at Shane and Svetlana in the same room with Ilya lol

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Lol watch the ratings change; forgot how horny Shane got this chapter

Bears

Ilya Rozanov
remember everyone
be cool with Rose Landry or Sveta will never invite movie stars to meet us again

Cliff Marlow
don't worry Roz
we will all be gentlemen
I got bros reading essay comments about like the meaning of her movies and shit

Lance Ginan
what is a Chekhov’s gun?
it says here that the butcher knife in the WWII movie is a Chekhov's gun

Damian Cook
it's not a real gun bro
I learned in English class it's like when the writer wants a thing to be a weapon later in a story it has to show up in the beginning so people don't get confused
otherwise it's cheating or something

Vincent St. Simon
that's not exactly right
it's a literary principle about remaining focused in narration and description

Ilya Rozanov
bros!
I'm warning only not ask Rose Landry if she had boob job and don't try to pull her tonight
pretend you are chick
*she* pulls you if *she* wants to
which she probably won't
behave!

Everything would be fine; everything was under control. Ilya kept telling himself as much as he danced with Svetlana, smiling at her as the rhythm of the music swayed them. She was stunning, like a dream come to life, the glittering pink of her tight dress bringing out the colors she'd drawn around her eyes. A delicate floral scent enveloped her, soothing and gentle, combating the stink of sweat and alcohol wafting in The Screaming Huddle. Boston was on fire tonight, celebrating a hockey victory on home ice and their American football team winning somewhere west.

Svetlana's slim hand curled possessively around the hair on the back of Ilya's head as he twirled her around. The mass of bodies around them might as well not be there; Ilya felt like they were the only people in the dance floor. In the whole world.

Or he would, if he could make himself stop tracking Shane on the opposite end of the VIP lounge, away from the dance floor altogether. It was easy to do; Ilya knew their Bears-Voyageurs post-game ritual by now. Shane would not move from his spot next to Wynn unless he needed to go to the bathroom, or to get a refill of plain ginger ale. They would watch the game through once, talk to each other for a bit, then Shane would announce he was done and leave "for his hotel".

The Voyageurs smirked at each other about it sometimes. Lily's hotel, they whispered, then wondered just what kind of freaky, kinky shit she let their captain get away with.

"You're distracted, Ilyusha," said Svetlana.

"I'm sorry," said Ilya, briefly tightening his arm around her waist. "Just. . . the guys are excited tonight. Hope they don't get rowdy."

"I figured you might," she said. "You beat Hollander earlier. You have a date later."

"I. . ." Ilya didn't know what to say, so he tried for a kiss, light at first. He got bolder when she opened her mouth for him and leaned more of her weight on his body. She pulled back when his hand roamed too close to her ass.

Ilya swayed them until her back was to Hollander. Was he looking? Would he even care?

"She's a big fan of him," said Svetlana.

"Hm?"

"Rose Landry has a bit of thing for Shane Hollander, I think," said Svetlana, changing their positions so they could both look over at Shane.

He was sitting in front of a large flat screen TV, Wynn on one side and Rose Landry on the other. Around them, a small crowd of Bears and Voyageurs gathered, all seemingly engrossed on a replay of the latest Boston-Montreal game. Generous servings of grilled veggies with boring chicken breast and shrimp were served on the table in front of them, as Ilya had ordered earlier during day in anticipation of the post-game party.

Marley, Vinny, and Damian next to Wynn; Drapeau, Comeau, Pike, and one of the new Voyageur rookies next to Shane. And Rose Landry. Which was good. Ilya needed him distracted. Around them, rich kids and enterprising puck bunnies fluttered, surveilled by broad shouldered bouncers with strict orders to keep the club's main attraction happy.

Landry was talking to Shane, seeming bright and confident even from far away. She laid a hand on Shane's shoulder--classic flirting technique. Come on, Hollander, Ilya thought, as he would watching any teammate with a hot girl, instinctively sending him some good vibes. Get your head in the game.

Of course, Shane fidgeted until she retrieved her slim hand, turning his attention to a comment from Wynn.

Ilya smirked. "He has no game whatsoever."

"Maybe you should go there and help," said Svetlana.

"No." He said that too quickly. "I mean. It'd be unfair if I go there. She would leave with me. I already beat Hollander once tonight, like you said."

Svetlana chuckled and led him off the dance floor. For a moment, it looked like she would direct them towards Shane's table. Ilya balked internally, looking for an excuse to go literally anywhere else. He realized Svetlana was heading towards the bar before he did something stupid. It wasn't even eleven yet. He needed to get the fuck out of the bar and to the hotel he'd booked. But not too early or people would get suspicious.

"Two Coke Zeros with lime please," she told the bar tender.

"Nothing more fun?" Ilya whispered against her ear.

"I told you this is a business outing," she said, glancing at Hollander's little group.

"Oh?" he prompted.

It was enough to prompt Svetlana to begin brainstorming about her movie business, most of it over Ilya's head. Budgetary constraints, scheduling, balancing prestige with commercial viability, something about the different types of "distribution models". Ilya didn't know why they didn't film the movie and then put it on the internet. It seemed easy enough, and cheap. Hadn't Svetlana complained about low effort streams making ungodly amounts of money?

Apparently, it didn't make sense for Svetlana's future plans. She wanted to make art, not just commercial slop friendly to advertisers.

"Speaking of," she said, "it's time for another ad campaign, Ilyusha."

"Alright," said Ilya. "Can it be a car? A sports car? Make me like one of those sexy girls who wash a car with their ass hanging out."

"Maybe later, but we need to consider long term ROI," she said, leaning her back against his chest. "Let's get a selfie for your personal account. I need you smoldering at the camera at least twice a week before I set up a meeting with Coca Cola next month."

"Oh, should I go back to taking pictures with puck bunnies?"

"No need," said Svetlana.

After he'd snapped a few quick photos of them, she turned around and showed a list of random celebrity blogs "reporting" on Rose Landry. Pictures of her talking to him as he opened the door of his Bentley for her earlier in the evening where already everywhere. He scanned a few of the comments. "I do have a great ass."

Svetlana smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Two thirst traps a week, baby. And keep winning too. We will double our Coca Cola commission, mark my words."

"Yes, sir!"

The truth was that Ilya would have liked to keep his stupid photography account as a pointless hobby, but he didn't have a good reason to turn down Svetlana's offer of monetizing it. Who wouldn't want to get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for posting random bullshit? Especially if he'd been doing it for free before?

Besides, Alexei had gotten wind of how much he'd gotten paid for his dumb Coke ad and told Papa. Svetlana might only roll her eyes if Ilya turned down more similar "work", but not Grigori. He'd curled his thin lips at the notion that his son was out in the USA acting like a common slut, then ordered him to do it more. But he hadn't come back and asked for the profit.

Ilya was trying not to dwell on what that meant, actually. It'd been weeks since his father had asked anything specific of his career. Once, he'd asked if Ilya had been studying for his next math test. Ilya reminded him that he hadn't had any kind of written test in years, not even when he'd still been expected to pretend to sit for class at Malkin Academy.

"I'm in Boston now, Papa," Ilya had reminded him. "Playing hockey for the MLH, remember?"

An odd silence had been the only response, and then Grigori had called him an insolent brat. For the first time in his life, Ilya had been relieved at an insult from his father.

That had been a couple of days before his accident. Conversations with Grigori had been sparse and brief since. Ilya could only assume that his father was furious at his carelessness. That was Alexei kept telling him anyway, and it made sense.

He glanced at Shane's corner again. Rose Landry appeared to have given up trying to engage Shane and left him to nod and hum at Wynn. Over at a different corner, Marley and Boiziau were arm wrestling in front of her. Idiots. It looked like Vinny and Drapeau had appointed themselves arm wrestling judges. The rest of the guys were gathered around, cheering, most of them holding beverages. His dudes better not be getting shitfaced.

"Come on," Ilya said to Svetlana when he noticed that the game replay was over. "Let's go join them. You want to meet Hollander, right?"

It was now or never. Shane might act a little douchey, but everyone would chuckle and snort that it wasn't unusual, so Svetlana wouldn't connect the behavior to her. Or to Ilya. With any luck, she would dismiss Shane as a stuck up savant without manners and marvel at the famous media training that he'd gotten.

"Hollander!" he called as they neared.

Shane looked up. His face drained of all expression after single look at Svetlana, but he did stand up. "Rozanov," he said.

"I want to introduce you to my Sveta," said Ilya. "She is big fan of you."

"Thank you," said Shane. He hesitated for a tiny second when Svetlana offered him her hand, but his good boy Canadian manners pushed through. He grabbed her hand leaned down to give it a quick kiss. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh?" said Svetlana. "Ilyusha did mention you'd gotten friendly, but I would have guessed you only discussed hockey."

"You're very important to him," said Shane. "He says you're very clever and fun."

"Yes, he does say that," agreed Wynn, who'd also gotten up.

Shane's lips twitched. "It's nice to meet you, but I was just telling Wynn that I'm heading out."

"No, we were talking about Wagner's comparatively subpar skating this game," said Wynn.

"Right." Shane tried for a smile that came out looking like a pout. "I mean, I was about to tell you that I need to go."

"Of course," said Svetlana. "I'm actually quite busy myself." She turned Ilya and switched to Russian. "Agree that he seems less charming off the ice. Still hot, though. Good luck with your date and do wear a condom."

"Always," said Ilya. "Will I see you before my flight tomorrow?"

"Unlikely," said Svetlana. "My schedule is packed. But I will be watching your games, of course." She pulled at him for a goodbye kiss. Ilya pecked her on the lips, watching out of the corner of his eye as Shane's mouth twitched.

Lily - Jane

Lily (Boston)
already at hotel
room 637

Jane (Montreal)
still
no plans with your gf?

Lily (Boston)
my what?

Jane (Montreal)
girlfriend!
your *Sveta*

Lily (Boston)
what?
I told her I have plans
because I thought I have plans

Jane (Montreal)
whatever

Lily (Boston)
fuck are you coming or not?

Jane (Montreal)
I'm on my fucking way
I want to fuck you tonight

Lily (Boston)
what?
don't say that on me out of nowhere
no

Jane (Montreal)
you do it to me all the time!

Lily (Montreal)
because you like it
I don't like it

Jane (Montreal)
why not?

Lily (Montreal)
I just don't
you will need other person if you want that

Jane (Montreal)
how do you know you don't like it?

Lily (Boston)
obviously I try it
did not feel good

Jane (Montreal)
you're scared

Lily (Boston)
this chirping will not work
you're not brave for doing something you like
you love it Jane
you look like my cock make you see God

Jane (Montreal)
I don't believe in God

Lily (Boston)
I know makes it more impressive
is hook up canceled or not?
I have options as you see tonight

Jane (Montreal)
no
I'm still on my way

Lily (Boston)
that's my girl

Jane (Montreal)
I'm almost there
get yourself hard
we don't have much time

Peak obnoxious entitlement. Ilya rolled his eyes, wondering if puck bunnies who were hunting for money and gifts from lonely MLH players ever got annoyed when dudes sent them messages like this. He shoved his hand down his boxers anyway. He was already a little chubbed up, as if his dick knew that Shane would be a beast tonight.

Knowing Shane, whatever fight he'd had with Jake and the recent loss had him seething. He'd be more demanding, Ilya bet, so much so that he might forget to be quiet. More than usual. No matter. Ilya had booked and pre-paid the neighboring rooms just in case. Shane was prone to fretting after the afterglow wore off if he remembered how thin hotel room walls were.

Final check, Ilya thought as he stroked himself idly. New pack of condoms. Fancy lube. He'd showered with scentless soap, trimmed his pubes and stretched out his limbs, focusing on his hips. Shane was the strongest person he fucked, ever, and it was always a work out. More so whenever he lost a game and got bitchy. Sometimes, Ilya imagined telling the team diet people that he needed extra calories after hooking up with Montreal Jane. He would if he thought medical people could take a joke.

Ilya had asked for extra clean towels and dipped them in hot water too. Shane could get fussy about fluids in between rounds, and Ilya was hoping for at least a few rounds tonight. He was scheduled to be at the airport at 11:00 AM tomorrow and Shane at 1:00 PM. It was more time than they usually had. They might even get to have breakfast together.

When Ilya pointed that out, Shane had responded with a couple of green nausea-face emoji, but then said he would bring some of his gross protein-heavy nutrition tubes. God, he was such an adorable asshole. Ilya had said something about an egg McMuffin just to trigger more nausea emojis and decided to bring bacon, eggs, and sausage in case he got a chance to cook real breakfast. He'd even made sure to get Canadian bacon.

His phone, forgotten by his side on the bed, vibrated. It was the only warning he got before the door to the hotel suite opened and Shane entered to glare furiously at Ilya.

"Hollander," Ilya said after a moment. Privately, he rolled his eyes at himself for playing up his accent.

Shane's eyes narrowed further and he took a little angry breath. Still, his eyes flew to Ilya's crotch. Ilya spread his legs and pushed his black boxers down a little more.

"Like what you see, malysh?"

"Fuck me," Shane mumbled, beginning to take off his clothes with ridiculous amounts of aggression.

"Is that an order?" said Ilya, the usual amount of amused horniness beginning to overtake him as Shane began to shed layers. He hardly remembered to kick off his boxers, mesmerized as he was by Shane's golden skin.

Shane straddled him, leaning his weight down on Ilya's chest when Ilya tried to turn them over. He licked his lips and, while Ilya tried to get his bearings, wrapped his fist around Ilya's cock. "Condom," he snapped.

Ilya pawed at under one of the pillows, grunting when Shane grabbed it the pack out of his hands. "Fuck," he gasped.

Shane ripped one open with his teeth. He'd slipped on Ilya in a flash. Ilya handed him the lube; he smeared a generous amount quickly over the condom.

"Shane, I have to open you up!"

"I handled it before coming over," snapped Shane.

Next thing Ilya knew, Shane had the head of his cock lined up and was sinking down, making him wheeze. He was tight, bordering on uncomfortable even for Ilya, so it had to be tearing at him. Ilya's heart pounded in his chest as he steadied Shane's hips. "Careful, careful. . . oh."

It took a few firm tries, but Shane was seated on his cock in record time, throwing his head back to let out a relieved sigh. Ilya squirmed, keeping him steady, imaging him in the bathroom he shared with Pike, angrily fingering himself. Fuck.

"Slut," said Ilya, beginning to turn them over.

Shane squeezed his hips in warning.

"Wanna ride, malysh?" Ilya tried to sound smug, but it was hard when his lungs felt too small to hold in air.

"Yeah," sighed Shane, completely shameless. "Hold on."

Then it was like Shane was fucking him, like he'd demanded as Jane, going fast and rough right away. Faster than Ilya would've let himself if he was in control. Soon, Shane's big, beautiful cock was fully hard, flushed and leaking. Ilya tried to jerk him, fearful that he'd come too soon, but Shane slapped his hand away.

"Not yet," he hissed. "I wanna. . . fuck." He ground down, ass clenching, bracing himself on the cheap hotel bed frame. "Like this first. Ilya, come on."

Ilya watched him bounce for a bit, a look of profound concentration on his face, almost like he was getting in the zone for a face off. Hard on every time they faced off for Ilya, then. This was Hollander's plan. To make him incapable of ever focusing when they faced each other again. Cheater. Ilya moaned. Shane responded by giving him a finger to suck on, something to occupy his mind while he tried not to come before Shane was done with him.

He rode hard, fast, letting out little whimpers every time he got the angle he wanted. Ilya closed his eyes and started thinking of gross things--the stink in the locker room after a hard day of drills, Boston streets the day before garbage trucks came, fuck, Sveta--no, Sveta angry at him was hot too. God, the two of them together--

Alexei yelling at him. Finally, the image of his brother grossed him out enough that he could almost pretend Shane Hollander wasn't riding him like a bull. It was hard to keep track of it with Shane moaning above him. Ilya started counting backwards from a hundred. In English. He gasped, balls tight and aching, tears in his eyes, and finally, he heard the loud whine that signaled Shane was close.

Ilya grabbed his hips and pulled him down, bracing his feet on the bed. He ignored Shane's protests and started thrusting upwards. Two--three jerks of his hips and Shane was spilling between them. He went lax, like a puppet with his strings cut off.

Ilya tried to catch his breath. He was trying to ignore the ache in his balls, his still hard cock buried in Shane's ass, waiting until Shane recovered from his first orgasm. And then his phone vibrated.

"Hm?" said Shane with a flushed pout, looking around.

"My phone, baby," said Ilya, but maybe it came out in Russian because Shane's expression grew confused as he looked around, until his eyes landed on Ilya's phone, forgotten on the bed.

"What?" said Shane, grabbing it. "The fuck?"

Shit, did he see a message from Svetlana? But Shane shouldn't even be able to read those.

"Fuck no," said Shane, clenching down in sudden fury.

"Hollander, fuck," gasped Ilya, trying to bite back a pained moan. "I'm still in you--wait!" He threw one arm around Shane, gripped his hip with the other, turned on and vaguely anxious.

"Get off me," hissed Shane.

"Kotik, you are on me," Ilya rushed out, hips jerking. "Fuck, Shane! You will be so mad if you break my dick."

Finally, Shane froze. He dropped the phone. Clenched around Ilya a little more deliberately. "Oh." He licked his lips and dropped Ilya's phone. "My favorite part of you."

"I know, I know," soothed Ilya, laying some open-mouthed kissed on Shane's jawline. It was easy to forget just how strong the fucker was since he delighted so much at playing the distressed damsel in bed.

Speaking of. He seemed to sinking a little more into the role. Moaning, he let Ilya gently turn them over so that he was laying on his back. "Okay?" breathed Ilya.

Shane nodded and licked his lips. When Ilya moved to get off him, he whined and wrapped his legs around Ilya's waist, squirming. "Changed my mind," he said. "Want more."

"Brat," murmured Ilya, going down for a rough kiss. "Crazy, needy, selfish brat." He pinched a tight, brown nipple, making Shane gasp, and began to thrust.

Ilya couldn't even pretend the harsh pace was a punishment since Shane only spread his legs more, adjusted himself until the angle made him throw his head back. He looked completely blissed out again. His thick cock was soft, stained with evidence of his recent release, but they'd both long since learned that Shane's dick was a nice accessory. Not needed for him to enjoy getting railed.

Hello, I am Shane Hollander, Ilya thought hysterically, my problems include being rich as fuck, beloved by all of Canada, having great parents who adore me, and loving getting fucked in the ass so much I can come multiple times in a couple of hours, until my brain is mush. I know, I know. It's so hard being me.

Ilya bit his lips, trying to hold out a little longer even though Shane had ridden him like a toy, freaked out on him for fuck-knew-what, and then remembered that he came to get his rocks off and immediately demanded another round.

"Shane," Ilya gasped. "I'm close."

Shane made a vague noise, one arm flailing until his hand landed on Ilya's head and gripped his curls. "Not yet," he whined, his ass clenching down, like that was supposed to help Ilya.

"Need to bring toys for you," Ilya said, staying still as Shane squirmed.

"You need to work on your s-stamina," said Shane, like he hadn't already come once. Fuck. "Ilya."

The whine made Ilya thrust again, rhythm uneven, then he was coming despite his best efforts. He kept thrusting, heedless of the over-sensitivity, until his soft dick slipped out.

"Ilya!"

"Hush," said Ilya, pulling him up for a kiss. He wouldn't settle until Ilya slipped three fingers inside his ass.

They made out for some time, until Ilya's idle petting of Shane's prostate made him wince. Ilya pulled his fingers out, giving Shane a soothing kiss. Never mind a kitten; it was like wrangling a fucking tiger. But he had managed it, for now. Ilya sighed with satisfaction as Shane snuggled to his side, allowing himself a few moments to bask in his triumph before reaching over for a couple of hot towels.

He wiped them both clean as best he could, discarded the used condom with a frown, and wiped his hand a second time for good measure before reaching for his phone. What had his precious little pyscho almost flipped out about?

There were no new messages from Svetlana, certainly none in English. The Bears group chat had some of the usual nonsense. No private messages from any teammate. There was a single new alert from Lady Istar (why was this woman posting in the middle of the night?), but Shane knew Ilya followed her. One of Ilya's favorite chirps was to threaten to let Lady Istar know that Shane Hollander was her biggest fan.

"Ilya," said Shane, tugging at his forearm.

"Malysh, it's been like two minutes," said Ilya, making sure to inject as much condescension into his tone as he could. "I need a little more time. Not all of us--wait, is this about Jake?"

"What the fuck?" snapped Shane, all traces of the horny sex kitten instantly gone from his demeanor. "Why would you bring up that asshole now?"

Ilya showed him his phone screen, open to Lady Istar's latest post. Is Jake Merrell heading back to Boston?

"Absolutely not," said Shane. "He doesn't get to fucking do that."

Ilya sighed loudly and fell back on the bed.

"Do you know something?" demanded Shane.

"Yes, of course," said Ilya. "Terrent and Theriault both call me to ask my opinion on trades."

"So, you know." Shane took a deep, shaky breath.

"No, Hollander." Ilya paused to pray for patience. "Is sarcasm. I don't know. See here." He opened the official MLH announcement page. It shouldn't be necessary because it way past midnight, but this was his life. "See? No trade announcement since last month. Jake is not going anywhere."

"Don't patronize me," said Shane.

"I'm not; I am not," said Ilya. If he were, he would point out that the internet would say anything for clicks, including bullshit like 'Xiaoyan Merrell is cheating on Jake Merrell with Shane Hollander'. Baseless trade news were practically classy compared to that. "Can you tell me what this. . ." He almost said stupid feud, but luckily he didn't know the English word for 'feud'. ". . . difference of opinions is about?"

"It's about Merrell being a bitch," hissed Shane, getting up from the bed to pace around. Naked and still a little flushed and sweaty. Gorgeous. "I was trying to be nice. I admitted he was right. It was a compliment!"

"Very generous of you."

"Fuck you," said Shane, apparently capable of recognizing some sarcasm when it suited him. "You're just like everyone else. Everyone loves Jake fucking Merrell. The public loves him, Hayden loves him, Theriault thinks I should get over myself even though he is the one who had a meltdown, the rookies think he shits gold. . . Obviously, if there's a problem, it can't be his fault. It must be that asshole Hollander, fucking his wife."

"I don't think anyone really believes that," said Ilya.

"Then why the fuck is there a hashtag about it?" Shane practically screeched.

"Shane, come here," said Ilya opening his arms. "Let's watch Lady Istar together."

"No!"

"Fine!" Ilya tossed the phone aside. "If you want to fuck again, I need thirty minutes."

"I want. . ." Shane swallowed. He took a deep breath. Let it out, shaky. Did it again. Again. Was he trying to meditate? Was Shane Hollander about to start doing naked yoga bullshit in front of him? He opened his eyes. "You know Merrell."

"I. . . do," said Ilya. "He has not messaged about. . ." Ilya waved a hand vaguely. Maybe he would. It'd been going on for like twenty-four hours.

"Maybe you can tell me what went wrong." Shane walked over to his discarded pants. "I wrote down the argument."

"You wrote down the argument," repeated Ilya, as Shane walked back to the bed and shoved his phone screen at Ilya's face. There was a whole script written out on his Notes app. "Oh, you wrote the shit out of it."

"Yes, when I realized he'd gone crazy," said Shane, with a satisfied little hum. "The bold is the stuff I remember exactly, word for word, and rest is paraphrased. The stuff in brackets is like a basic summary, but I have to admit I don't really remember the words."

"Great." Ilya let out a nervous breath.

"Thank you," said Shane. "I was trying to figure out what happened. I swear I was trying to be supportive." He practically spat the word out.

"Can I put this in English-to-Russian translator?" Ilya asked. Because wow. He needed time for his dick to work again. Might as well pass it doing. . . this.

"Uh. . ." Shane frowned. "Okay, but change the names and use an incognito window."

The Russian translation made it sound worse, but he needed to tread lightly.

"He was coming to you because of a problem with the rookies?" said Ilya.

"Yeah," said Shane. "One of them almost got roofied, I think, but it's fine. Merrell got there before anything too bad happened and there was plenty of time for him to sober up for the game."

That definitely would have put Jake on edge. Ilya could see how telling him he got good instincts might be a good call, though Shane's 'compliment', which he'd bolded, was a landmine. Shane had paraphrased Jake's response as 'you're lying to me'. 'It's your fault, Captain' was in bold.

"Why did you bring McAllister into it?" asked Ilya.

"I didn't," said Shane. "I was just saying that he also said Merrell wanted to call the police. It's on video. There are memes."

Ilya remembered watching them and thinking that Jake must have been so spooked to even go to Theriault, never mind ask for the police. Jake was very non-confrontational. He listened to people, rarely held on to grudges, and always encouraged dudes to try and be tolerant and understanding. He defended himself, but never initiated a fight and was always the first to walk away from one. He hated getting people in trouble and mostly avoided coaches when dealing with even the most obnoxious guys. It was part of the reason rookies liked him so much.

In other words, he must have seen some crazy shit that day. Something that scared him into talking about police.

"And you think Jake has not seen videos and memes?" Ilya asked Shane.

"I guess not because he tried to say he didn't want to call the police." Shane shrugged.

"Or," started Ilya, carefully, "he would like not blaming himself for three dead people."

"It's not about blame, it's about accepting objective fucking reality," said Shane. "Look, I'm not interested in another argument about this. Just tell me what I need to say to get him to calm down."

"You could say sorry."

"Besides that." Shane rolled his eyes. "What do I need to say so things go back to how they were two days ago?"

"You are serious?"

"Yes!" Shane groaned. "People say I'm so arrogant, and I don't care about my teammates, that I'm an asshole. . . blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I'm not asking for credit; I don't need it. I just need these idiots to perform. So. What does Merrell need to hear to get the stick out of his ass? Whatever it is, I'll say it."

"Except sorry?"

"I would say that if I thought I could sell it," said Shane. "But he won't buy that. Look, can you help me or not?"

Ilya sighed. This was a bad idea. Jake would be so mad if he knew Ilya was even considering helping Shane fucking Hollander manipulate him. But Shane was looking him with such hopeful eyes. Would it really be so bad to throw him a bone?

"Fine," mumbled Ilya.

Shane grinned and Ilya's stupid heart skipped a beat. "Thank you!"

"Okay, okay," said Ilya. "Say. . . let me write it down in Russian first. Where's my phone?"

Chapter 4: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

I was writing the next part of this fic, which is later in the season, but the realized I left the Voyageurs in the middle of an implosion with no resolution lol. I need to work on properly ending fics.

CONTENT NOTE at the end

"We need to nip whatever this is in the bud," said Theriault, looking at the diagrams drawn on the massive whiteboard of his second office. They were lucky in that they had a few days of rest, but soon, teams would start arriving in Montreal for matches. They had to have their shit together by then. 

Brandon Wiebe shared a look with Melissa Baudu, the public relations and social media engagement manager for the Voyageurs. She was an old friend of Brandon's wife, a bit of a mentor, and it was beyond impressive that she'd managed to get on Theriault's good side so much that she was in the room. She didn't even seem to be much of a hockey fan.

"Sir," she said, in an oddly deferential tone. "If I may, what are you referring to?"

"The team dynamics are utterly fucked," said Theirault, turning around to look at them. He stroked his white beard and groaned. "The season was going so well; we won the game in Dallas decisively. . . Wiebe, did you find out what happened with the rookies?"

"They went to party and Wagner tried drugs for the first time," said Brandon. "I checked with multiple guys and touched base with Melissa regarding the details. We are confident the situation was neutralized."

"I agree, sir," said Melissa. "There was potential for. . . embarrassment, but I have a couple of girls monitoring for a potential PR fallout. So far, it seems the boys covered their tracks quite well."

"Medical reports for Wagner?"

"He is physically recovered from the ordeal and performing at expected levels during practice," said Brandon.

"Good," said Theriault. "I want weekly drug tests for the next three months. We're not sure this is his first time. Maybe the Kings traded him because of drug issues."

"Yes, sir," said Brandon. It'd be invasive and potentially humiliating even if the other players didn't realize it was happening, but there was no point in arguing with Theriault about it. The old bastard would say that the kid needed to be taught a lesson. He should've thought of the consequences before putting his body at risk in the middle of the fucking season.

After observing Jamie Wagner for several weeks, Brandon was pretty sure that what the boy needed was patience. And maybe to be left alone to trail behind the other rookies like a shadow. He seemed relaxed--as close to it as he ever was, anyway--when he was with them. Either sitting near them while they chirped and played, or running drills with them.

They'd all worried there be some fiction, especially with Xie since the media had tried to manufacture a rivalry between them and they had played first line during their first season, but not so far. Ditto with Babikov, who had won Rookie of the Year despite everyone assuming that the title would go to Wagner. If anything, Wagner seemed to prefer Babikov to all his fellow rookies. Brandon wished they could have the two rooming together, but Koval needed Babikov for language support.

"Did you talk to him?" Theriault asked Brandon.

"Yes," said Brandon. "He was apologetic." He'd been practically non-verbal, unable to look Brandon in the eyes. "I believe he took the drugs without knowing what they were."

"Hopefully, it was a roofie situation," said Theiriault.

"Sir, I understand what you mean," said Melissa. "But it might be taken in a negative light if you were to say that, especially to him."

"I don't intend to talk to the boy about this," said Theriault, then he looked at Wiebe. "Monitor the situation. We don't need to do anything too drastic if this was a one-off. Now. . ." Theriault let out a frustrated sigh. "About Hollander and Merrell."

Brandon shared another glance with Melissa.

"Is Hollander fucking Merrell's wife?" asked Theriault.

"I do not believe so, sir," said Melissa. "The rumor originated from a single post from a fan who thought they would make an attractive couple, which was promptly made fun of by other fans for implausibility. It did not gain traction until. . . well, about twenty-four hours ago, when a separate set of fans started a meme."

"So it's nothing to do with this fist fight?" insisted Theriault.

"No, sir," said Melissa. "It's a convoluted internet joke hashtag that was picked up by social media algorithms and amplified, likely inadvertently."

"What?" Theriault frowned.

God, the man was a boomer bordering on silent generation age. How to explain to him social media hashtags, engagement, and trending topics? Brandon barely understood it himself, and he'd been introduced to the wonderful world of smartphones in his twenties.

"Xiaoyan Merrell and Shane Hollander are not having an affair, sir," said Melissa. "I would stake my professional reputation on this."

"Good to know, but rumors alone could be causing problems between my players," said Theriault.

They could. It was an embarrassing proposition, one that Merrell would be teased and chirped at relentlessly regardless of its absurdity. If he let it show that it bothered him, then every pest in the league would be calling him a cuck until he retired. They'd probably do it even if Merrell didn't react.

"But if Hollander isn't fucking Merrell's wife, then what are they fighting about?" said Theriault. "Are they fucking each other?"

"No, sir," said Brandon, biting back a nervous chuckle. "Not to my knowledge."

"Look, whatever these boys get up to in these. . . modern times." Theriault grimaced. "For stress relief. . . I will not ask questions. Unless it interferes with their ability to do their fucking jobs. Which they are handsomely paid for."

"Uh. . ." started Brandon. Was that allyship? MLH coach edition? Brandon would never have imagined Henry Theriault advocating for a 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' policy for queer players, but that sure did sound like what he was trying to say. For an MLH coach, he might as well be wearing a leather harness on a Pride parade float.

"The audacity of kids these days," Theriault went on. "To jeopardize team performance over hashtags. Don't they grasp the privilege it is to be in their position? Don't they know that there are thousands--millions!--of men who would kill to be MLH players?"

"I'm certain they're both aware," said Melissa.

"And my top forwards too." Theriault was clearly enjoying his rant. "This needs to be resolved before our next game, or I'll have to face the shitstorm and trade Merrell."

"Sir, that would irreparably destabilize team dynamics," said Brandon.

"If the team can survive a murder-suicide, it can survive trading Jake Merrell," snapped Theriault.

Brandon wasn't so sure about that. The Thompson incident, he could imagine, must have hit the team like a natural disaster. It would have prompted most of the guys, if not all of them, to come together. It seemed to have, in a strange way, shocked them into forgetting that they had the first openly queer player in the league. Or forgetting to be murderously angry about it, anyway.

Trading a top player because he had a fight with the captain, on the other hand, would fill the atmosphere with resentment and paranoia. It would be an outright civil war. Why even bring up the possibility when this thing had been going of maybe seventy-two hours? They'd lost one game, but it was against a top team and it hadn't been a blowout.

"Sir, let me talk to them," said Brandon.

"Go ahead," said Theriault. "Make sure to let them know I will not be tolerating this bullshit for even one more game."

"It was brought to my attention," Hollander started, half an hour later in Brandon's tiny office. He was not looking at Merrell seated on the chair next to him, or at Brandon sitting in front of them. Instead, he looked at his hands. "That my words, which were intended in a positive and supportive light, could have logically been interpreted as. . ." It really sounded like he was pulling out his teeth. Without anesthesia. ". . . Accusatory."

Merrell's bright blue eyes narrowed.

"I am sorry. About that," continued Hollander. "And I've never said anything disrespectful to or about your wife. I'm not sure how she was dragged into this, but I am sorry about that too."

The more natural apology about his wife made Merrell relax a little. He braced himself before opening his mouth. "It was brought to my attention that I may have taken your words personally and in bad faith because of my own. . . stress. I could have reacted in a more mature way, and I'm sorry. . . for that."

Dead silence fell over the room. Neither of them looked at each other.

"Okay," said Brandon, trying to smile. "I appreciate you both coming in with a positive attitude. Now, I would like to ask a question about the Thompson tragedy. Do you think I could do that without causing further strife?"

Merrell fidgeted a little. Hollander's eyes were on the floor.

"What would have happened if anyone had called the police that day?" asked Brandon.

Hollander was the first to speak. "Things might have been different."

"Different how?" insisted Brandon. This was not the time for euphemisms.

"He might not have done what he did," said Merrell softly.

"Why not?" Brandon pushed.

"Because he would've been in jail," snapped Hollander.

"Would he?"

"He almost killed Jeremy," said Merrell.

"He had ugly bruises on his neck next day," added Hollander.

"And you made him fucking play!" Merrell half-shouted, glaring at Hollander.

"I did not!" Hollander glared back. "We took a fucking vote. The majority of the team voted to play."

"Fuck the vote," said Merrell. "You're the fucking captain, Hollander. You should've seen with your fucking eyes that we were a mess and you should've made the call not to play. If you don't want the C, let someone else have it."

"Like you?"

"Like Pike!" said Merrell. "Or Boiziau. Fuck, a rook would be an improvement at this point."

"Gentlemen," said Brandon, before the apology could explode into an even bigger argument. They bother turned to glare at him. "Can I share my opinion? About calling the police specifically?"

"Go ahead," scoffed Hollander.

"I do not believe it would have significantly changed the outcome," said Brandon. "Thompson had no previous record with the police and Jeremy was not significantly injured, so he would have been able to post bail. Then, he would have gone home and done. . . what he did. His actions may have been impulsive, but they were not unplanned. He had enough gasoline to set a mansion on fire. I think he'd been working himself up to it since he got the child's paternity test results."

"You don't know that," said Merrell.

"It's just an opinion," Brandon agreed. "But one that I think is supported by statistics on family annihilation."

"Statistics?" asked Hollander.

"It's a disturbingly common crime, considering how extreme it is," said Brandon. "The police is involved in a significant number of cases, and they rarely make things better. In some cases, the victims manage to call the police, they come to the house, leave, and then the perpetrator. . . continues."

"So there was nothing we could have done," said Hollander. With an impatient shrug, like he thought he was being talked down to.

"No, there wasn't," said Brandon. "I don't say this to be comforting; I don't find it comforting. But I think it's the unfortunate reality of the situation."

A discussion could be had about how locker room culture contributed to creating men like Wayne Thompson, but neither Hollander nor Merrell were ready for it. The only thing they looked ready for was a nap. At least they seemed less tense.

"Gentlemen, I know this is a sensitive topic," said Brandon. "I want you both to be kind to yourselves and each other. I'm here to talk and the league is more than happy to provide counseling, if you think it would help."

Both of them shook their heads.

"In the meantime, I think we should try return to normal," said Brandon. "It's stressful for the rest of the team to see you two at odds, especially for the rookies. I think we should restore the first and second lines."

"I never said I wanted to change lines," said Merrell.

"And I never said I wanted my lines messed with," said Hollander.

"Excellent," said Brandon. "In that case, I will let Coach Theriault know we are all in agreement. I'm optimistic about where we go from here. Though you two may have your differences, I can tell you both care about the team."

Lily - Jane

Lily (Boston)
how did it go?

Jane (Montreal)
I think he bought it
practice was ok today

Lily (Boston)
nothing to buy
it's good apology

Jane (Montreal)
whatever
important thing is he calmed down
what are you wearing

Lily (Boston)
god Jane you are so horny
sweats low riding
my happy trail getting bushier

Jane (Montreal)
send pic

Lily (Boston)
.png

Jane (Montreal)
that's an old pic

Lily (Boston)
god you are obsessed
Marley is sharing rooms with me
rude to take dick pic in front of him

Jane (Montreal)
kick him out

Lily (Boston)
no Jane don't be so entitled
you will do some work tonight and send me pics

Chapter End Notes

The Thompson situation is discussed, though not in detail.