Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ilya Rozanov Was Never a Professional Hockey Player, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Good Friend Rose Landry, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Relationship Fluff and Career Angst, Homophobia, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, no AI, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Press and Tabloids

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-20 Updated: 2026-10-26 Words: 60,147 Chapters: 12/?

sin bin

Summary

“Sin Bin? Really?”
Ilya grinned at the expression on Shane’s face. “You like?”
“This is about fucking someone in the penalty box,” Shane told him.
“Not someone, Shane. It’s about fucking you in the penalty box. Until you stop making your angry kitten face.”
At least the song didn’t use the phrase ‘angry kitten’. Shane was grateful for that at least. “You use real hockey terms!”
“Sin bin is slang, could mean anything,” Ilya said, still grinning.
Shane looked down at the sheet of lyrics in his hand. “Sin bin, soft hands, checking, five minute major, rink, skating… this is a hockey themed porn song!”
.....

Shane Hollander is living two lives. In one life, he's leading a team that no longer likes or trusts him after his coming out. In the other life, he's experiencing love for the first time (in a secret relationship) with rock and roll star Ilya Rozanov.

Those worlds are harder to separate when Ilya's song about Shane becomes an NHL meme.

Notes

This is the first time I've written long form fan fic since this site had 8,000 users and we were dominated by SuperWhoLock writers (I wrote in the Lock, btw. But I love these characters, and now I'm back even though I can't log into my old account). I have a lot written, but not totally in order.

Chapter 1: A Bears Fan At The Party

November 16, 2019

Shane ignored the chatter in the locker room, as he always did. It had become white noise over the last two years, since he had decided to stop listening to anything his teammates had to say outside of hockey. Instead, he pulled his home game jersey over his head and picked up his phone, waiting for the text he knew was coming. It had become one of his pregame rituals. He stared at the dark screen, waiting. As he did, the song playing in the locker room ended, and the next one started, and Shane rolled his eyes as he heard the opening to MEDVEDI’s sin bin and then the chorus of boos from members of the team who were all sick of the song. Right on cue, his phone dinged. 

Sexy Rockstar❤️❤️❤️

Can’t wait to watch you slam men into walls and wish it was me 😘

Shane

They’re playing sin bin in the locker room right now. 

Sexy Rockstar❤️❤️❤️

So I didn’t even need to sext you? You are getting hard already, listening to my sexy song? 

Shane 

Feels like good luck. And I’m not hard. 

Sexy Rockstar❤️❤️❤️

I write my boyfriend sexy songs and he doesn’t even get hard 😭😭

And it is good luck. 

Every time a homophobe listens to my songs about my sexy boyfriend, a queer gets good karma. 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

Shane 

How does that track?? 

Sexy Rockstar❤️❤️❤️

I love getting money from homophobes. 

Good luck in the game, moya lyubov. 

Call me after. 

Shane 

❤️

Shane put down his phone, and took a deep breath, steadying himself. The team continued to argue around him, but he focused on the sound of his boyfriend’s voice and the lyrics he had written for Shane. 

…..

June 20-21, 2017

Shane Hollander hated shit like this. Stuffy parties, full of stuffy people. At least at events for hockey, he could talk about hockey, a comfortable safe topic. But tonight he was here as Rose’s date, surrounded by Hollywood people. He had nothing in common with them. The only thing keeping him grounded was Rose’s hand in his. 

Everything was too loud, too bright. People talked with fake smiles, and seemed to speak in a code he didn’t understand. The suit he had worn had felt fine when he put it on, but now felt too small. At Rose’s urging, he had left the top half of his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a gold chain around his neck, a far cry from his game day suits that were always buttoned up with a tie. He had actually liked how it looked, but now it felt too exposed, too fashionable. Too… gay. 

They know about you, said the anxious voice in his head. They hate you too.  

Not for the first time, Shane missed the comfort of the closed closet door. Missed the days before he had made the mistake of coming out to his team, watched men he trusted turn on him without a second thought. Showed him exactly why he had kept that piece of himself to himself. It was better with Rose, who loved him and knew. She quieted the voice. But here, the voice was loud. Maybe it was the outfit. Maybe it was seeing how many people here seemed to be openly queer, without the fear he had. 

“I’m going to get some air,” he whispered to Rose, and she squeezed his hand, looking at him with some concern. 

“You okay?” she whispered back. “We can leave.” 

“I’m fine,” he lied. “It’s just loud in here.” 

She nodded, not looking like she fully believed him, but this was a work event for her. “Balcony,” she said, pointing. “I’ll be out when I can.” 

He nodded in relief, squeezing her hand before releasing it and heading for the wide door. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray on the way. It was the off season. 

It wasn’t much cooler outside, being LA, but there was at least a slight breeze and it was quiet. Shane sat down on one of the benches and rubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He took several deep breaths, and willed the anxiety away. 

“Not enjoying the party?” he heard an accented voice say, and he almost jumped. He opened his eyes. 

A man around his age was leaning against the balcony edge. Shane blinked. He was gorgeous. Tall, with broad shoulders and slim waist. Like Shane, he wore a suit, but while Shane’s was very classic, his was a rich burgundy and tightly fitted. Shane’s shirt might have been barely buttoned, but this man had bypassed a shirt completely. The only thing under his suit jacket was a stack of delicate necklaces. His dark blond hair was a mess of curls, barely styled. Black and silver hoops and studs lined both ears, more than Shane could count at a glance. He had a black eyebrow piercing above hazel eyes, a silver hoop through the nostril of a nose that had clearly been broken before, and two silver balls highlighted a wide mouth, one right in his cupid's bow, the other perfectly lined up below his full bottom lip. 

Shane had never thought too much about piercings. Visible piercings weren’t allowed for hockey players, and if asked, he wouldn’t have said he was into them. But on this man… 

“What?” He said. He has been silent for too long, just staring at him. He felt his face flush. The other men just smiled, no, that was wrong. Smirked. And Shane felt his face get even redder. 

“You do not like the terrible party?” The man asked. His voice was accented. Russian, or somewhere close. Shane had heard enough hockey players with that accent to place it, but never had he thought it was sexy. He did now. 

“It’s okay,” Shane said automatically. 

“It is boring and terrible,” the man said flatly. “With terrible boring people who are all very proud of themselves. I wish I was at better party.” 

“I’m… I’m not really a party person in general,” Shane admitted. He watched as the man pulled a slim case out of his jacket, and flipped it open to reveal cigarettes. He had tattoos on his right hand, going up his fingers, and a collection of silver rings on both. 

The unknown man put a cigarette between his lips and offered the case to Shane wordlessly. 

“No, thanks,” Shane said quickly. “I don’t… I’m an athlete. Also, I don't think you’re supposed to smoke here…” There was a ‘No Smoking’ sign right next to them. 

“I know who you are, Shane Hollander,” the man said, putting the case away. He ignored Shane’s second comment completely. Instead, he lit his cigarette, his hazel eyes trained in Shane as he exhaled a plume of smoke. 

Shane blinked. “You’re a hockey fan?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised," he said, smiling slightly. “I am Russian. I grew up playing hockey.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “And I need to keep track of who is beating my Bears.” 

“Oh, so you’re a fan of bad hockey,” Shane said immediately. A Boston fan. Christ. 

“What! Golden Canadian Captain is being rude to a hockey fan? You are not what I expected, Shane Hollander,” the man said, smirking. “Besides, your precious Voyageurs ended the season terribly.” 

Any ease Shane had felt speaking to him vanished. The tension was back, curling around his stomach. 

“Yeah, we got into a bad streak, couldn’t find our momentum,” he said flatly. A PR answer that rang hollow in his own ears. “We’ll figure it out next season.” If the rest of the team stopped treating him like a problem. 

“We? Who is we? You did not play badly, the rest of your team did,” the man said. “Your stats actually got better. The rest of your team played like fucking shit.” 

Shane stared at him, his eyes wide. The tension in his stomach uncurled slightly. Other people saw it. He knew, logically, that the man was right. His mom had said it, Rose had said it, Hayden, Jackie and JJ. According to his agent, commentators and fans had been complaining about the same thing since March. And now a tattoo and piercing covered stranger in LA was saying the same thing. And for the first time, maybe Shane was ready to hear it. For a second, Shane had the insane urge to tell this complete stranger everything. 

And then the door slammed open, and Rose walked out, glancing around. She smiled when she saw him, and then did a double take at the man facing him. 

“Holy shit, Ilya?” The delight was clear in her voice. 

“Rose Landry,” the man– Ilya, said, smiling. 

“It’s been years! Fuck!” Rose stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. “Never expected to see you at an event like this.” 

“Management,” he said simply. His eyes slid back to Shane. 

“I see you’ve found the only good company,” Rose said. She sat down next to Shane, and slid her thin arms around his bicep, leaning against him. Shane saw Ilya’s eyes focus on where she touched him, and suddenly had the impulse to pull away. He didn’t. “Shane?” 

“Hmm?” Shane looked down at her. She was beaming up at him, and he saw mischief in her expression. 

“I will give you a thousand dollars, right here, cash, if you can tell me who this man is,” Rose said, grinning. Shane froze, and Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. He looked amused. 

Shane’s strained silence was all the answer they needed. Ilya grinned, and Rose let out a cackle. 

“He’s a Boston Bears fan,” Shane finally said, and Rose’s laughter got louder. “And your bag is tiny, you don’t have any cash on you.” 

“I don’t. That’s how confident I was. He knows nothing about music,” she told Ilya happily. “I don’t think he could name a Taylor Swift song with a gun to his head.” 

“I know she’s a singer,” Shane said lamely, and Ilya’s smile got even bigger. 

“Shane, this is Ilya Rozanov,” Rose told him. “Lead singer of MEDVEDI. Which is a massively popular rock band. And I know you’ve heard them, because I’ve played them around you.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, not sure what else to say. Ilya still just seemed amused. 

“And I was in one of their music videos, what, five years ago?” Rose said to Ilya. He nodded, exhaling smoke. 

“Were you kidnapped in it?” Shane asked her, and Rose laughed again. 

“No, but I was covered in fake blood that took two hours soaking in the bath to get off,” Rose said cheerfully. “This was before I was in movies, and before you guys–” she looked at Ilya again. “-Starting winning Grammys. Oh!” She looked back at Shane. “The Grammys are, like, the Stanley Cup of music.” 

“I know what the Grammys are,” Shane said, annoyed, as Ilya laughed. Shane saw a flash of silver in his mouth. Was his tongue pierced? Shane liked his laugh, even if it was because he was being mocked. 

“Well, Ilya’s last album won two,” Rose told him. “I’ll play it for you before you abandon me for Canada again.” 

“I’m not abandoning you, I’m just going home,” Shane started, but Ilya interrupted. 

“We have a show in town tomorrow night,” he said. “You two should come. I can put you on the list.” His eyes strayed back to Shane. “Better to hear live. And we have much better parties after.” 

“Holy fuck, yes!” Rose said before Shane could say anything. A concert and a party. Both sounded loud. And then Ilya smiled, and Shane knew that he would agree to anything he suggested. Fuck, get a hold of yourself, dude. 

“Good,” he said, dropping his cigarette into a glass someone had left on the balcony. “I must return to terrible party and talk to terrible people now. But I will see you tomorrow.” 

“Avoid the backroom, that’s where the worst people are,” Rose told him, and he gave her a small nod before heading back inside. Rose was kind enough to wait until the door closed before she turned to Shane. 

“‘He’s a Boston Bears fan’? Really?” she asked him. “You met a hot guy and asked him what team he supported? Shane.” 

“What? No!” Shane defended himself. “He asked me if I was enjoying the terrible party, started smoking next to the no smoking sign, told me he supported the Bears and that I played well but my team sucked at the end of the season.” 

Rose looked delighted at this recap. “And what did you do?” 

“Told him he couldn’t smoke there, and that his team is bad.” 

“Oh my god,” Rose said, bursting into laughter again. “Shane. You adorable cinnamon roll. I love you so much.” 

“This feels condescending.” 

“Only a little. And you know I love you.” Rose hugged his arm again, leaning against him. They sat in a comfortable silence for a second. “I forgot how hot he is up close.” 

“He’s so hot I think I actually forgot how to speak for a second,” Shane said honestly, and was rewarded with another peal of Rose’s laughter. 

…..

Alone in Rose’s guest bedroom, Shane pulled out his phone and googled Ilya Rozanov. Multiple pictures appeared, Ilya on red carpets (dressed more fashionably than Shane could ever dream of), paparazzi shots, publicity shoots. And photos of him on stage, shirtless and sweaty in tight black jeans. He had pierced nipples. Shane’s cheeks flushed again. These were public images, but he still felt like a pervert leering at them. At the sweat on his abs. He was built like an athlete. 

Embarrassed, Shane clicked on his Wikipedia page, which was longer than expected. 

Ilya Rozanov, born in Moscow, Russia in 1991. Founder and lead singer of multiple time Grammy winning alt rock group MEDVEDI. 

MEDVEDI apparently meant ‘bears’ in Russian. Maybe that’s why he supported Boston. 

It was all public information, but Shane still felt like he was intruding somehow. He debated closing the page, but decided to read on. 

He learned that Ilya and his drummer Svetlana had started the band back when they were teenagers in Russia. They had gotten big in underground rock/punk venues, and then started to spread across Europe. In 2012, they started protesting the rise of anti LGBT laws in Russia, writing protest songs in Russian and English. The songs had caught on in the US, getting picked up and played in predominantly gay venues. When Russia had made the promotion of homosexuality illegal in 2013, warrants had been issued for their arrest. Luckily, the band had been in New York City on tour. They hadn’t been back. According to Wikipedia, Svetlana was already a dual citizen from birth. Ilya had been granted political asylum. 

There was a section labeled “personal life”. Shane debated for almost a full minute before he opened it. 

There was a list of rumored and confirmed relationships over the years, most of the names a blue hyperlink. There was also a blurb about his reputation as a partier and playboy, active in the Boston and then New York nightclub scene, and apparently so known for one night stands that there was a whole chatroom of his hookups. He lived in New York. No marriages, no children. He worked with Make A Wish and the Humane Society with regular frequency, both in fundraising and granting wishes. 

Ilya Rozanov publicly identifies as bisexual. Shane reread the sentence again and again. He liked men. Shane was suddenly more excited for the concert the next night.

…..

The concert was, first and foremost, loud. Rose had wordlessly handed Shane a pair of ear plugs before the music even started, something he was immediately grateful for. She had been buzzing with excitement next to him, and while Shane normally found her energy contagious, tonight he felt more nervous. The concert was in a stadium venue, and while Ilya had given them seats far off to the side and close to the stage where it was less packed, the crowd coming in had been overwhelming, the lobby packed even though they had intentionally shown up late enough to miss the opener and the lines. And no matter how much he hung out with Rose in public, or how big her bodyguard was, every time someone had recognized her and gotten too close, he had to fight the urge to shove her behind his back and protect her, an instinct that had started while they were dating and he had discovered just how much the paparazzi ignored the idea of ‘personal space’. Even now, securely in their seats, Rose chattering next to him, he was too aware of how many people were looking at them. Taking photos. He was glad that he had let Rose dress him for this, they were going to be all over the internet tomorrow with rumors of getting back together. 

He didn’t start to relax until the lights dimmed and Ilya took the stage. Shirtless. Shane barely noticed the rest of the band behind him as the music started and the entire arena screamed.

Rose had spent the day playing their albums, and Shane hadn’t fully decided if he liked their music. He knew he disliked the songs where Ilya seemed to just be screaming into the mic. He liked the ones when Ilya’s voice dropped and he crooned in a mix of Russian and English. Some had a beat he had found himself nodding along to, and had added to the playlist he sometimes listened to while working out. Some of their lyrics were so sexual he found himself almost blushing. A lot of it was angry. They didn’t have any love songs, something he didn’t notice until Rose pointed it out. 

He should have realized that listening to them perform live would be different than just listening to them in Rose’s living room. Songs he had winced at just a couple of hours ago made sense live, Ilya’s head thrown back as he hit the high notes. Songs that had just seemed loud to Shane transformed into a communal ritual as everyone around them screamed with him. The songs that had felt angry now felt like a call to arms, a demand to the audience to not just hear the anger, but be angry with him. 

“This is awesome!” Rose shouted into his ear multiple times, and he had just been able to nod back, his eyes never leaving the stage. When they announced the final song, he checked his watch and was shocked to discover it had been over two hours. And Ilya had been singing for the majority of it. He had paused a couple times to drink water and do some generic crowd work with the audience, but those breaks were short and infrequent. The rest of the time, he was going from song to song with only a pause for cheering. 

And then the band was walking off the stage, the overhead lights were coming on, and someone came out from a small stage door and hurried towards them. The audience had barely started to move out as Shane and Rose were ushered backstage. 

It was a small party in the green room, seemingly just the band and the staff. Rose immediately started chatting with Svetlana and their other band mates, a quiet dark haired man named Troy who played guitar and an odd guy called Hazy on bass, who had put his headphones on and stopped paying attention to the people around him after being introduced to Shane. Shane held a beer and sat down on the available couch, not sure what to do with himself. And then Ilya sat down next to him. 

“So, did you enjoy show?” he asked, his voice raspier than it had been the night before. His face was slightly pink, clearly freshly washed, his curls damp. On stage he had worn no shirt and leather pants. Now he was in dark jeans and… Shane glared at the Boston Bears shirt before he could stop himself, and Ilya grinned. 

“Really?” 

“What?” Ilya asked, his voice full of fake innocence. “You come to support music, I should support hockey, right?” 

“That’s not–!” Shane caught himself, and Ilya laughed. “Yes, I enjoyed the show. You guys were great.” If he didn’t know better, he would say that Ilya blushed. “This was actually my first concert,” he admitted. 

“What? Ever?” Shane nodded, and took a sip of his beer. Ilya’s look of surprise became a smirk. “Well, I am happy to have taken your virginity.” He laughed when Shane choked on the beer. “And I am glad you have fun. Even if you only come because your girlfriend makes you.” 

“What?” Shane blinked at him, confused. “My what?” 

“Rose?” Ilya sounded less sure now. 

“Oh, Rose isn’t my girlfriend,” Shane said. He wondered if he said it too quickly. “I mean, she was. But we broke up a while ago. She’s just a good friend.” 

“You broke up and stayed friends?” Ilya looked back and forth between him and Rose. “Hmm.” 

“It was mutual,” Shane said. Well, sort of. “And it wasn’t because we didn’t like each other as people. We were just… not compatible.” 

“Compatible,” Ilya said slowly, pronouncing each syllable. “Okay.” He changed the conversation to hockey, and Shane took the lifeline with relief. 

He slowly drank his beer, and thoroughly enjoyed his conversion with Ilya, who knew a shocking amount about hockey and actually seemed to enjoy talking about it, not getting the glazed look people sometimes got when Shane got too in the weeds. He knew that he blushed every time Ilya teased him, which just seemed to make him tease more. Although he had stopped mentioning Montreal’s bad months, seeming to pick up on Shane’s discomfort. They had instead talked about Boston losing in the playoffs, and the Admirals’ Cup win. And Ilya’s completely irrational hatred of their captain, Scott Hunter. 

“Not homophobic,” Ilya had told him, and Shane had nodded. He knew that from Wikipedia. “He is just old and boring. Predictable player. Boring to watch.” 

“He’s a nice guy,” Shane told him, and Ilya had scoffed. “And kissing his boyfriend definitely wasn’t predictable.” 

“He has done one interesting thing,” Ilya admitted. “But is still bad, boring, old hockey player.” He finished his beer, and looked at Shane’s empty bottle. “You want another?” He shouldn’t, but he nodded. “Okay. You stay.” He patted Shane’s knee, and Shane felt a shiver run down his thigh, which the other man didn’t seem to notice, jumping up from the couch and walking out of Shane’s view. 

Shane finished off his bottle, and looked over to where Rose sat, talking intently with Troy. Svetlana and Hazy were now sharing headphones, in their own world. Everyone else had seemed to clear out, realizing that no one in the band was paying attention to them. 

“Hey,” he heard, and Ilya was back, holding out a beer. He was also looking at Rose and Troy. “Here.” 

“Thanks.” Shane took the beer, and Ilya sat down. Closer to Shane this time. 

“Your friend Rose,” Ilya said. “She knows Troy is gay, right?” 

Shane looked back at Rose, and realized she wasn’t talking to Troy, no. She was flirting. 

“Oh god, again?” Shane muttered. 

“Flirting with gay men is not unusual for her, then?” Ilya said, sounding amused. 

“Nope, it’s very much her usual,” Shane said with a groan. “Hopefully this time she doesn’t date him for three months and then have to tell him that he’s gay.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. There was pause from Ilya, and Shane felt his cheeks turn pink. He quickly took another swig of beer, and Ilya let out a choked laugh next to him. “Shut up.” 

“So you…” Ilya hesitated. “Not compatible. Ah.” 

“Yeah.” Shane took a deep breath. He didn’t look at Ilya. “Me and Scott Hunter. Hopefully his team is reacting better than mine has.” He tried to hide the bitterness in his voice, and failed. Ilya stilled next to him. 

“Your team reacted badly?” 

“I told them in March.” Shane still didn’t look at him. Ilya watched hockey, he had seen Montreal go to shit in March. They had stopped passing to him, stopped listening. Allowed him to take hits without reacting, making him a target in the ice. Shane had ended his season covered in injuries, preventable ones. 

“Leave,” Ilya said seriously. 

“I have a no movement clause,” Shane said. Or they would have gotten rid of me already. 

“Shane, I know how hockey works. Waive it. You are best player in the league, you deserve better.” 

“They just need time to adjust. I told them before Scott Hunter, before there were any publicly gay players. Yes, we ended badly, but I think after the summer, they'll have wrapped their heads around it, and it’ll be fine.” 

“Adjust? Adjust to what? You are not a killer, you like dick. They should not have to adjust to anything. And if they do not appreciate you, you go to a team that does want best hockey player.” 

“I fucking made that team,” Shane said quietly, trying to ignore his blush at Ilya’s compliment.“I put those goddamn banners on the ceiling, I shouldn’t have to leave. They don’t get to chase me off like I did something wrong, when I fucking didn’t.” 

Shane heard the anger in voice, even as he tried to restrain it. The anger was new. At first  he had just felt sad and disappointed. It wasn’t until Montreal had been knocked out of the first round of the playoffs due to the rest of the teams terrible playing that he had started to get angry. They had won back to back cups, and had been in the finals the year before that. They shouldn’t have gotten knocked out this year. It was embarrassing and avoidable. 

There was a long moment of silence, so long that Shane looked over to Ilya. The man was staring at him, his face seriously. And his cheeks slightly flushed. 

“You should tell them that,” Ilya finally said. His voice caught for a second, his eyes hot on Shane’s face. “You are Shane fucking Hollander. They should remember that. You should too.”  

Shane just dropped his eyes again, taking a sip of his beer. The confidence and the anger that he felt, Ilya’s words– it competed with the anxiety that sat on his back constantly, the anxiety that had just gotten heavier since March. A boulder on his shoulders that used to be a familiar and manageable weight, but now threatened to crush him. 

“Come,” Ilya said suddenly, standing up. It was an order, not a request. For a second, Shane debated staying. And then he was suddenly on his feet, putting his beer down on the table, and following Ilya into the next room. 

“What are we–” Shane stopped abruptly, his question forgotten as Ilya shut the door to the small dressing room and immediately pressed Shane against it. He wasn’t rough, guiding rather than pushing, his hands on Shane’s waist. Shane’s breath caught, and he was so aware of Ilya’s hands burning through his thin shirt. 

One of Ilya’s hands skimmed up, brushing Shane’s chest and his long fingers were on Shane’s jaw, his chin, tipping his head back. His grip wasn’t tight, and he moved slowly. Giving Shane the chance to say no. To stop him. Shane didn’t. 

Ilya’s lips pressed against his, soft at first. Shane’s hands found Ilya’s hips, and he kissed him back, his eyes closing. Very quickly, the kiss deepened. Ilya’s hand tightened on his jaw, his tongue licking into Shane’s mouth and Shane responded with equal enthusiasm, pulling Ilya closer to him by his hips, wanting as much contact as possible. He could feel the metal ball in the middle of Ilya’s tongue, and it drove him crazy. He could feel Ilya hardening as they pressed together, and moaned quietly into his mouth at the feeling. Ilya tensed at the sound, his hips rocking into Shane’s. He broke the kiss, pulling his head back slightly to look at him. Shane opened his eyes, looking back. 

“Fuck,” Ilya hissed quietly. His hand slid up from where he was holding Shane’s chin, and he pressed his thumb against Shane’s swollen lips, wet with their combined spit. Shane opened his mouth obediently, letting Ilya slide his thumb inside and he sucked it, his eyes still on Ilya’s. Ilya was watching Shane’s lips, watching as he shallowly fucked Shane’s mouth with his thumb. He leaned down to kiss the side of Shane’s mouth, not taking his thumb out. 

Shane sucked as Ilya moved his head to kiss the side of Shane’s neck. “I want to fuck you,” Ilya whispered, kissing right below his ear. He pulled his wet thumb out of Shane’s mouth, letting him speak. 

“Not here,” Shane said, his voice unsteady. 

Ilya nodded, and pulled away. Shane felt cold where he had been touching. 

“Where are you staying?” 

“Rose’s. Do you live in LA?” 

“No.” Ilya’s fingers caressed Shane’s cheeks, trailing over his freckles. “I have hotel room nearby. Do you want to go there?” 

“Yes.” 

Chapter 2: Room 1410

Chapter Summary

Last chapter: Hockey player Shane Hollander met rock singer Ilya Rozanov at a party and went to his concert with Rose.
This chapter: Smut! (And some conversation)

Chapter Notes

June 21-22, 2017

Rose hadn’t been surprised when Shane told her he was leaving with Ilya. She had unfortunately been surprised when he told her Troy was gay. 

Shane had expected Ilya to have a driver, but instead he had led Shane to a small, locked parking lot and to a rental sports car. He had held open the passenger door for Shane, making him blush. 

“The hotel,” Shane asked tentatively as they drove into LA traffic. “Is it… um. Discreet?” 

Ilya glanced at him, and Shane blushed again. 

“Just because I’m not out,” Shane said in a rush. “Not because I don’t want to be seen with you, but going into a hotel together at 1 am is…” 

“Very gay,” Ilya said. He didn’t sound offended. 

“My management team thinks coming out is a bad idea,” Shane said quietly. 

“Even after the New York dinosaur did it?” 

Shane let out a small laugh. “Honestly, especially because of that. Apparently, the commissioner isn’t happy, but he did it so publicly  that they couldn’t push it under the rug.” Ilya frowned at this, and Shane saw his flash of confusion under the streetlights. “Pretend it never happened,” he specified, and Ilya nodded. “I, on the other hand, had a bad couple months and am now the perfect example of why it’s ‘bad for the locker room’.” 

“But you did not have bad months, they did,” Ilya argued, and Shane smiled. 

“Yeah, the league doesn’t give a shit, and neither does the public. I need to get my locker room in order and get everyone playing better before I can have any kind of attention they don’t like. I know how being a model minority works. This isn’t my first time playing this game.” 

“This does not seem fair to you.” 

“I get paid millions of dollars to play a game,” Shane said with a sigh. “A lot of people would say my pay is unfair.” 

“Do not do that,” Ilya said with a frown. “Do not… decide bad treatment is okay. You are too good for that. They need you more than you need them.” 

“They do sign my checks,” Shane reminded him. 

“And they were shit team before you joined. What you said before, it was true. You earned those cups. If you decide to leave, you would have offers from every team in league. I think they do not want you to remember this.” 

Shane was silent for a long minute. “Loyalty is important,” he said finally. 

Ilya let out a snort. “I am Russian. My people know the cost of giving loyalty to those who do not deserve it. Read our classics, it is a very popular theme.” 

Shane leaned back, thinking about the Wikipedia page he had read. How Ilya had been basically politically exiled from Russia. 

“I read your Wikipedia page,” he admitted. Ilya tensed for a second, and then a smile spread over his face. 

“Oh, you go home and google me last night?” He asked, sounding pleased. “I see why you are coming back with me then. You want to see if the rumors are true?” 

“What rumors?” Shane asked. They were pulling into a hotel parking structure. Ilya waved off the valet, heading to self park. 

“That my cock is pierced,” Ilya said, smirking. He whipped the car into a parking space. Shane felt his jaw drop. 

“Is it?” Shane gasped, and he could hear how breathy he sounded. Fuck. That wasn’t cool at all. Ilya turned off the car, and took off the backwards baseball cap he had put on before leaving the venue. He leaned over, kissing Shane quickly before pulling the hat over his head. 

“You will see. Wait and follow me so we are not seen together in lobby. Room 1410.” And then he got out of the car without answering Shane’s question. 

Shane was alone. He was tempted to pull out his phone and google “Ilya Rozanov cock piercing”, but chose not to. Instead he forced himself to wait, and then headed into the hotel, his head down in the borrowed hat, going straight to the elevator and room 1410. 

He had barely knocked before it was opened, and Ilya, now bare foot, stepped aside so he could step in. The door was still clicking shut when Shane grabbed him, one hand fisting into the front of his shirt, the other tangling in his curls, kissing him desperately. Ilya responded just as enthusiastically, his arms wrapping around Shane’s waist to pull him against him. Ilya was taller by a couple inches, something that Shane liked more than he thought, tipping his head back and groaning as Ilya’s tongue thrust into his mouth. He was kissing Shane like he was hungry for him, leading the kiss in a dominating way that Shane’s past sexual partners had never done. The encounters he had with men in the past, they had liked that he was an athlete, a jock. Even if some were willing to top him, they still wanted him to take the lead. Even in his limited fling with another closeted athlete and definitive top, they had shared control in the bedroom. Ilya didn’t seem to share that mindset. Ilya was taking control. 

“So eager,” Ilya crooned against his lips. He rocked his hips, feeling how hard Shane was. “Is this because you want to see cock piercing?” Shane felt his face flush, but he nodded. Ilya kissed him again, sliding his hands down to grab his ass. “Want to get on your knees and see it up close?” 

Shane did. Desperately. “I will if you take that shirt off.” 

Ilya glanced down at his Boston Bears shirt, wrinkled in the front where Shane had grabbed it, and let out a small laugh. He let go of Shane to tug it over his head and threw it blindly into the corner. He had silver bars through his nipples, like Shane had seen on Google. Shane wanted to lick them. 

“Get on your knees.” 

Shane dropped immediately. 

“Whoa,” he heard Ilya mutter, but Shane was focused on unbuttoning, unzipping and pulling down Ilya’s jeans and black boxer briefs. His hard cock was right by Shane’s face, and Shane felt saliva pool on his tongue. It had been a long time. Too long. And Ilya had a perfect cock. Long, thick, uncut, the head damp with precum and already poking through his foreskin– and Shane saw the hint of silver, still partially hidden. Curiosity replaced his need to taste. Instead he stroked, his fist wrapped around Ilya to pull back his foreskin completely and reveal the curved silver barball piercing right under the head of his cock. 

“Fuck,” Shane muttered. “You really are pierced.” 

“Yes–” he didn’t wait for whatever Ilya was going to say, just leaned forward and slid the head of Ilya’s cock into his mouth, raising the tip of his tongue to play with the silver balls. Ilya’s hands pressed into his hair, pushing it away from his face. He looked up at him through his lashes, still just focusing on the tip of his cock, getting used to the metal on his tongue until Ilya was gasping. 

“Shane, please, you have to–” Ilya’s jaw was tense, his fingers tight in Shane’s hair, and Shane took pity and pressed forward, taking more of him into his mouth. Ilya let out a groan of relief as Shane sucked him back to his throat. 

Shane had experience, but not a lot. He and the football player hadn’t spent a lot of time blowing each other, going straight to penetrative sex. He hoped enthusiasm could make up for skill. After an embarrassing encounter in a San Francisco gay club, he had practiced more on a dildo, but that had only helped his gag reflex, not his technique. But Ilya didn’t seem annoyed, like the man in San Francisco was. The opposite, actually. 

“Fuck, your mouth,” Ilya moaned, and Shane felt himself flush. He took him as deep as he could, his eyes watering, and Ilya said something in Russian, his head falling back. “Fuck, you have to stop.” 

Shane let his head fall back, dropping Ilya from his mouth. “Was that not– was I not doing it right?” 

“Too good,” Ilya murmured as he pulled Shane to his feet. He paused. “You have… is this your first time with a man?” 

Shane shook his head, even as he felt himself blush. He avoided Ilya’s eyes, instead looking at his chest. He let his fingers trail over the muscles there. Ilya’s arms were covered in tattoos, but there was only one on his chest, a cartoonish snarling grizzly bear. 

“But I don’t have… being famous and closeted means I don’t have a ton of experience,” Shane admitted. “It’s risky.” 

“You have been fucked before?” Ilya asked bluntly. Shane nodded again, his blush deepening. He touched the silver bars that pierced Ilya’s hard nipples. “Do you want me to fuck you?” Shane nodded again, still focused on the metal on his chest. “Shane.” Ilya’s finger was on his chin, gently forcing his head up. “I need you to use your words.” 

“Yes, I want you to fuck me,” Shane said in almost a whisper, and the words were barely out of his mouth before Ilya’s lips crashed back into his, kissing him hungrily. Shane’s hands slipped around his neck, pulling their bodies together, and Ilya’s hands were on his sides, his ass, his hips, exploring like he needed to touch every part of him. And then to Shane’s shock, Ilya’s hands were on his thighs, the taller man crouched slightly and picked him up like he was a doll, and not a 200 pound athlete. 

“I can walk,” Shane protested against Ilya’s lips, even as his legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist and his stomach fluttered. God, he was strong. Stronger than Shane had expected. 

“Shh,” was all Ilya said, kissing him again, and now they were moving towards the bed, Ilya’s movement slightly graceless due to his pants being around his thighs and the man in his arms. 

He dropped Shane on the bed, and immediately crawled on top of him, fusing their mouths together again. His cock was out, still wet from Shane’s mouth, but he didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush. He wasn’t even taking Shane’s shirt off, just ran his hand under it, exploring the panes of muscle on his stomach and chest. 

“This is a very soft shirt,” Ilya murmured when they finally broke apart for air. Shane’s lips were tingling in a way he had never experienced, and he wondered for a second if it was possible for lips to bruise from kissing alone. “I like it.” 

“I like soft clothes,” Shane said, hearing how breathless he sounded. 

“Mmm. You should take it off.” Ilya sat back, straddling Shane’s hips. Shane sat up, and Ilya was already pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it off the bed. For a split second, Shane wanted to get up and fold it, and then Ilya’s lips were on his again, his big hands cradling his face and Shane stopped thinking about the shirt. Ilya rocked his hips, grinding into his lap and Shane moaned into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Ilya muttered. “I need to get– hold on.” He scrambled off of Shane’s lap, and Shane almost whimpered at the loss of his touch, but bit it back just in time. “Take off,” Ilya ordered, waving at Shane’s remaining clothes. He walked over a suitcase in the corner, already opened, unfolded clothes piled in it. Shane got up and took his shoes and socks off, putting them under the chair against the wall. He took off his jeans, folding them quickly and putting them on the seat of the chair, followed by his boxer briefs. When he turned back around, he saw Ilya standing by the bed, also naked, looking at him with amusement. There was now a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube on the bed. 

“What?” 

“Did you just fold your underwear?” Ilya asked, grinning. Shane felt himself flush. 

“Shut up.” Shane climbed back onto the bed, kneeling in the center of it. 

“You did,” Ilya insisted, sounding pleased. “You are…” Strange. Neurotic. Weird. Too many options for how Ilya could finish that sentence. So before he could, Shane reached down and wrapped his hand around his own cock, which was achingly hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. Ilya immediately lost interest in what he was saying, his gaze dropping to Shane’s hand as he stroked himself. “Fuck.” 

Ilya basically threw himself on the bed, the mattress jostling as he reached for Shane. He knocked Shane’s hand out of the way, replacing it with his own, his grip loose as he started to touch him. He licked into his mouth, swallowing Shane’s moan as he stroked him lazily. And then Shane was being pushed onto his back, Ilya between his legs. The hand on his cock moved down, fingertips skimming his balls and then lower, to press against his hole. Not penetrating, just pressing. 

“Yes?” Ilya murmured against his lips. 

“Yes,” Shane agreed in a gasp. Ilya sat up, and reached for the lube. Shane watched with slightly hazy eyes as he slicked up his fingers, and then leaned down to kiss him as he returned his hand to Shane’s ass and slowly, carefully, started to push one finger inside of him. 

Ilya’s mouth kept him distracted as his fingers opened him up. He bit Shane’s bottom lip, sucking on it as he got him used to one finger. He kissed Shane’s neck, letting him breath as he pushed in a second, filling him more. They were making out urgently when he finally added a third, making Shane groan loudly. He was taking longer than Shane was used to, waiting for Shane to be loose and pliant before taking the next step. He fingered Shane with three fingers until he was writhing and moaning, a small pool of pre-cum on his stomach. When he finally withdrew his fingers, Shane jerked his hips, trying to follow them, and Ilya let out a small huff of laughter. Shane blushed, starting to feel embarrassed at how much he was responding to being prepped. Before he could get too much in his head though, Ilya kissed him again, softer this time, before sitting up and reaching for the condom and lube. 

“Still good?” he asked as Shane watched him roll the condom on and add a generous amount of lube. “Shane. Words.” 

“Yes,” Shane said in a gasp. “Fuck me.” 

Ilya dropped down again, his hips between Shane’s thighs, his lips finding Shane’s again, and Shane finally, finally felt the head of his lube slicked cock pressing into him. And fuck, he was big. With how much Ilya had done to open him up, it wasn’t painful, but Shane had never felt so full before as Ilya pushed all the way into him until his hips were pressed against Shane’s body. He paused after bottoming out, letting Shane get used to the intrusion, one of his hands stroking up and down from Shane’s hip to his bent knee in a gesture that was almost comforting. “Okay?” 

“Yes,” Shane said again, and he rocked his own hips, now slightly impatient. Ilya muttered something in Russian, his hand tightening on Shane’s thigh and he pulled back before thrusting back in, his movements still carefully controlled. “Fuck, more, please.” 

Ilya complied, his movements getting faster and harder, his hand sliding from his thigh to knee, holding Shane open for him and dipping his head to kiss him hard as he increased his speed. And it felt good, so good, but it still wasn’t enough. Shane broke the kiss with a soft moan. 

“Be rough with me,” he whispered against Ilya’s lips, and Ilya froze. For a second Shane worried he had ruined the mood, and then Ilya groaned and Shane got a quick flash of his blown out pupils before Ilya pulled out completely and with an ease that made Shane gasp, flipped Shane onto his stomach. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot. So fucking perfect,” Ilya muttered as he yanked Shane up to his hands and knees by his hips. Shane pressed his face into the pillow, stifling his embarrassingly loud moan at being manhandled so easily. Ilya’s grip on his hips tightened as he pressed into Shane again, deeper at this angle and Shane gasped beneath him, gripping the sheets tightly. “Still okay?” 

“Yes, fuck, fuck me please,” Shane slurred out against the pillow, too turned on to be embarrassed at his begging. 

“So good, so perfect,” Ilya praised, and then he started to fuck Shane just how he wanted, slamming into him. Neither of them were being quiet, skin slapping loudly, Shane moaning and swearing into the pillow, and Ilya keeping up a constant stream of compliments and praise as he pounded into him. From this angle, he could feel that fucking piercing drag over his prostate, a new sensation for him and one that made his knees feel weak. If Ilya hadn’t been holding him up by the hips, he knew it would be flat on the bed right now. Even with Ilya’s grip, he felt his arms shaking and his elbows finally slipped, his back arching as the top half of his body hit the bed, changing the angle of Ilya’s cock and making Shane gasp. 

“Fuck, I’m going to–” Shane moaned, his legs shaking and his muscles tightening. He felt Ilya’s hand on his upper back, his fingers splayed, holding Shane down against the mattress. His thrusts became more erratic, almost desperate. 

“Are you…? Fuck, Shane–” Ilya suddenly became impossible to understand, which meant he had either switched to Russian, or Shane had completely lost the ability to understand any language as his orgasm ripped through him and he came untouched all over the sheets below him, his whole body clenching and shaking with the power of it. Ilya slammed into him a final time, going as deep as he could, and Shane heard his loud groan as he came as well, and then partially collapsed over his, his chest to Shane’s back, pushing him flat against the mattress into his own cum. They lay together for a minute, both panting. 

“Now the beds all dirty,” Shane finally mumbled, but he made no effort to move out from under Ilya. 

“What?” Ilya huffed into his ear. “Oh my god, Shane, I am still inside of you. Shut up.” 

Shane let out a lazy giggle, letting his eyes drift shut. “Fine, I will put up with the stickiness. For now. Just for you.” 

“Thank you,” Ilya grumbled, and Shane felt him kiss the back of his neck before he pressed his face into his shoulder and Shane just let himself be held, feeling more relaxed and floaty in a way he wasn't sure he had ever felt before. 

Until the stickiness was too much, and he pulled Ilya into the shower with him, kisses turning into lazy handjobs under the hot water. And then to Shane’s surprise and relief, Ilya insisted he stay and changed the sheets with no argument before dragging Shane back to the bed and into his arms. It was more comfortable than Shane thought it would be, being cuddled up against Ilya’s hard body.

They both just lay there quietly until Shane’s phone chirped from the bedside table. With Ilya’s arm draped around him, Shane had to squirm slightly to get it. He read the text and started to respond, typing carefully with one hand. 

“Who is texting you at 2:30 in morning?” Ilya complained. He looked like he was on the verge of falling asleep. 

“Rose,” Shane said. He finished typing and sent it, then dropped the phone. “Wondering where I am. And when I’m coming back. I go home tomorrow– or today, I guess. I think she’s worried I’m going to leave without seeing her.”

"Mm. Where is ‘home’? Montreal?” Shane smiled slightly at the French word pronounced with a heavy Russian accent. Ilya’s accent had gotten thicker since they had entered the hotel room, he had noticed.

“Yeah, technically. But I’m going to Ottawa, to my cottage.”  

“Glass mansion from ESPN special?” 

“It's not a– wait, you saw that?” Shane twisted his head to look at him. His eyes were closed. “Shit, that's embarrassing. It was… really lame.” 

“It was boring,” Ilya admitted. “Until you did yoga on dock and bend back like cooked noodle. That was very interesting.” 

Shane flushed, and Ilya smirked, as if he knew that Shane was blushing despite his eyes still being closed. “It was… I don’t even do yoga outside, I have a gym, the producers suggested it. The whole thing was… whatever. Yeah. That's where I’m going. I normally spend the whole summer there, but Rose invited me here, and now I also have to be in New York soon for a Rolex thing, so–” 

“You are coming to New York?” Ilya asked, his eyes opening. 

“Yeah, Rolex is hosting some dinner thing. Or they’re sponsoring it? I can’t remember, I need to ask. And I’m shooting a new ad for them, don’t know why we’re doing it in New York, though, it's normally–” 

“Shane,” Ilya smoothly, cutting off Shane’s rambling. “I live in New York. And will be home in three days. When will you be there?” 

“Oh, a week. Technically eight days,” Shane told him. 

“So I can see you then? Do this again? 

“You want to see me again?” Shane asked, confused. He has seen the Wikipedia section on Ilya’s hookups. The man had a whole forum of past one night stands. He hadn’t even entertained the possibility that this would be more than one night. 

“Shane. I have wanted you in my bed for five years.” 

“Five years?!” Ilya frowned at the shock in Shane’s voice. 

“Yes. And reality was even better than fantasy.” Ilya smiled and dropped a kiss on Shane’s forehead. “And the fantasy was very good.” 

Shane was still scowling slightly, confused. “What happened five years ago?” There was no way they had met, he would have remembered that. Even if five years ago he had been very, very deep in the closet. 

“I went to a Boston vs Montreal game,” Ilya said, flopping back against the pillows. “You destroyed us, of course, it was before they got the Russian.” Shane nodded. He knew Boston had been pissed Montreal had the first draft pick the year he was drafted. They had been in similar circumstances to Montreal, one of the original six, in a playoff drought, in desperate need of a good center. It had taken them a couple of years to get that, when they had picked up an absolutely vicious Russian rookie. Shane hated playing him. Even if he had felt bad for the kid before, remembering the pressure of being a rookie with so much expectation put on your shoulders. But the kid played dirty, chirped dirty and backed up his endless arrogance with talent. It was infuriating. 

“Hate that kid,” Shane muttered, and Ilya laughed. Shane opened his mouth, about to explain that no, the kid was a homophobic, sexist asshole that everyone decent hated, and then changed his mind. He wanted to talk about Ilya, not hateful chirps. 

“Anyway,” Ilya said, going back to his story. “Middle of second period, you get put in sin bin. Slashing.” 

“Undeserved. Untrue. Ref bias.” 

“Shane, I watched you lift your stick and swing at Hammersmith’s leg like it was golf ball,” Ilya said, laughing. And now Shane somewhat remembered. 

“Still not slashing, he just happened to be in the way of my stick,” he grumbled. “While I was adjusting my grip. After harassing one of my rookies. Total coincidence.” 

Ilya laughed again. “They kept showing you in the penalty box, up on big screen,” Ilya said, grinning. “And you looked like an angry kitten. So cute and so mad. I wanted to kiss you.” 

“An angry kitten? What the fuck!” 

“And then Boston scored on power play and you pouted. It was adorable.” 

“I don’t pout,” Shane grumbled, and Ilya took one look at his face and started laughing in a way that told Shane he was currently doing exactly that. He felt himself flush, and turned into Ilya instead, hiding his face against the other man’s neck and closing his eyes. Ilya shifted his arm, wrapping it around Shane’s shoulders more firmly, his big hand on his back. 

“Pretty, grumpy face,” Ilya teased. “I wanted to be in the box with you, kiss it away. And then…” he sighed dramatically. “And you come out of box, grumpy kitten face is gone, and you become hockey god and get two goals in last period and completely humiliate Boston. And we are leaving, and I hear all the Boston fans complain about Shane Hollander and all I can think is how I want to lock you in the box again and not let you leave until I have worshipped you properly.” 

Shane went still, his eyes opening again. He was worried if he said anything he would choke on his words. He felt his face flushing even more. He instead just nuzzled harder into Ilya’s neck and tried to keep his breathing even. Ilya’s fingers skimmed up and down his spine lazily. 

“And you know,” Ilya continued softly. “I do not think one night is enough for that.” Before Shane could react, Ilya shifted them both, and he found himself flat on his back, Ilya leaning over him, their faces inches apart. No way to hide his blush or wide eyes as Ilya leaned in, brushing his nose against Shane’s, their lips almost touching. “See me again in New York,” he whispered. “Let me worship the hockey god in my bed.” 

“Jesus,” Shane breathed, and just like he worried, he choked on the word. His blush darkened. “Okay.” He nodded. “Yes.” 

He saw the brief flash of Ilya’s smile before their lips collided again and he was being kissed again. 

…..

The room was dark when he woke, Ilya curled around him. He reached for his phone, and bit back a groan when he saw the time and multiple missed messages from Rose and his mom. He carefully slipped out from under Ilya’s arm, holding his breath, but all Ilya did was flop back on his back and start quietly snoring again. He looked so peaceful, Shane decided not to wake him. He would be seeing him soon anyway. As Ilya slept, Shane quietly dressed, and with a last look, slipped out of the room. It wasn’t until he got to the lobby, Ilya’s hat from last night pulled low over his forehead, that he realized he hadn’t gotten his number. 

Chapter End Notes

Shane, meeting a hot rock star with a famous list of hookups: I can join this list.
Ilya, meeting his five year hockey crush and learning that he's gay: LOCK IT DOWN.

Chapter 3: Compatible

Chapter Summary

Last time: Shane and Ilya hook up for the first time, Ilya expresses interest seeing Shane again.
This time: New York, baby!

Chapter Notes

Thank you to the truly unhinged comment I got, completely in Polish (?), accusing me of using AI and telling me I should kill myself. I had forgotten to add a "no AI" note and tag, and have now fixed that. Also, please drink some water and calm down.

June 24-30, 2017

@shanehollander24✅ ➡️ @ilyarozanov✅

Hey, sorry, I left without getting your number. I’ll be in New York next Thursday, do you still want to meet up? 

Shane hated messaging him over Instagram, but it was his own fault. Rose didn’t have his number, and asking her if she did had just resulted in her demanding details and teasing him all the way to the airport the day after their hookup. Shane had spent a day regretting slipping out until he had remembered that social media existed. Not a perfect option, since he was positive Ilya received even more DMs than he did, but it had been the only way to contact him. And now he just had to wait. He had filled an hour with his new boxing coach, but that had only taken so much of his day and now he was back to opening up instagram and checking his DMs obsessively. He had probably opened the app more today than he had in the last year. 

It wasn’t until he was making dinner that his constant checking paid off. He almost dropped the spatula when he saw the new message in his inbox. He made himself finish cooking the white fish and put it on a plate before opening the DM. 

@ilyarozanov✅➡️ @shanehollander24✅

Was worried you had changed your mind, sneaking out like that. Yes to Thursday. My place? 

@shanehollander24✅ ➡️ @ilyarozanov✅

It might be late, I have that dinner thing. Is that okay? 

@ilyarozanov✅➡️ @shanehollander24✅

That is fine. How long are you in town? 

@shanehollander24✅ ➡️ @ilyarozanov✅

Two nights. I have the dinner on Thursday, and a photoshoot all day Friday. I leave on Saturday. 

@ilyarozanov✅ ➡️ @shanehollander24✅

I want you both nights. 

Shane paused for a long moment, staring at that last message. At the confidence in it. And then… 

@shanehollander24✅ ➡️ @ilyarozanov✅

Okay. 

Ilya responded with an address, and Shane copied the address into his phone before deleting the message thread. His mom and team had all of his passwords. This didn’t seem like their business. 

…..

Shane felt overdressed in his suit and tie from the Rolex dinner, but he also didn’t want to go to his hotel to change. Not when Ilya’s address was burning a hole in a pocket. So in the cab outside the ritzy restaurant where he had been forced to have many boring conversations with people who didn’t care about hockey and did care about money, Shane gave the driver Ilya’s address. The driver yelled on his phone the entire time in a language that Shane didn’t recognize, completely ignoring him in a way that Shane appreciated. He undid the top button of his white dress shirt and loosened his tie as they drove through Manhattan. His dress shoes pinched, they were new and he hated them, but he also hated wearing his more comfortable game day shoes to sponsor’s events, it felt like bad juju. His suit and matching black satin tie were very simple. “Elegant, timeless, very Rolex,” his mom had said when she had brought it to the cottage. “Pair it with the black and gold watch they gave you after the second Cup.” The watch felt heavy in his wrist, too clunky, the face too big and flashy with diamonds instead of numbers. He preferred their lighter, diamond free models. His mom had also encouraged a haircut before the dinner, but the idea of sitting in a chair and listening to clippers while tiny pieces of hair fell on his neck and back felt like torture right now, so they had comprised on him styling his hair back with gel. He had avoided touching his hair all night, even when the product dried he swore it still felt sticky to the touch. 

Shane had just put his gold cufflinks in the inside pocket of his jacket when the cab abruptly stopped and the driver aggressively tapped the payment console between the front two seats. He had barely closed the door of the yellow taxi before it was peeling away, and Shane was left standing on a surprisingly busy street. No one gave him a second glance as he walked into Ilya’s building. For all of his worries, even the doorman barely glanced at him when Shane nervously gave him his name and the man checked his list, nodded, and led him to an elevator that required a keycard, letting Shane in before returning to his desk.  In the elevator, Shane pressed the button for the penthouse and tried to calm his breathing. The double doors opened into a small foyer, one apartment door at the end of it. Ilya had the whole floor. Shane knocked. 

Ilya must have been waiting, because he immediately heard multiple locks turning before the door swung open, and there he was. Barefoot, wearing track pants and nothing else, his tattoos on stark display, his hair slightly messy. He grinned at Shane. 

“Don’t you look fancy,” he teased, even as he stepped aside so Shane could come in. Shane toed his tight shoes off immediately, putting them on the shoe rack next to the door. There were several pairs of combat boots and sneakers already there, including a pair of very battered running shoes. 

“It was a fancy dinner,” Shane mumbled, his face flushing. 

“Mm, very fancy. Did you have fun?” Ilya asked, watching him. 

“No, I hate those things,” Shane admitted, and Ilya’s grin got bigger. “And the portion sizes were tiny and I’m trying to bulk.” 

“Yes. Preseason bulk, very important. Also very sexy,” Ilya said, nodding. He held out his hand. “Phone.” 

“What?” 

“You have a phone, yes? Give. Before we get distracted.”  

Shane pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it and passed it to him. He watched Ilya typing out something, and then heard the telltale sound of a text vibration coming from Ilya’s own pocket before his phone was handed back. He looked down at the new contact page on his screen and almost laughed. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

“What am I going to be in your phone? Sexy hockey player?” Shane asked. There were no other contacts in his phone with emojis in their name. Or with a nickname instead of their full name, except his parents. Ilya would stand out, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to change it. 

“No, you will be ‘angry kitten’,” Ilya said with a wide grin, and Shane’s head snapped up to glare at him. “Just like that!” 

Shane opened his mouth to argue, but before he could find the words, Ilya’s hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him forward, and Shane forgot what he was annoyed at as soon as Ilya’s lips pressed against his. 

“Hi,” Shane said more softly as Ilya pulled back, his hand still curled around Shane’s neck in an almost possessive touch. 

“Hi,” Ilya said back, grinning down at him. “I am glad you are here. I am also very glad I get to take that fancy suit off of you.” 

“My mom picked it out,” Shane admitted, flushing. He immediately wished he hadn’t. He was 26, for fucks sake, he didn’t need to tell people his mom was still picking out his clothes. But Ilya just smiled at him, no mockery in his expression. 

“Ah, she has good taste,” he said. “But I already know that. She is your manager, right? So she got you the Calvin Klein underwear ads?” He laughed when Shane turned even redder. “Very smart, very generous woman. I am a fan.” 

“Shut up,” Shane grumbled, avoiding eye contact. God, those ads had been embarrassing. Two years later, and he was still being chirped about them. 

“It is a good suit, but maybe we are not telling your mama that it looks better on my bedroom floor, yes?” Ilya caught his hand, and started to lead him deeper into the apartment, a destination obviously in mind. Shane could barely glance around the dark kitchen and dining area before Ilya was pulling him down a long hallway. 

“This is a borrowed suit, I’m not just dropping it on your floor,” Shane said flatly, and Ilya glanced back at him, his expression a mixture of exasperation and amusement. 

“Oh my god, is a line, Shane,” he said. “I remember that you need to fold your clothes. Don’t worry, there is chair for you to put your tidy pile on.” 

“A line?” Shane frowned. The hallway ended, splitting off in two directions, and Ilya led him down the left side. There was art on the walls, but it was too dark for Shane to get a good look at them. 

“I’m flirting,” Ilya said. “People flirt with you a lot, yes? You have not heard this line before? It is a classic.” 

“Oh.” Ilya pushed open the last door in the hallway, ushering him into the bedroom. It was large and modern, a giant bed against the wall, two abstract art pieces hanging above the bedframe. Most of the room was outfitted in soft grays and dark wood pieces, with the occasional pop of color. The main focus of the room was the view. Floor to ceiling windows made up one of the walls, overlooking the city. “Wow.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Living room has the same view, it is why I bought this place. Had to put way too much money into renovations, the last owners had terrible taste, but…” he gestured at the window. 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed quietly. He was more of a nature person than a city person, preferring his cottage to a penthouse, but here, he could appreciate the… romance of New York City at night. The city was loud and overwhelming, but they were so far above the chaos here, a pocket of quiet among the lights. 

He was still facing the view when Ilya’s arms slipped around his waist, under his jacket, pulling them together. And Shane stopped thinking about the view, or New York at all, it was just Ilya and Ilya’s lips and Ilya’s hands, rough compliments and praise whispered in both English and Russian that filled his mind and pushed everything else out. 

He fell asleep two hours later, his body spent and begging for sleep. He faced the New York City skyline, Ilya curled around him, and slept better than he had in months. 

…..

It was his phone buzzing on the night stand that woke him the next morning. Ilya snored peacefully next to him, sprawled out on his back, one of his hands tucked under Shane’s pillow. The early sunlight filled the room through the glass wall. Shane saw the blackout curtains at the top of the windows, but they had forgotten to lower them the night before. The city was already awake. The city hadn’t slept. 

Shane checked his phone, just as it went to voicemail, showing a missed call from his mom. It was 7:05. He was normally up by now, and finishing his work out. He wouldn’t have time today. He could work out after the shoot… and then Ilya let out a loud snore, and Shane knew he wouldn’t be taking time away from him to go to the gym. And technically, what they had done the night before did count as cardio. He almost snorted at the thought. 

He left his suit where it was folded neatly on the chair in the corner, opting instead to raid Ilya’s drawers for clothes. He easily found gym shorts, and then a drawer of t-shirts. All of which had their sleeves cut off. He almost rolled his eyes as he pulled one on. It was looser than what he normally wore, but the fabric was soft and it didn’t have a tag, which he appreciated. He didn’t recognize the logo on the shirt, he assumed it was a band. There were tour dates on the back. 

Dressed and barefoot, he collected his AirPods from his suit pocket and slipped them into his ears before grabbing his phone and exiting the bedroom quietly, leaving Ilya asleep. He followed the hallway that Ilya had led him down the night before, remembering that they had walked through the kitchen. He hoped Ilya had tea. 

The kitchen was big and open, the same modern feel as Ilya’s bedroom. Dark wood cabinets and counters, burgundy appliances with brass hardware, and cream colored countertops that should have clashed with the oak and burgundy but instead were a nicely brightening compliment to it. Shane wondered if Ilya had gotten the six burner, high quality stove and double oven because he enjoyed cooking, or if, like Shane, a designer had picked it out for him. The fridge and stove were the same burgundy as the suit Ilya had been wearing the night they met, and Shane wondered if it was his favorite color or just a coincidence. He found the electric kettle with the coffee machine tucked into the corner of the kitchen, and to his delight, found that the cabinet above it was full of tea options as well as an eclectic collection of mugs, that he stopped and stared at. A lot of them, most of them in fact, seemed to be queer themed. Shane thought about his own collection of white, matching mugs, and wondered what it would be like to own gay mugs like this, just in the kitchen for anyone to find. Before he could spiral at the thought, he grabbed one from the front row and shut the cabinet. It was an oversized mug with a rainbow handle that said “Pride goose says don’t be a dick”. There was a series of cartoon drawings of geese holding rainbow flags marching around the outside of the cup. Shane smiled to himself, and then started the water and called his mom back as he waited for it to boil. 

She answered immediately and barely said hello before rushing to ask him how the dinner had gone, and letting him know that the reps had been “delighted” with him. Shane just let her talk, barely listening as he made his tea. He leaned against the island and sipped his sugarless green tea lemon blend as she started going over the plan for the photoshoot that day. Normally she would be there with him, but a meeting with Reebok had kept her in Canada this time.  

As she went over his schedule for the day, Shane was focused enough that he missed the quiet pad of bare feet entering the kitchen and he jumped when Ilya spoke directly behind him. 

“Oh, good, you find tea,” Ilya said, and Yuna paused. Shane winced slightly. He turned around, gesturing to his AirPods. Ilya’s eyes widened, and he nodded as Shane mouthed “on the phone” at him. 

“Shane?” Yuna said clearly in his ear. 

“Yeah, Mom,” Shane said. Ilya’s lip twitched. 

“Are you already with the Rolex people? They aren’t supposed to pick you up until 8:45,” she said, confused. 

“No, not yet,” Shane said. He leaned against the counter, watching a shirtless Ilya start to make coffee. 

“It’s 7:18, no one should be bothering you yet, I specifically asked—”

“Its not the Rolex people, no one is bothering me, I’m fine,” Shane said calmly. Ilya’s sweatpants were criminally low on his hips. 

“Shane, I heard a man’s voice with you—” Yuna started. 

“Mom. I’m a 26 year old single gay man in New York,” Shane interrupted. Ilya glanced over his shoulder, now fully smirking. “Do you really want me to explain why you just heard a man’s voice with me at 7:15 in the morning?” 

“Oh.” Shane heard the shock in her voice. “Oh.” 

To be fair to her, Shane had never mentioned a guy since he had come out. To everyone in his life (except Rose), his sexuality was more of an idea than something he actually practiced. After being pressed, he had admitted that there had been men before, but this was the first time she had faced more than just the theory of Shane’s gayness. 

“And now he’s up, so I’m going to go now,” Shane said smoothly, filling the silence. “Thanks for the schedule, I’ll text you after.” 

“Right. Oh! Wait, so you need an NDA?” she said quickly before he could hang up. “We haven’t really talked about this, I should have brought it up sooner, but unless you’re planning on coming out, you really should ask your… dates to sign one. I had one drafted years ago, but you never… I mean–” 

“I appreciate it, but I don’t need one, I trust him,” Shane interrupted her nervous speech. He looked at Ilya, who gave him a ‘what?’ look. He directed his next comment to Ilya. “My mom wants you to sign an NDA.” 

“I will if it makes her feel better,” Ilya said immediately. 

“Mom, I gotta go. I’ll text you. Bye.” He hung up before she could argue and took the airpods out of his ears, slipping them into his pocket. Ilya hit the brew button on the coffee machine, and it rumbled to life. “It’s okay, I don’t need you to.” 

Ilya stepped forward and slipped his hands up the bottom of Shane’s borrowed shirt, wrapping his arms loosely around his bare waist. He bent his head to brush a light kiss over his lips. “I woke up and you were not in the bed. Again.” 

“Sorry,” Shane whispered. Ilya kissed him again. 

“Maybe I tie you to it tonight, make sure you are still there in the morning,” Ilya teased, and Shane felt his heart rate jump and his face flush. He swallowed nervously, and Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Hmm.” 

“What?” Shane said defensively. Ilya quirked an eyebrow at him, amused, and Shane scowled. “Shut up.” 

“Captain Canada is a little kinky, hmm? Scandal.” Shane started to push away, and his arms tightened around him. “Noooo,” he whined, suddenly so childish it forced a surprised laugh out of Shane. “I did not get morning cuddles, you are so mean, Shane.” He leaned down again, this time to rest his head on Shane’s shoulder, his face pressed against Shane’s neck. Almost instinctively, Shane put his arms around him.  

“I don’t have to be up so early tomorrow,” Shane told him, and he felt Ilya nod against his neck. “You don’t have to tie me to the bed, I plan on staying in it.”

“Oh, I think I definitely need to tie you to the bed, but now I know I don’t have to leave you tied up all night,” Ilya said, his voice slightly muffled. Shane’s breath caught, and Ilya chuckled and then kissed his neck. “Okay, I forgive you for making me wake up alone. Also…” He raised his head from Shane’s shoulder, and gave him a clear once over. “I like seeing you in my clothes. Although, maybe wondering if you picking a shirt from a competing band is revenge for the Boston shirt…?” 

“Sleep Token is a band?” Shane asked, looking down and reading the front of the black shirt. 

“Mmm. Band from England. We have seen all their tours now,” Ilya said, nodding. “Not really competition, not like in sports, but still, same genre, same fans. You are allowed to like Sleep Token, just not more than you like us.” 

“Oh, I’m allowed?” Shane asked, laughing slightly. Ilya just grinned at him. “And I wanted to wear a MEDVEDI shirt, but they all had tags on them. This one didn’t.” 

“Tag?” Ilya asked, looking confused. “Like, label at the back of neck? Tags are bad?” 

“A lot of them are distracting and itchy,” Shane admitted. Ilya just looked at him, and Shane hesitated, searching for judgment in his expression. And then Ilya just shrugged. 

“Okay, no tags. I will make breakfast. You go shower.” He stepped away, and Shane’s arms fell from his hips. 

“Um… I don’t really eat processed foods. I’m on a performance diet– just really simple ingredients,” Shane said awkwardly. “Mostly plant based, low carb, low sugar, high protein, all that shit.” 

“I thought you said you were bulking. You are bulking on a diet? Shane, you need carbs,” Ilya said, frowning.

“I eat carbs. And during the summer, my diet is a lot more relaxed than during the season,” Shane rushed to explain. “But I’m doing a photoshoot today, and…”

“Ah. I understand. Do not want bloating for shoot,” Ilya said, nodding. Shane also nodded. “Sveta’s favorite breakfast before an event or shoot is kasha with mushrooms and egg. Kasha is Russian porridge, buckwheat, very healthy,” he explained at Shane’s confused look. “Carbs, but no gluten. You want this?” 

“Buckwheat? I can do buckwheat,” Shane said with interest. “Mushrooms and egg?” 

“She also adds sour cream,” Ilya added, and Shane immediately shook his head. Ilya grinned. “Okay. Very un-Russian of you, but I will allow. Go shower. You can steal more of my clothes if you do not want to put on the suit for your walk of shame back to hotel.”  

“Not a walk of shame,” Shane muttered, but he headed to the shower anyway. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the hall before he realized that this was the first time someone he had slept with had made him breakfast the morning after. 

…..

Shane could feel the tension in his whole body as he sat in the town car Rolex had hired to take him back to his hotel after shooting all day. Luckily, the driver hadn’t even blinked when Shane changed the destination to Ilya’s building, but Shane was even more tense after doing so. Like somehow in giving an address the driver would guess that it was the home of another man, and that Shane was going there for the express purpose of being put through the mattress. But the driver had just nodded, and asked if the temperature in the car was okay. 

Even if he guessed it was a hookup, he won’t think it’s a man, Shane reminded himself as the car merged into traffic. But there was no way for him to relax at this point. The photo shoot had been long, so many outfit changes with shirts that itched, pants that had to be pinned, shoes that hadn’t been broken in. The photographer had been chatty, and while most of it had been complimentary (it was a good thing for his sponsorships that his ‘I’m on the verge of dissociating’ face read on camera as ‘stoic’), it was still more noise during an already overwhelming day.  Even getting back into his own clothes and scrubbing the makeup off of his face hadn’t made him settle into his own body again. He was always careful with what he brought to wear after a shoot. His most comfortable joggers, the cashmere pair that Rose had gifted him. A tee that had been sent from a sponsor, one that was so soft and comfortable that Shane had bought several more in every color available. The Reeboks that were custom made for him, a 24 on the side, but most importantly, shaped around a mold of his foot so they fit perfectly. Even his underwear was an older pair of Calvin Kleins, made softer from years of being washed, the elastic waistband less constricting. He had stuck his head under the sink to wash the product out of his hair. It wasn’t enough. He still wanted to crawl out of his own skin, out of the body that didn’t feel like his own right now. Today he had been “Shane Hollander” the brand, the model. A costume he put on too often, but one that never felt like it fit right. 

He tried to distract himself with emails, and then with texts from Rose and Hayden as the car moved slowly through New York. Rose was working with a director she hated, and had sent Shane multiple texts during his shoot, long rants about egotistical assholes who talked down to the people he had to work with. Hayden had sent videos of his kids on the ice, Arthur’s first time in skates, a very heavily pregnant Jackie cheering from the wall. Those helped more than the emails, and he managed to stay distracted until they pulled up outside of Ilya’s building. 

Shane thanked the driver and hurried into the lobby. The same doorman from the night before was at the desk, and if he was surprised to see Shane back, he was too professional to show it. Shane rode the elevator up, his anxiety making him fidget, bouncing slightly on the balls on his feet as his fingers tapped out an erratic rhythm on his thigh. 

Just like last night, the door swung open as soon as he knocked, and Ilya stepped back to let him in. He was dressed casually again, in gym shorts and a MEDVEDI tour tee that had been cut into a muscle shirt to expose his arms, shoulders and his ribs. Shane toed off his sneakers, and realized that Ilya hadn’t said anything. The other man was just staring at him, wide eyed. 

“What?” Shane asked self consciously. 

“You wear glasses?” Ilya asked, his accent thick, his voice slightly choked. 

“Oh,” Shane said, reaching up. “Just for reading, I was checking emails in the car.” He started to slip them off. 

“No!” Ilya said frantically, and Shane paused, his glasses still on his nose. “Keep them on.” 

“But I’m not reading right now,” Shane said dumbly. 

“Who fucking cares, fuck–” Ilya breathed, and Shane let out a surprised grunt as Ilya pushed him against the wall, his hand tight on Shane’s jaw and kissed him hard. Last night Ilya had kissed him by the front door, a sweet welcoming kiss. This was not like that. Ilya was kissing him hard and desperately, his touch rough, his tongue forcing into Shane’s mouth mercilessly. He pressed Shane against the wall like he wanted to put him through it, their hips together, grinding against him so Shane could feel how hard he already was.He didn’t pull away until they were both gasping, their lips slick with spit. He kept Shane trapped against the wall as they both caught their breath. When Shane glanced up, he saw how blown out Ilya’s pupils already were. 

“Want to fuck your face,” Ilya panted into his ear. His teeth caught Shane’s earlobe, making him shudder. “Watch you swallow my cock, want to come all over your glasses, fuck Shane–”

Shane’s knees bent before he even knew what he was doing and he folded to the ground, looking up at Ilya as he reached for the waistband of his shorts. He flashed back to the night before, both of them sweaty in Ilya’s giant bed, the rasp in Ilya’s voice as he told Shane to arch his back more and then the way he growled “good boy” when Shane had obeyed. He wanted to hear that again. He needed to hear that again. He pulled Ilya’s shorts and underwear down to his knees, freeing his hard cock. He was still looking up at Ilya’s face, through his lashes and the lens of his glasses as he leaned forward and took him in his mouth, pushing until he gagged on it. 

“Fuck,” Ilya moaned. He braced his forearm on the well above Shane’s head, his other hand tangling in Shane’s hair in a tight grip. “Put your hand on my thigh.” Shane obeyed. “You pinch me if you need me to stop, yes? Do it now, show me.” Shane pinched his thigh. “Good boy.” Shane’s moan was muffled, but way too loud, and he felt his own cock jerk. He saw the satisfaction flit across Ilya’s face at his response, and felt his cheeks get pinker in embarrassment. “Such a good boy,” Ilya pressed as he started to rock his hips in shallow thrusts. “So good for me, letting me use this perfect mouth.” He was still being too careful, avoiding anything too rough or too deep. His grip on Shane’s hair was tight, but Shane leaned forward anyway, his scalp protesting, forcing Ilya’s cock deeper. Just for Ilya to pull him back roughly when he gagged, the back of his head hitting the wall with a soft thudding sound. “So eager,” Ilya crooned. “Trying to choke yourself on my cock, like a desperate slut.” Shane let out another moan, his hips jerking up involuntarily. He could feel the precum starting to soak his underwear. “Fuck, you like that,” Ilya murmured. Shane’s vision was starting to blur, but he saw Ilya looking down at him, hazel eyes searching his face. “You like being my slut, being my good boy.” With Ilya’s grip on his hair and his cock on his mouth, pinning him against the wall, Shane’s nod was so small that it would have been missed if Ilya hadn’t been looking so closely. “You are so fucking perfect.” And finally, he drove his hips forward. 

Shane choked and gagged, tears filling his eyes and drool spilling down his chin as Ilya fucked his mouth roughly, but he didn’t pinch, didn’t stop him. He didn’t want to. Even as his stomach turned at the repeated abuse of his gag reflex, he stayed where Ilya put him, desperate to be good, to make Ilya feel good. At a particularly rough thrust, he distracted himself by shoving his hand into his own underwear, grabbing his throbbing cock in a tight fist. He moaned loudly, his throat vibrating around the head of Ilya’s cock, and Ilya let out a stream of Russian, his thrusts getting more erratic. The precum leaking steadily from the tip of Shane’s cock coated his hand, aiding him as he stroked himself. The nausea he had been feeling was replaced with the heat of a building orgasm. 

“Don’t come,” Ilya ordered, panting. “I want to- fuck fuck fuck-  I will- just don’t come, fuck, Shane.” Shane groaned, making Ilya curse in Russian again, and stopped jerking himself off, wanting to obey but also knowing he was too close. He grabbed the base of his cock in a tight fist, squeezing himself painfully hard. It wouldn’t be long, he could tell Ilya was close–

Ilya pulled out abruptly, the hand that had been braced against the wall flying down to grab his cock, slick with Shane’s spit and he stroked himself twice before he came with an almost animalistic growl on Shane’s face. Ropes of it across his glasses, his cheeks, dripping onto his lips. The glasses had stopped any from getting in his eyes, allowing him to keep them open, not that he could see much with the amount of cum painting the lenses. Ilya had clearly been aiming for them. And then Ilya dropped to his knees in front of him, and jerked Shane’s joggers and damp boxer briefs down, exposing his cock to the cool air of the apartment. 

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” Ilya groaned. “Fucking covered in my cum, so hard for me, such a good slut–”  Ilya’s hand was on his cock, pushing his own out of the way and Shane let go with a whimper, thrusting into Ilya’s fist. “I am going to make you come with my hand, and you are going to say my name when I do, yes?” Shane nodded. “Good boy.” 

“Fuck,” Shane choked out as Ilya started to stroke him, his grip tight. His voice was raspy, broken, and his eyes fluttered shut. He was already so close, and Ilya’s hand felt so good... “Fuck, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya–” and he came, his whole body spasming, his vision going white as he coated Ilya’s fist with his release. Ilya was murmuring to him in Russian as he came down, slumping back on his heels, his eyes still closed. 

“You are a mess,” Ilya whispered, sounding satisfied when Shane’s brain finally came back online. “It is very sexy, but I think you are wanting to be clean now, yes?” Shane just nodded, sucking in a startled breath when Ilya kissed his neck, right below his ear. Everything felt sensitive right now, his entire body just one big exposed nerve. 

All day, people had been telling what to do, how to position his body, touching him in a way that made his skin crawl. Making him feel like an object and making his head buzz. His head was buzzing again now as Ilya led him to the shower, but in a very different way. Warm and pleasant, floating instead of dissociating. 

Normally it took hours for Shane to recover from the photoshoots. He would lock himself alone somewhere to force himself to relax, avoid people and definitely avoid touch. Sometimes he wouldn’t feel like himself again until he was on the ice. Now Ilya was here, leading him to the shower, wiping his face clean before he pulled his shirt off, still crooning compliments as he did, and Shane felt… good. A feeling that  normally took an evening of isolation and ice time had been found after 15 minutes on his knees for Ilya. 

Huh. Maybe he was a slut. 

Chapter End Notes

I promise, there is a whole plot and more than smut in this, but I feel like canonically, Ilya and Shane's relationship starts off very physical, and I want to keep it that way, even in an AU. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 4: Am I Doing This Right?

Chapter Summary

Last time: Shane and Ilya spent some time in New York.
This time: Shane goes back to Canada, but Ilya isn't done.

Chapter Notes

July 1-17, 2017

There had to be some instinct that made people want to sleep in the same bed. Something ingrained, at a primal level. Because Shane slept in the same bed as another person… not enough times to count on both hands since he had stopped occasionally sleeping in his parents’ bed back in his childhood. But instead of feeling intrusive and off putting, Ilya’s bulky arm draped over him and his heavy steady breathing was comforting in the early morning light. Shane had never spent the night with a hookup until him. He knew that some members of the team would sleep in the same bed together, especially when they were drunk, but he had always avoided that. Even before he had accepted he was gay, he was terrified of morning wood and how it could be misperceived. Really, the only person he had shared a bed with as an adult was Rose, and he had only been relaxed enough to properly sleep in the same bed as her after they had broken up. Not that he was worried about morning wood with her. His dick had always refused to get hard around her, even in his sleep. 

He was not having the problem with Ilya. Neither was Ilya, the proof of that pressed against Shane’s ass. Still sleepy, not really thinking, Shane pushed back, rubbing against Ilya’s half hard cock, and heard Ilya’s breathing change, his arm tightening around him. Shane reached his hand back, over his own hip and down to touch himself. His hole was still relaxed from how long they had fucked last night, but not loose enough to just push Ilya in, and they needed lube. So instead he turned, pushing Ilya onto his back as he did, and straddled him, reaching for the lube on the bedside table. The two silk ties were still tied to the headboard, the ties that Ilya had used to tie him to bed the night before, and the sight of them made him even harder. He wanted Ilya to tie him up again. He wanted to tie Ilya up, to force him to stay on the bed, to use him– 

Fuck, he just wanted Ilya in any way way, shape or form. 

Ilya groaned, still not fully awake, even as his hips jutted up, rutting against him. Shane dropped a condom on the bed next to them, and then poured an excessive amount of lube on his fingers and reached around to open himself up more. He leaned over, bracing himself next to Ilya’s head as he fingered himself open. He worked himself up to three fingers quickly, biting back his moans, until he felt Ilya kiss his neck. 

“Fucking perfect, filthy man,” Ilya murmured into his ear. He felt Ilya’s fingers’ joining his own, checking his prep progress. “You want?” 

“You’re barely awake,” Shane said. He heard the condom wrapper rip, Ilya’s hand going between Shane’s thighs to roll it onto his cock. “And I’m very awake.” He arched against him as Ilya’s teeth caught his earlobe, sucking it into his mouth. “You’re my morning workout, stay still and let me get my cardio in.” He bit Ilya’s neck when he let out a sleepy chuckle. Ilya held his cock in place as Shane sank down onto it, pulling away his hand to rest them on Shane’s hips as he bottomed out. Shane started to rock, one hand on the mattress next to Ilya’s head, one on his chest, his fingers spread on Ilya’s warm skin, carding through the golden hair on his chest. “Core, glutes, quads, and cardio.” Shane’s movements were still shallow, more teasing than actually fucking. “Riding dick is actually a really good workout.” 

“Mmm, I cuddle you all night but am now just gym equipment?” Ilya teased sleepily, his accent thick. His tone was light, even as his fingers slipped around Shane’s muscular thigh. “And I was going to make you breakfast.” 

“You don’t want to be my workout?” Shane asked, just as teasingly. He ground down and clenched around Ilya’s cock, smirking when the other man groaned at the feeling. “I can hop off, go for a run instead–”

He let out a choked laugh when Ilya grip on his thighs became almost painfully tight. “Fucking tease,” Ilya grumbled. Shane rocked again, and Ilya’s breath caught. “You wake me up to fuck and then just torture me? And you call this workout? You are barely moving. This is workout of Olympian? Maybe this is why you win silver, not gold.” 

Shane stopped dead, glaring down at him. Ilya’s smirk was barely contained. 

“We had several injuries,” Shane defended the Canadian team. “And we still nearly beat the US despite that.” 

“Mmm, nearly. But did not.” Ilya gave him an exaggerated frown. “Poor Captain Canada, only has two Stanley Cups and a silver medal, maybe if he–”

“Do you ever shut up?” Shane interrupted, staring down at him. 

“Only when I am distracted,” Ilya said with a satisfied smile. “Or when my mouth is full. Seems like you are not doing a good job at distracting me, so I–”

He broke off with a strangled gasp as Shane raised his hips until Ilya’s cock was barely inside him and then slammed down. Shane’s right hand stayed on his chest, but he moved his other hand to Ilya’s jaw, his palm on Ilya’s chin and he slid two of his fingers into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya sucked on them as Shane rode him in earnest, both of them moaning, the only sound in the room besides the slapping of skin and Shane’s quickening breathing. Ilya’s hands started to roam, long fingers tracing over the muscles in Shane’s chest, his stomach, sliding over his hips to squeeze his ass and brush a fingertip over where they were connected, making Shane gasp and speed up. Ilya sucked harder on Shane’s fingers, hollowing his cheeks around them as his fingers left Shane’s rim to grab his ass again, digging into his asscheek hard enough that Shane suspected it would leave bruises, meeting Shane’s roughness with his own even as he left the pace and movement up to Shane, dutifully keeping his hips still. 

Shane’s movements were getting less smooth, his fingers tightening in Ilya’s chest hair, almost tugging it now as he panted over him, his fingers pressed against Ilya’s tongue, fingertips teasing the piercing there. He let out a loud groan when Ilya’s hand wrapped around his cock, not stroking it, just holding him so Shane was fucking into his fist with every rise of his hips. Shane swore loudly, his nails biting into Ilya’s chest as he came into Ilya’s hand. Ilya stroked him through the aftershock, before roughly grabbing Shane’s hips and for the first time that morning, he thrust up, holding a still shaking and moaning Shane in place as he fucked up into him fast and hard, panting around Shane’s fingers. It only took a few thrusts before he slammed Shane down by his hips, his fingers biting into soft skin as he came with a strangled shout, his back arching, his cock throbbing inside of Shane as he filled the condom. 

They both collapsed limply, Shane on top of him, his sweaty face against Ilya’s neck as Ilya slid his arms around Shane’s waist and kissed his hair, mumbling in a mix of Russian and English as he lazily rubbed Shane’s back. 

“So how was your morning workout?” Ilya asked him.

“I still need to do upper body, and I try to keep my cardio–” Shane broke off when Ilya let out a groan, and Shane felt him start to laugh. He lifted himself from Ilya’s neck to look at him. 

“Malysh. I am flirting with you,” Ilya said, grinning. “You just gave me a very good morning, now I flirt and make you breakfast.” 

“Oh.” Shane considered this. He bit back a moan when Ilya finally pulled out of him, reminding him how sensitive he was. Two nights and a morning of sex would do that, especially considering how sex was not exactly a regular part of his life. “We need to shower first.” He was about to ask what ‘malysh’ means, but was distracted by Ilya’s soft laugh and then he was being pulled from the bed and into the waiting shower. 

And then in the shower, Ilya raised a different question. 

“So you came to see me in New York, so now I come to you, yes?” Ilya asked as he shampooed Shane’s hair. “It is only fair. Are you in Montreal during the summer, or exclusively at your glass mansion?” 

“Um. I don’t know?” Shane tipped back his head, letting the shampoo suds rinse out. “I’m trying to figure out my summer right now. I’m…” he sighed. Ilya waited. “I normally just spend my summers at my cottage. But right now… You know how my last couple months were bad? How I was really unprotected?” Ilya nodded, his expression sliding from flirty to concerned. “Well, my mom wanted me to take up boxing again. I trained as a teenager, but I don’t like to fight, and I was protected, so I stopped. And now I’m not protected, so I’m starting again. Just in case. Like, I really hope my team has adjusted but at the same time…” 

“At the same time, what?” Ilya asked. They were just standing under the water now, not even pretending to clean themselves. 

“The group chat is dead,” Shane said bluntly. “Which means there's a new one without me. I used to get 60 texts a day, minimum. But the team chat is dead, and according to Hayden and JJ, so is the ‘no captain’ chat, which means they’ve started one without them.” He shrugged, and tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Hayden and JJ? Hayden Pike and JJ Boiziau, right?” Ilya asked. “They support you?” 

“Loudly. And now they’re being punished for it too,” Shane said. He sighed. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.” 

“You are not,” Ilya murmured. He soaped up a washcloth, pushing Shane against the tiled walls as he started to clean his entire body, his touch delicate, focused. “You should relearn to fight, if they will not protect. Especially because–” he abruptly stopped himself, focusing on Shane’s body instead. 

“Because what?” Shane urged him after a minute. The washcloth stalled against his ribs. 

“They are not going to keep your secret, Shane,” Ilya said bluntly. “They are going to tell other homophobes. They are putting a target on your back.” 

“They wouldn’t do that,” Shane said quickly, and when Ilya scowled, his voice raised. “No, I mean from a homophobic standpoint! They don’t want people to know that their Captain is gay.” Ilya looked more serious now than he had ever seen him, hazel eyes searching his face. His expression said that he didn’t believe him. But he left it alone until they were out of the shower, dressed and in the kitchen. 

“So boxing means you do not know summer plans?” Ilya asked as he made Shane tea and himself coffee. 

“My cottage is really far out. And yeah, I have the money and name power that a coach would probably agree to make the drive out several times a week, but not only do I not want to ask someone to do that, I also don’t want a stranger there with me. I don’t even have cleaners come except for right before I get there and right after I leave, unless I’m having people come to visit. And it's not like my other summer training, which I can do alone. The idea of having a constant, repeat visitor…” Shane shook his head. “I would rather just stay in Montreal.” His tone said he wasn’t completely happy with that plan. 

“Here,” Ilya offered, pushing a mug full of green tea across the island to Shane, who did a double take, and then glared at the smirking Ilya. Rolling his eyes, Shane picked up the black mug which said ‘Gay Slut’ in large rainbow cursive letters. “I have writing and recording sessions here in New York, probably for next two or three weeks, and then I will have time off while producers do their work. And I come to Montreal?” 

“That should work,” Shane agreed, nodding. “I don't have any more work to do until the end of the summer. Reebok, Calvin Klein and Speedo all like to do our shoots right before the season starts when I’m at my bulkiest and not covered in bruises, so I’m basically free until mid August.” 

“Calvin Klein? Are you doing another underwear campaign?” Ilya asked eagerly. Shane shook his head, sipping his tea. 

“Group shots with the other brand ambassadors. They don’t tend to repeat big campaigns with the same people, thank god.” He smiled at Ilya’s look of disappointment. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll find a reason for me to take my shirt off, they always do. And my biggest campaign this year is Speedo…” he winced. “And I’ve seen what they want me to wear. Although we’re doing the shoot in Puerto Rico this year, so at least I’ll be in a nice setting while whoring myself out.” 

“Yeeees,” Ilya said happily. “I love when you do this. I jerked off to your Calvin Klein ads so much.” He said this casually, with no shame, even as Shane choked on his tea. “Although, you might have ruined them for me now. Your real bedroom eyes are much sexier than photoshoot bedroom eyes.” 

“I’ll… um,” Shane coughed, clearly his throat of the tea he had just inhaled wrong. “Try harder in the Speedo campaign?” 

“No. I like knowing I get to see it for real and the public does not,” Ilya said definitively, an edge of possessiveness in his voice, and Shane tried to stomp out the warmth that blossomed in his chest at the sound. Yes, Ilya was planning on visiting him in Canada, but they still barely knew each other. It's not like he was Shane’s boyfriend. Pull yourself together, dude. And then Ilya walked around the island, his hand cupped Shane’s jaw, and he kissed him hard. And any thoughts of pulling himself together flew out the window. Maybe after Montreal, maybe if Ilya stayed for long enough, they could fuck until they were finally satisfied, and Shane would stop wanting him so much. 

But as Ilya licked into his mouth, tasting like milky coffee and caramel, Shane had to accept that maybe he didn’t want this feeling to go away. 

…..

Shane famously was not a good texter. He hated group chats, couldn’t sext to save his life, and had a bad habit of thinking of a response to a text and then forgetting to actually send it. He had improved slightly because of Rose, who was not afraid to send ten texts in a row when he didn’t respond, although he still preferred to call her back instead of chatting over messages. Tone and intent was hard enough to navigate in normal conversation, but he hated it even more over text, always feeling like he was missing something that everyone else understood. 

On his return to Montreal after New York, he discovered that Ilya liked to text. It had surprised him at first, picking up his phone throughout the day to see messages from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥, asking about his day, telling Shane about his own, sending a photo of a dog he met on the street, asking him about food preferences, what movies he liked, complaining about the New York summer heat, telling him funny stories from his recording sessions. What had surprised Shane even more was how easy it was for him to respond. He didn’t feel pressure to respond for one, Ilya never seemed bothered when Shane didn’t answer, would just jump to the next thing. It also never felt like a structured conversation where Shane would eventually have to figure out how to say goodbye. Instead, he would just stop responding until he had something to say. Ilya’s love of emojis was helpful in reading his tone. Shane had never thought about emojis that much (except when Jackie had tried to set him up with a girl who seemed to text exclusively in them, which had been a frustrating couple of days), but now he was starting to see the benefits of them. 

After a week, he even started reaching out first when, after a brutal boxing session, he had picked up his phone and not seen a text waiting for him. He hadn’t even thought about it, just texted, “I think my boxing coach hates professional athletes and has found a way to get revenge” before dropping his phone and hitting the showers. When he had picked up his phone again, he had found a laughing emoji in response, and then a selfie of Ilya in the recording booth, at a mic, headphones on. Two minutes later, another text that just read “do you like cats?” 

Over the weeks, he learned that Ilya loved dogs and kids for the same reasons (fun, energetic and more honest than adults); that his favorite color was burgundy (but his favorite color to wear was black); that he wanted more tattoos (but had enough “dumb” tattoos that he wanted any new ones to be more significant going forward); that he didn’t like to talk about his own family (but loved to ask Shane questions about his); that he had a lot of opinions on classic Russian and YA English novels (and even more on their film adaptations); that he had true disgust for what he called “the label people” who were in the music industry for profit instead of art (and apparently would not be happy until they had turned all of Ilya’s music into commercial friendly “pop bullshit”). Every piece of new information went into the list that Shane was compiling in his head, his imagined spreadsheet of who Ilya was, and what he needed to be happy. What Shane could do to make him happy. And so far, Shane thought he was doing pretty well. Even his poor sexting seemed to entertain Ilya instead of frustrate him. And with every day that passed, Shane became more and more eager for when he would be seeing him in person, instead of just reading his messages. 

It was exactly two weeks after Shane had left New York that Ilya told him he was ready to schedule his visit. Shane was in the middle of meal prepping, food on the stove, not a good time to be texting. He could have waited. Instead he called. 

“You’re on a speaker, I’m cooking right now,” Shane told him as soon as Ilya picked up. “Too hard to text.” 

“Ah, this makes sense,” Ilya said, and Shane was relieved he couldn’t see his definitely dopey smile at the sound of his voice. “What are you making?” 

“Rice bowls. It’s my nutritionist's recipe. I grew up eating a lot of white rice, and I love it, but I tend to stick to brown rice or quinoa during the season so I try to eat a lot of it during the off season,” Shane explained. Was he rambling? Suddenly he got nervous. Maybe he should have stuck to text. 

“Yes, you ate a lot of Japanese food growing up, right?” Ilya said, not sounding at all like Shane was being annoying and remembering a conversation they had over text. It made Shane smile again, and his nerves steadied. “White rice is big part of Japanese diet, yes?” 

“Yeah, there aren’t a lot of Japanese food places in Ottawa, and there used to be basically none, so my dad learned how to make it for my mom,” Shane explained. “He used to drive over an hour to stock up at the closest Asian market, but now they have one locally. And the Internet is good for that.” 

“That is very romantic,” Ilya said, his tone thoughtful. “For your dad to do this for her.” 

“Huh.” Shane paused, considering this. “Yeah, I guess it is.” On his mental spreadsheet, a new entry immediately popped up : learn how to cook Russian food. Maybe that was too much too soon? Maybe he didn’t even like Russian food. Wait, he had made Shane that Russian porridge. And mentioned a Russian place he liked in New York. But Shane knew his cooking skills were… not great. He could follow a recipe, but he didn’t have the instinct for it like his dad did, somehow always knowing what a dish needed without a cookbook telling him, inventing recipes off the top of his head with ease. His attempt at a romantic gesture could instead become a hate crime. Was it too soon to be making romantic gestures? And now that Ilya had pointed out that his dad doing it was romantic, would Ilya see that he was just stealing his dad’s move and realize that Shane didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, and maybe it would be better if he just found a Russian place in Montreal, but that wasn’t really the point, was it, it was about the effort–

“So I am done in the studio in probably three days,” Ilya said, unknowingly breaking into Shane’s mental ramblings that were right on the edge of a full spiral. “And they do not want me back for a week, probably two. But definitely a week.” 

“A week? You can spend a week here?” Shane asked, almost dropping the salmon he had been carefully flipping. 

“I think so, yes. Maybe two if we are not sick of each other after first week,” Ilya said easily. 

“Do you think we will?” Shane asked. There was a pause from the other end. “I mean, we’ve spent like, three nights together, and now we’re talking about two weeks. That’s a… jump.” 

“It is,” Ilya said carefully. “But this is how it works when you do not live in the same country. Lots of texting, lots of calling, and visits. And no. To your question. I do not think I will get sick of you.” 

“I don’t think I’ll get sick of you either,” Shane said quietly. Honestly. “Damn, now I really wish we were going to the cottage. I would much rather spend my week with you there than in Montreal.” He thought for a second. “You know, I think I could swing it, actually. I’m already starting to be paired up with sparring partners at the gym instead of working with my coach, and I have a heavy bag in the cottage gym. All I really needed to do was brush up on the fundamentals, and yeah, it’s not ideal to train without a sparring partner, but it'll just be two weeks, I can still–” 

“Shane,” Ilya interrupted. Shane snapped his mouth shut. “I think you are missing something obvious. Me.” 

“What?” Shane blinked in confusion. Obviously, he was thinking about Ilya, this was all about Ilya. 

“Shane,” Ilya said with a sigh. “I was a queer teenager in Russia, first in hockey, and then in the punk scene. I know how to fight. I can be your sparring partner. Fuck, I could probably teach you some things. My old coaches focused on soviet style boxing, it is very effective. You do not even need punching bag, I will teach you how to fight like a Russian.” 

“You… want to be my sparring partner? You want to teach me how to fight?” Shane asked, thrown off. 

“Yes. Obviously. Getting sweaty in the gym with you is suddenly a new fantasy.” 

“Oh.” Shane felt himself blushing. “So… do you want to come to the cottage with me?” 

“You are inviting me to the woods to fuck and fight?” Ilya asked, his tone teasing, and Shane was definitely blushing now. “This is very Russian of you, Shane. Will you also be supplying vodka and caviar?”

“I mean, I can,” Shane said, pretending to focus on his food instead of his blush. “I don’t really like vodka, though…” 

“And finally, I find a flaw,” Ilya teased. “It is okay, you have only had North American vodka. I will bring good Russian vodka with me. Maybe you change your mind.” 

“So, that's a yes?” Shane asked, almost holding his breath. “You’ll come to my cottage with me?” 

“Yes,” Ilya confirmed. “I’m coming to the cottage.” 

….. 

Shane 

I will be muting my phone for the next two weeks. I’m fine, I’m just doing a virtual silent retreat. My yoga teacher recommended it. Just sending a heads up as to why I’ll be unreachable for the next two weeks. My phone will be off, and I won’t be answering the door. I just need to fix my headspace. 

He sent this text individually to everyone who might bother him while Ilya was visiting, going for two weeks instead of one for safety. Everyone responded. Luckily, everyone believed it. Almost everyone. 

Mom

Okay, let me know if it works. I’ll talk to you in two weeks, sweetie. 

Dad

Since your phone will be off, I checked the weather for you. Mark that on the 24th, there is a heat wave predicted. 

Hayden Pike

sounds good bud. well be busy with new baby anyway

Jackie Pike

I’m still sending you baby photos, godfather

JJ Boiziau

Mon ami, if quiet yoga is what you need, quiet yoga is what you get. See you when it's over. 

And the one outlier: 

Rose Landry

You are so full of shit. Is a certain singer coming to visit? 

Shane

You don’t know everything. 

Rose Landry

Yes I do. Are you two dating? Is this official?? Two weeks together isn’t casual, Shane. 

Shane 

Oh, so you DON’T know everything. 

I don’t know. 

He’s out, and I’m publicly still in the closet. 

And don’t think I can leave it yet. 

I don’t think I want to yet. 

I want him. But.

I don’t want to drag him down with me. 

And he basically insisted on seeing me in NYC, and then he was talking about visiting, and he’s texting me constantly and now he’s coming and I don’t know. 

Rose Landry

So first of all, breath. 

Let’s start with the obvious. He likes you. He was checking insta for your DM, we both know that people like us don’t just check our DMs randomly. He only saw your message because he was looking for it. You said he has been into you for years. Then he got you, and DOUBLED DOWN. Sweetie, we are past a bucket list lay. He wants you. You, all the way. 

If you want him too, I think he’s onboard. 

And it's not putting him in the closet. You wouldn’t be asking him to renounce his sexuality, just not to talk about his relationship publicly. And let me tell you, that is really normal here. If you aren't dating another celeb for PR, we try to keep it secret. Secret relationships are def the norm in our world. 

Shane

Okay, but isn’t him visiting me moving too fast if I don’t even know what we are? 

I invited him to the cottage, Rose. 

Rose Landry

So you’ll have plenty of time and privacy to get to know each other better. 

Shane

Maybe this was a mistake. I have so much going on with the team right now, and I shouldn’t be putting my time and energy into a guy before dealing with that mess. 

Rose Landry

Shane, I will walk from Prague to Canada just to bitch slap you.

Shane 

That would be incredibly impressive and I would love to see you. Do it. 

Rose Landry

Never mind, new threat: I will message Ilya. 

Shane 

Rose. No. 

Call to Rose Landry: 58 minutes. 

Rose Landry

Are you done being stupid? 

Shane 

Yes. 

🖕

Rose Landry 

Aw, baby’s first emoji! And it’s rude and bitchy. What a shock. 

Love you 😘

Shane 

🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

Love you too 

Chapter End Notes

Ilya is going to chirp, even if he isn't a hockey player, even in bed.

Chapter 5: Tattoos, Loons And Aftercare

Chapter Summary

Last time: Shane and Ilya continue talking, and plan to meet at the cottage.
This time: At the cottage, the boys continue to get to know each other, and Ilya has some questions about Shane's past.

Chapter Notes

Alternate chapter title: The Cottage, Part 1.

July 19-22, 2017

Shane had offered to pick up Ilya from the airport, but Ilya had opted to drive instead, even though it was a seven hour drive. Ilya had told him it would be time to decompress and change his mindset after weeks in the studio, and complained that he didn’t get enough opportunities for drives living in New York. Shane didn’t necessarily see the appeal of driving for that long, but he didn’t argue. He himself had gotten to the cottage the night before, and when he woke at six, he found a text from Ilya sent at 4:50 AM telling him that he was leaving New York. So Shane just waited. Even though the cleaners had come right before he did, he still went over the perfectly clean house again, knowing he was stress cleaning and not caring to stop. He went to the grocery store with the long list Ilya had sent him. When Ilya had mentioned that he enjoyed cooking, Shane had realized the supplies he had at the cottage were pretty meager for someone who actually took cooking seriously instead of just using food for fuel like he did. So he had asked Ilya for all the ingredients he might need while they were there so Ilya could make better use of his kitchen, and now his spice rack was three times bigger and he had eight types of cooking oils when before he had two. Unfortunately, he was still finished with all of this by 10:30 am. A longer work out, and a very long and complete shower killed more time. And then he waited. 

He was normally alone at his cottage. Of course, he had visitors occasionally. His parents, the Pikes, a boys weekend with Hayden and JJ. He had hosted the entire team for the weekend after both their Stanley Cup wins. Rose had just made her first visit at the beginning of the summer. But he had never brought someone he was sleeping with. Someone he liked as more than a friend. He wanted Ilya to like the cottage. He wanted Ilya to know that it meant something that Shane had invited him, but was also terrified that Ilya would know that and put too much weight on. Or the proper amount of weight on it. 

“Stop being so stupid for a guy you barely know,” Shane muttered to himself as he scrubbed out his sink for the third time that day. “It's like what Rose said. We’re getting to know each other, privacy is good for that, and if it's bad, he drove here, he can drive home.” He rinsed out the sponge, putting it away in its spot under the sink away from the sponge he used for dishes. “And stop talking to yourself.” And he went to change his outfit for the fourth time. 

He was buttoning the light blue linen shirt when he heard the roar of a sports car engine, and the crunch of gravel, and left his bedroom to head to the front door. He debated for a second to wait until Ilya knocked, and decided that was stupid. His car was loud, why pretend that he didn’t hear it pull up? What would be the point? So instead he stepped out onto the small front porch. 

Shane actually recognized the car as a Mercedes AMG-GT Coupe, only because JJ had one, although JJ’s wasn’t electric blue like Ilya’s. The trunk was already open, and Ilya, dressed in a black tank top, backwards hat, sunglasses and Adidas joggers, was swinging a battered guitar case over his back. 

“Hi,” Shane called from the porch, and Ilya looked up at him as he pulled out a duffle bag. “You brought your guitar?” 

“Feel weird leaving it for too long,” Ilya called back. “Also, I lied to my producers and said this was a writing trip, so…” he shrugged as he pulled another, equally battered case that Shane didn’t recognize out of the trunk. With the two cases, he was struggling with his duffle bag, and Shane hurried over to help him. “I might have to do some work while you train. So, guitar and piano.” He raised what Shane now realized was a keyboard case. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Shane said again, and grabbed the last bag, a backpack. “Um. Come on in.” 

Ilya followed him inside, and Shane put his bags down in the entry way, and slipped off his shoes. And unfortunately, found himself starting to babble. It started with a suggestion of putting Ilya’s instruments in one of the spare rooms, making a work space for him, and when Ilya just nodded, nerves took over and he was suddenly talking about the grocery shopping he had done and his well, and the lighting and finally, thankfully, Ilya seemed to take pity on him. Shane’s ramblings stammered out when Ilya stepped directly into his space, one hand landing on his waist, the other on his jaw to tip his head back and Ilya kissed him. 

And his nerves vanished. 

They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Ilya’s stuff and their clothes lay strewn between the front door and the living room, a messy trail showing their path to the couch where Shane had pushed Ilya down and eagerly sunk to his knees in front of him. After Ilya had returned the favor, he had pulled Shane down to top of him, wrapping both arms and long legs tightly around him to keep him trapped as he cuddled him, and Shane was suddenly grateful his designer had talked him into buying such a large couch. 

The large windows let in the early afternoon light, making the gold in Ilya’s dark blond curls glow. From where Shane lay on his chest, he admired the curves of Ilya’s shoulder and biceps, and for the first time, looked more closely at the tattoos covering them. 

“Do you have ducklings on your arm?” he asked, breaking the silence. Ilya’s left arm seemed to be mostly dedicated to architecture from around the world, the outside of his bicep a building that looked Russian to Shane’s untrained eye, and he saw the Empire State Building in the inside of his bicep. What threw him off was the parade of ducklings winding their way around the buildings. 

“Mmm, for Boston,” Ilya confirmed. “They are not ducklings, they are statues of ducklings. When I first moved to Boston, Sveta buys me a child’s book, Make Way For The Ducklings, about duck family walking through Boston. Very famous. There are statues of them in Boston Commons.” Ilya lifted his arm from Shane’s back, and showed him the adult duck at his wrist, leading the line of ducklings. Shane trailed his fingers over the tattoo. 

“Are all of these for places?” he asked. He turned Ilya’s arm, looking closely. He stopped at one, recognizing the writing even if he couldn’t read it. “Is this a Japanese food stall?” 

“Yes, Japan was the first East Asian country we played,” Ilya said. “We barely left the neighborhood where we were playing, it was a short trip, could not do sight seeing, so I get tattoo of the food stall outside the club.” He turned his arm, pointing at a tall, skinny tower going up the outside of his forearm. “Berlin, first place we played outside Russia.” He turned his arm again, pointing at another building, this one with Pride flags flying from its turrets. “Madrid, first Pride parade we performed.” He tapped the Russian style cathedral that dominated his bicep. “Moscow, first home. Boston ducklings, second home.” He twisted again, tapped the Empire State Building. “New York, third home and first North American gig.” He tapped the large spider right above the inside of his elbow. “First time playing Australia, spider tried to move into Svetlana’s drum case, it was very funny.” He tapped the Christ on the outside of his forearm, one Shane recognized as Rio de Janiero’s Christ the Redeemer statue. “Brazil. First South American gig.” The brightly colored flowers at Christ’s feet. “Hawaii. First vacation after getting my new American passport. First vacation ever, actually.” A jar of fish with foreign writing on it. “Norway. Start of our first full European tour. Best pickled herring I had since leaving Russia. We bought so many jars, we got yelled at by customs at the border.” A Day of the Dead sugar skull. “Mexico. Start of first full South American tour.” A jelly fish. “Box jelly fish from Thailand. First Asian tour, first time snorkeling. Tour manager got stung on first day, likes to mention that he could have died. He was fine, just dramatic. Very pretty snorkeling until stinging happened.” Out of tattoos to explain, Ilya went quiet, letting Shane examine each image with new context. They were all done in different styles, but all at obviously high skill levels, carefully picked and curated. 

Satisfied, Shane sat up, straddling Ilya’s hips so he could look more closely at Ilya’s other arm. This one seemed… less organized. Some of them looked older and messier, not the high skill level pictured on his left arm. Shane ran his fingers over the large demon on the inside of his bicep, and looked at Ilya, who looked a little embarrassed. 

“Thought it looked cool,” he admitted, and Shane grinned. There was more writing on his right arm, in a variety of languages. “Most of right arm tattoos do not have stories, I just wanted tattoos. Many are… very, very dumb.” 

“I want to be anarchy, the only way to be,” Shane read out loud. 

“Sex Pistols,” Ilya explained. He pointed at various other lyrics and lines on his arm, naming bands and authors Shane didn’t recognize. 

“Do you have any of your own lyrics?” Shane asked curiously, turning Ilya’s right arm to look more closely at the tattoos. 

“Fuck no,” Ilya grunted. “Closest thing I have to MEDVEDI tattoo is…” he tapped the comical bear on his chest. “First tattoo, when I was sixteen. We were not even called MEDVEDI when I got it.” Next to the photo realism on his left arm, the bear looked even dumber. It did fit in with the mess on his right arm, though. 

“What were you called?” Shane asked. He brushed his fingers over the snarling bear which took up the top half of Ilya’s right pec, ending right above his pierced nipple. 

“Ah, does not translate perfectly. In English, closest translation is Typical Russians? Or Stereotypical Russians. Since we were queer protest band, we thought it was funny. But Russian label refused to sign us under that name, so instead we become different Russian stereotype, translates to Drunk And Depressed Bears.” Ilya grinned when Shane let out a soft laugh. “Yes, we thought we were funny. First time we played outside of Russia, in Berlin, promoter there told us to translate it to English, or shorten it if we want non-Russian speakers to remember it. So we become Bears.” 

“Why is the name in all capitals?” Shane asked, a question he had since the first time he googled Ilya. 

“Because that is how I write in English alphabet, and the people who organized our first international gigs thought it was a choice, not just how I write,” Ilya admitted, and Shane laughed again. “They made so many posters and t-shirts with MEDVEDI in all capitals, we had to stick to it. Anna, our first bassist, hated it. Said it was part of the reason she left the band, but we all knew it was because she fell in love with a DJ in Berlin.” 

“Hazy wasn’t your original bass player?” Shane asked. That made sense, actually, both Troy and Hazy were North American. 

“Anna was our original bass player, she lives in Berlin now. She was with us until we couldn’t go back to Russia. Sveta and I decided to stay in US, she went to Berlin where her girlfriend, now wife, lived. Sasha was our first guitarist, but he did not really care about music, just wanted to get out of Russia and was our  friend. He left the band on our first tour, lives in Paris now, and has been to rehab four times.” There was some bitterness in Ilya’s tone at this. “He is… messy. We had a couple of guitar players before we found Troy. Shane.” His hand caught Shane’s fingers, which had trailed down from the bear tattoo to Ilya’s pierced nipple. “Keep touching me like this, and we are going to be done talking about tattoos and bands.” 

“I can deal with that,” Shane said, leaning down and pressing his lips against Ilya’s. He pulled his fingers from Ilya’s, and pinched his nipple, tugging lightly on the piercing. When he had done this in New York, it had made Ilya moan, and he smiled against Ilya’s lips when he did it again now. Ilya’s hand slid into Shane’s hair, the kiss becoming more aggressive. 

“Bedroom. Now,” Ilya finally demanded after several minutes of making out and Shane was more than happy to lead him to his bed. 

…..

Shane was five years old when, swimming with his dad, he had accidentally disturbed a group of loons at the edge of the lake. They had exploded out of their huddle, swimming around him to fly away and scaring him into tears. He had nightmares that night about them chasing him, their red eyes glowing. Shane had been eight when he learned that loons couldn’t properly walk on land, after witnessing a female drag her way to her nest. He had run to get his mom, worried that she was injured, only to be told she was fine and loons are just better at swimming than walking. He had been twelve years old when he learned to replicate their wail, his dad showing him how to hold his hands, how to blow between his fingers to recreate the sound. He had practiced all summer. He was fifteen the first time he heard their mating coos, so different from their calls that he had been convinced at first it was a different animal until he had seen the two in their nest.  

And he was 26 when he learned that a loon’s wail would make Ilya Rozanov jump out of his skin. 

“What the fuck was that?!” Ilya demanded, his eyes frantic, already on his feet, looking into the darkness. Two seconds ago, he had been complaining about the fire pit being boring. He certainly wasn’t bored now. 

“A loon,” Shane told him, trying and failing not to laugh. “The bird?” 

“A bird made that sound? A fucking bird? I thought it was a wolf!” 

“A wolf!” Shane cackled now, and Ilya glared at him. “It’s a fucking loon! A water bird!” 

“Like ducks? A Canadian fucking duck made that noise?” Ilya continued to glare like he was sure Shane was tricking him. 

“They’re bigger than ducks. And not really related, they’re actually more closely related to penguins than ducks.” He waited a beat. “And they have red eyes.” 

“Demon wolf bird!” 

Shane laughed, and Ilya let out a huff of annoyance. He jumped back when Shane raised his hands and imitated the loon’s wail, and Shane dissolved into laughter again. 

“Oh, you speak bird now?” Ilya demanded, but his lips were starting to twitch. 

“Fluently,” Shane said. “Are you going to sit down? I promise, I won’t let the evil water birds get you.” 

“You are very rude,” Ilya complained. “I am city boy! I grew up in Moscow! Now I am trapped in Canadian wilderness, hearing demon wolf birds and you laugh!” Even as he ranted, he sat, bypassing the chair he had been in to instead sit in Shane’s lap. At his nudge, Shane wrapped his arm around him and Ilya curled against him, pressing his face against Shane’s neck. His voice became muffled, but the grumpiness was still there as he continued to complain. “If you let me get killed by demon wolf birds, I will fucking haunt you, Shane Hollander. Personal ghost.” 

“I promise to protect you from the scary birdies,” Shane said solemnly, and then yelped when Ilya pinched him, clearly done with being made fun of.

…..

Ilya being at the cottage was easier than Shane had expected. He was easy to be around, but also had respect for personal space, disappearing into the spare bedroom where he had set up his guitar, keyboard and laptop for hours at a time while Shane trained. Shane had dropped in once or twice to discover him sitting on the floor, cross legged, his guitar in his lap, writing in a notebook. Ilya hadn’t minded he was in there, but Shane had found it was actually pretty boring to watch someone write music. The next time he hung out in there while Ilya worked, he had brought a book, only to be told ten minutes in that his glasses were too distracting. They had sex on the guest room bed, Ilya’s notebook and guitar abandoned, and then he had been banned from wearing them while Ilya was working. 

“Glasses” was on Shane’s mental spreadsheet under Ilya’s turn ons. Also on the list was “yoga” and “sparring” (three days in, both sparring sessions had been productive, but had also ended in blowjobs. Yoga had ended with Shane being fucked from behind on his yoga mat in an almost frantic quickie, Ilya grumbling about “stupid shorts” and “fucking pretzel shaped man”). Also in Ilya’s turn ons was Shane beating him in pool and video games, Shane losing to him in video games, Shane outside in very short shorts (Shane had tried to explain that Speedo had requested this, trying to avoid tan lines before his shoot and had realized Ilya was not listening at all), Shane trying to get dressed, Shane wearing MEDVEDI merch, Shane doing dishes, Shane doing laundry, Shane sweaty from a workout… Shane had never had so much sex in his life. 

He had also never had sex like this. Every time with Ilya made him realize that the sex he had experienced before had been boring in comparison. Starting from their first day in the cottage, after their first dinner, when Ilya had discovered the ice cream in the freezer. Shane had declined it at first, which had turned into Ilya tempting him into taking “just a bite” from his bowl, and ten minutes later Shane had found himself naked on his kitchen island as Ilya crawled on top of him to lick melting ice cream off his abs. 

Their second night, Ilya had talked him into the hot tub, appalled when Shane told him he had only used it a handful of times. Under the star filled sky, they drank Russian vodka and made out until Shane’s lips were numb and he was so turned on he felt drunker on arousal than the vodka. Ilya had stopped his hands from traveling any lower than the top of his swim trunks, and mostly kept his own away from Shane’s lower body as well, outside of grabbing his ass over his trunks as Shane straddled his lap. It almost felt like Shane was getting an experience he had missed as a teenager, that he had only heard about from teammates as they bragged about kissing girls who tasted like stolen alcohol. Back then, even in the privacy of his own mind, Shane would never have allowed himself to think about what it would be like to kiss a boy who tasted like vodka and clutched at him like Ilya was doing now. Instead, he had convinced himself he didn’t want it at all, that his only interest was hockey. When he had finally come to terms with being gay, he had also accepted that there were just some experiences he wouldn’t get in his life. And without him saying anything, Ilya had found a way to give him that lost teenage moment. Although luckily for adult Shane, the virgin teenage experience ended when they were back in the house. Ilya had immediately bent him over the bathroom counter, his fist in Shane’s hair as he pulled his head back and demanded that Shane watch himself get fucked in the mirror. Neither of them had lasted even five minutes. 

When Ilya had tied his wrists to his bed back in New York, Shane had thought that was kinky, one of the kinkiest things he had ever done. Until their third night at the cottage, when Ilya had tied him up again, but this time had also introduced a cock ring and a vibrating prostate massager that he tortured Shane with until he was a begging, squirming mess. When Ilya had finally released him from the ring, he had come so hard he almost passed out. It was the first time in his life he had immediately fallen asleep after sex, too wiped out to change the sheets and shower, barely staying awake as Ilya wiped him clean of their combined cum and lube with a warm, damp washcloth. 

When he woke up the next morning, Ilya had been wrapped around him, making Shane a little too warm. But when Shane tried to slip out from under his heavy arm, it tightened, trapping him as Ilya woke. 

“Hi,” Ilya grumbled, pulling Shane easily back against the sheets and into his arms. He kissed the top of Shane’s head, knowing that Shane wouldn’t want a kiss on the mouth until they had brushed their teeth. “How do you feel?” 

“Good?” Shane said, slightly confused. Ilya’s fingers started drawing lazy circles on his bare back as he held Shane against his chest. 

“Sex was intense last night,” Ilya explained. “And you fell asleep before aftercare.” 

“Aftercare?” Shane asked. Ilya hesitated, his fingers stopping their movements before resuming. 

“Care after sex. Cuddling, talking, checking in. Hmm. You said before…” Ilya paused, then continued. “Closested, famous gay man. Hard to get experience.” Shane nodded. Ilya’s voice was slightly gravely, his accent thicker like it always was right when he woke up. “What is your experience? With sex, I mean?” The question hovered between them, and Shane tried not to squirm. At his clear embarrassment, Ilya’s tone changed. “I hooked up with a boy for the first time when I was 14. In Russia. With Sasha, my old bandmate. This was before the band, he was just my coach’s son back then.” 

“Coach…? Oh, that’s right, you said you played hockey as a kid,” Shane said, catching up. “Wait, the coach’s son? That’s– wasn’t that incredibly risky? And a bit… cliche?” Ilya raised his eyebrows, and Shane quickly explained, “I don’t know! It's a very forbidden romance, porno plot, isn’t it?” 

Ilya’s laughter rolled over him, quelling his anxiety and making him smile. “A bit, yes. But we both had the same secret. Made it safer. And he was a friend. And his father liked me. He was very annoyed when I dropped hockey to focus on music.” 

“Oh, so you were good?” Shane asked, curious. Ilya nodded. 

“Russia wanted me for the junior national team,” he said casually, and Shane’s jaw dropped. “My father was excited. He and my coach were very annoyed when I said no, tried to force me into it. So I did the tryouts, and then spent a week clubbing and doing any drug I was offered so I would fail the drug test and look like risky choice.” He shrugged at this even as Shane gaped at him, shocked. “My father was furious. I lived with Svetlana and her family for months after he kicked me out. Backfired on my father, that’s when we officially started the band. And her family was supportive. Her father knew about being a pro hockey player and didn’t think anyone should be forced into it. It helped that he hated my father.” 

“I played Russia,” Shane finally said. He had taken a minute to digest all this. He already knew that Svetlana’s father had played for Boston, they had texted about it. But Ilya hadn’t told him about this. “In Juniors, back in 2008. We would have played against each other.” 

“Yes, I know. You beat Russia,” Ilya said casually. “You maybe would not have if I was playing.” 

“You were that good,” Shane said, disbelief in his voice. “Russia didn’t even get past the second round of the finals, Canada swept.” 

“Yes, because I wasn’t there,” Ilya repeated patiently. 

“Do you still skate?” Shane asked excitedly. “I have a rink here, I was planning on skating today anyway, do you want to join? I have extra gear.” 

“You have a rink–? Of course you do, this place is ridiculous. I still skate. I will join, if you tell me about your gay experiences,” Ilya said. 

“Deal. Um,” Shane started. “Didn’t have my first one until I was 21. Personal trainer.” Ilya let out a snort at that, and Shane scowled at him. “What?” 

“You call my coach’s son a porno plot and your first gay hookup was a personal trainer? Shane. That is so cliche. Did he blow you in the shower after a workout? Did you get hard while he was stretching you and he noticed?” At Shane’s expression, Ilya let out a burst of laughter. “Oh fuck, that is exactly what happened.” 

“Shut up,” Shane grumbled, blushing. “Anyway, he had a boyfriend and they apparently had a ‘one time hookups are allowed, but no repeats’ rule in their relationship.” Ilya nodded. “He offered to introduce me to some guys, but honestly, the whole thing freaked me out, I was really in denial. It took me almost a year of forcing myself to hook up with women, and then I met–” Shane broke off, scowling, trying to figure how to explain Aiden. 

“Ex-boyfriend?” Ilya asked, and Shane shook his head. 

“He was a… hookup? I guess? Also in New York, actually. Just sex. We saw each other when I was in the city. Another athlete.”  

“How long did that last?” Ilya asked. The drowsiness had left his voice, though his body stayed relaxed and slack under Shane’s. 

“Two seasons. Sort of. He didn’t have the same season period as me.” Shane tried to not be anxious at this line of questioning. Aiden was also in the closet and it felt like he could easily reveal too much now. 

“He was not a hockey player?” 

“God no. Way too stressful. I’m such a bad liar, I think playing against my secret gay hookup would just reduce me to a constant ball of anxiety. No, he, um… played another sport. Professionally.” Shane tucked his face against Ilya’s neck, feeling his cheeks burn. Which was stupid. Shane might be a bad liar, but it’s not like Ilya could read ‘Aiden plays professional American football’ on his face. He felt Ilya nod. Or course Ilya understood that Shane was not going to out someone. 

“And it was good? With your secret athlete? If it lasted that long?” 

“I guess?” Shane considered this. He had thought it was, at the time, but now after experiencing sex with Ilya, he wasn’t so sure anymore. “Yeah. Not mind blowing, but good. He was nice. It was more… Like you said, we had the same secret. It was safe. Mutually assured destruction, you know? And we didn’t have to…” Shane trailed off, unsure how to finish that thought. 

“Keep up the lie,” Ilya finished for him. Shane nodded. “Why did it end?” 

“He got traded to a city without a hockey team,” Shane explained. “He actually–” Shane let out a small laugh. “He tried to set me up with another closeted athlete in New York after he left. I guess he had a roster of us.” Huh. Shane suddenly wondered if Aiden had known about Scott Hunter. 

“Ah, a ‘sorry you lost my dick, here’s a new one’ setup?” Ilya asked, and Shane could hear his smile. “But that didn’t work?” 

“He had told Ai- told our mutual friend that he was vers. He wasn’t.” 

At this, Ilya laughed. “How fast did you figure out you were both bottoms?” 

“Almost immediately. We gave each other blowjobs, said ‘we should do this again sometime’ and never texted each other again.” When Ilya laughed harder, Shane bit his neck. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to make a point. It didn’t stop Ilya’s giggles, just made him tighten his arm around Shane, pinning him against Ilya’s side. 

“How does Rose Landry fit into this? You said you dated,” Ilya asked. 

“Yeah, it was after my hookup moved. She was…” Shane sighed. “She’s great, you know her. We met, we clicked, and I was just… really desperate not to be gay. I had accepted by then that I was into men, but I really didn’t want to be only into men, you know? And then I met Rose, and she was so funny and nice and beautiful, she was the first girl I had ever really clicked with, just immediately connected. People were saying how great we were together, and I was thinking ‘see, I’m not gay, I’m just really picky about women and finally found the perfect one and it's all fine now’. And then we tried to have sex, and three months later she’s gently telling me I’m gay.” 

“Why were you so desperate not to be gay? Because of hockey?” Ilya asked. “Your family?” 

“No, my family has been great. It was because of hockey. I’m already Asian, I’m already weird, I already stand out because of my stats. Hunter hadn’t come out yet, so I thought I was the only one. I didn’t want it to be another thing, you know?” Ilya said nothing, but Shane felt his arm tighten slightly, and he kissed the top of Shane’s head. “And then Rose told me that she knows several people who are out to their friends and family, but not the public, and they’re able to date and have lives. That seemed do-able, so I told my family and people I thought were my friends and now here we are.” He let out a small, bitter laugh. “When I didn’t get their support, I basically accepted that I would be single and mostly celibate until I retired.” 

“Celibate is no sex, yes?” Ilya asked, confused, and Shane nodded against his neck. “But you went home with me.” 

“Yeah, after I saw on Google that there are whole forums dedicated to your one night stands,” Shane said matter of factly. “I was not expecting you to ask to see me again. Also, you’re already famous. Not like I had to worry about you outing me for your fifteen minutes of fame or a tabloid paycheck. I also figured someone who faced actual persecution for his sexuality wouldn’t out someone for shits and giggles.” Ilya stayed silent, mulling over this list. He finally gave a small hum of agreement.

“Yes, this makes sense.”  His fingers started to trace designs on Shane’s bare side. “I am safe option.” 

“You’re also incredibly hot,” Shane pointed out. “And nice to me.” 

“Nice? You think I am nice? No one has ever accused me of being this,” Ilya said, fake shock in his voice. Shane let out a small yelp when Ilya’s fingers suddenly dug into his sides, tickling him. “Take it back. I am not nice, I am sexy rock and roll bad boy.” 

“Okay, okay,” Shane said, letting out what sounded disturbingly like a giggle. “You’re a complete asshole. Better?” 

“And?” Ilya demanded, tickling him again and making him squirm and yelp. 

“And you are a sexy rock and roll bad boy. Not nice at all,” Shane gave in. “Super dangerous.” 

“Good,” Ilya said, sounding satisfied. “Your boring secret athlete was nice. Rose Landry is nice. I am sex god who licks ice cream off you and edges you until you cry.” 

“Jesus,” Shane muttered. 

“No, just Ilya.” 

“I actually thought about texting him,” Shane said, ignoring this last comment. “My old hookup. When I came out to my team, and it went badly.” 

“Was he thinking of coming out?” 

“I have no idea. We didn’t really– it was just sex. We didn’t talk, ever. That’s actually what kept me from texting. I opened up our text thread and it was just me telling him when I was in town and a hotel room number. Nothing else. Nothing personal. He was saved with a girl’s name. We would meet up, fuck, and leave right after.”

“Ah, this is why you don’t know about aftercare.” There was a long pause. “We text. And we talk. And do aftercare.” 

“I know,” Shane said. “We’re talking right now. And cuddling. Although I’m really done with the cuddling, I need a shower. I can’t believe I haven’t showered since we fucked, I feel gross.” He sat up, and Ilya let him, his arm falling to the mattress. “Want to shower with me?” Ilya was just looking at him with a blank expression, his hazel eyes skating over his face like he was trying to memorize his features. “What?” 

“You are glad to have a new New York man?” 

Shane scowled at him for a second, confused. “I mean, it’s convenient you’re in New York. There are two teams in the city, and New Jersey and Philly are super close, even if we don’t play them that often. Obviously, I wish you lived in Montreal, but New York is the second best option for seeing you as much as possible, we’re there the most after Montreal. I’m just glad you don’t live in LA, we only play them once or  twice in the season and it's an over six hour flight. Too long for a weekend together, but Montreal to New York is just an hour and a half by plane. I can see you a lot more since you live in New York.” When Ilya just continued to stare at him, he offered, “It’s also a six hour drive to Montreal, if that’s more appealing since you love dumb toy cars.” 

Ilya’s jaw dropped. “Did you just call my Mercedes a ‘dumb toy car’?” 

“Is it good in snow?” Shane argued. “How’s the gas mileage? It’s impractical. You paid 100,000 dollars for a toy. My description is accurate.” 

“180,000, and it is worth every penny, it is sexy!” 

“Cars don’t need to be sexy, they need to get you from A to B reliably.” 

“Oh my god, Shane,” Ilya said with a groan. “I thought your only flaw was not liking vodka, but this is so much worse. Thank god I brought the Mercedes, if I had heard you insult the Aston Martin, we would have had real problem.” 

“I didn’t mind the vodka you brought,” Shane started to argue, but Ilya wasn’t done. 

“Shane. The ugly fucking Jeep in your garage. Please tell me that is not your only car.” 

“Why would I need more than one car?” 

Ilya let out a quiet Russian curse, and then rolled away and opened the bedside table drawer. “We need to fuck right now.” 

“What? Why?” Shane asked, amused. 

“Because maybe with an orgasm, I can erase the terrible thing you just said from my head,” Ilya complained. He dropped the lube and a condom on the bed, already reaching for Shane. Shane slipped out of his hands easily, and laughed when Ilya whined. 

“We’re not fucking right now, I need a shower,” Shane reiterated. “If you want to join, I’ll suck you off though.” 

“That will work,” Ilya decided and he followed Shane to the bathroom, muttering “dumb toy car” under his breath as he went. 

Later that day, Shane would start a new spread sheet in his head, this one listing his own turn ons when it came to Ilya. And “shockingly good at hockey” was at the top of the list. 

Chapter End Notes

Ilya: Looking for clarity that he isn't just a new New York hookup.
Shane's autistic brain: Clearly, he's asking about logistics.

Chapter 6: Songs And Stars

Chapter Summary

Last time: Ilya comes to the cottage, and they talk about Shane's past
This time: Still at the cottage, and this time Ilya answers some questions.

Chapter Notes

Alternate chapter title: The Cottage, Part 2

July 23-29, 2017

For how much they talked, there were certain topics Shane learned quickly to avoid. Ilya’s family, Ilya’s life before the band, Russia in general, the pills Ilya took everyday with an alarm to remind him. Ilya was happy to play 1 on 1 hockey and run drills with Shane on his synthetic rink, but would avoid talking about his time playing hockey. Because of this, Shane had moved “cook Russian food” to the bottom of his spreadsheet. Besides, it hasn’t really come up. Ilya had been delighted with Shane’s kitchen, and all the appliances and crockware his designer had filled it with. While Shane had made burgers the first night, Ilya had basically taken over when it came to food after that. Shane made way too many, forgetting to cut down the recipe. Not only was Ilya a good cook, but it wasn’t worth the teasing about “making enough food for an army” and “why do you even need a recipe for burgers? It is ground beef in a ball sprinkled in salt. You need recipe for this?”  

Shane sat in the kitchen while Ilya cooked every night, having learned quickly not to try to help. Ilya might occasionally give him something to chop, or stir, but actually contributing had been banned when Ilya discovered that Shane struggled to deviate from recipes. Ilya, on the other hand, seemed to view recipes as suggestions instead of guides, if he used them at all. He had told Shane that he learned some basics from Svetlana’s mother as a teenager, but he hadn't really learned until he moved to Boston and had to live on a budget for the first time. He told Shane that they had lived on tuna melts for the first two weeks until Svetlana had threatened to riot. At the time, Ilya’s emergency visa hadn't allowed him to work yet and they were struggling to get their money from Russia. She was supporting both of them with her family’s money, so he had learned for her, discovering how much he enjoyed it in the process. Cooking shows had also helped his English, since according to Ilya they use a lot of adjectives while talking about food. 

“If you listen to our first American released album, you can spot the food words, but we used them for sex,” Ilya had told him on their third night as he had tended the pan of cod with garlic, fresh herbs, butter and lemon. “Tender, ripe, hot, spicy, sweet, rich…” he smirked. “Moist. Smothered. Glazed.” His smirk became a grin when Shane let out a sound of disgust. “Could not figure out how to make ‘crunchy’ or ‘crispy’ work, but I continue to try. One of our producers asked me once if I have a cannibalism fetish, so I have to be more careful now.” 

It was on their sixth day that Ilya had found the impulse purchase Shane had made and then decided to not show him. Ilya had discovered the cabinet of weird kitchen gadgets that Shane’s designer had bought (why she thought he would need an egg peeler, an apple corer and a bagel slicer, he had no idea. It felt like she had just gone crazy inside a home goods store with the intention of filling space instead of considering his actual needs), and came up from the cabinet holding the flat aluminum disk covered in perfectly spaced holes, still in its packaging. Shane blushed when he saw it. 

“Pelmeni mold? Your designer got you a pelmeni mold?” Ilya asked, looking it over. 

“Um… no. I got that,” Shane admitted. “I… um. I researched making Russian food, and pelmeni came up a lot, and the internet said it was easier to make with a mold, so I. Ah. Got one…” he trailed off, now blushing furiously. A slow smile was spreading over Ilya’s face. 

“You like pelmeni?” He asked, grinning. 

“I’ve never actually had it, I don’t think,” Shane said. “They’re dumplings, right? I mean, I’ve had dumplings, obviously, basically every culture has a version of dumplings, but I don’t think I’ve ever had pelmeni.” 

“You know if I am making pelmeni, you will need to at least try one with sour cream, right?” Ilya said, still holding the mold. “They are also good with vinegar or broth, but best with sour cream and dill.” 

“I don’t mind sour cream, I just don’t blanket my food in it,” Shane defended himself. He had never seen anyone consume sour cream at the rate Ilya did, he put it on almost everything. Shane had already had to make a grocery run for just sour cream and vinegar, since Ilya also preferred his vegetables pickled. Though Shane actually really liked those, especially in summer. 

“Okay, I make pelmeni,” Ilya said easily. “You have a pasta machine, it will make it easier.” 

“I have a what now?” Shane stared dumbly at the contraption with a hand crank Ilya pulled out of his cabinet. “I have never seen that before in my life.” 

Apparently, it was used to flatten the dough that Ilya made into perfect sheets. He had used a recipe for the dough, surprising Shane, and then had returned to his normal “follow your heart” mode for the filling, consisting of a mix of beef and pork, a very finely chopped onion and various spices. Despite having the mold, he insisted on hand forming the first ones, showing Shane how to do it. 

“Kind of reminds me of making gyoza,” Shane said. His dumpling actually looked good, but Ilya had managed to make three in the time it took him to make one. 

“Gyoza… this is potstickers, yes?” Ilya asked. Seemingly satisfied that he had proven he could make them by hand, he was now draping the sheet of dough over the mold. “I love potstickers.” 

“Similar. Almost the same, gyoza is the Japanese version of Chinese potstickers,” Shane explained. “Kind of a pain to make, so Dad would make them in big batches to freeze. We’d put on a movie and fold them.” 

“Yes, we do this with pelmeni too,” Ilya said, nodding. He gestured at the counter, the large ball of dough, the pot of filling. “Most of this will be put in the freezer. If you like, you can take back to Montreal. It is very easy to cook frozen. If you don’t, I will bring it back with me to New York.” Shane nodded. It was the first time either of them had mentioned Ilya returning to New York and Shane to Montreal. Technically, tomorrow would be a week at the cottage for them, when they had planned for this trip to end, but neither of them had mentioned it. Shane was suddenly very eager to change the topic. Like if they didn’t talk about Ilya leaving, he might just… forget to. 

“Is this another one of Svetlana’s mother’s recipes?” he asked, watching Ilya start to fill the pockets of dough in the mold. 

“Ah, no,” Ilya said, focusing on his task. “Svetlana’s mama is American, with Trinidadian parents. She did not cook much Russian food.” He hesitated, and his voice became quieter. “This is my mama’s recipe. Or the closest I could get to it. I have had to… figure it out. Hard to do since I have not had her pelmeni since I was twelve.” Shane frowned slightly, knowing that Ilya hadn’t permanently left Russia until his twenties, which would mean… oh. “Although, I doubt she would have taught me even if she had not died. My father did not approve of men in the kitchen. Or doing anything he thought was feminine.” 

“I take it he wasn’t good about the bisexuality then?” Shane asked carefully. He had a million questions, but didn’t want Ilya to shut down and change the topic like he had done when Shane had brought up his family before. 

Ilya let out a snort. “The last time I talked to my father, he told me I had ruined our family’s name, and ordered me to return to Russia so my brother could publicly arrest me. Told me it was my duty.” Ilya shrugged. “So I told him if he bothered me again, I would contact my brother’s superiors and give them proof that my brother was a drug addicted gambler taking money from a known homosexual.” Ilya glanced up. “Russian police might not have cared about the drugs and gambling, but they would care about the financial support. And my father was very proud and had used his own reputation as a police official to get my useless brother his career, so he cared about the drugs and gambling. It was a very effective threat.” 

“Jesus,” Shane breathed. 

“No, there was no God in that house,” Ilya said, shaking his head. He reached up and touched the Orthodox cross that hung around his neck. “Not after my mama died.” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said softly, and Ilya gave him a jerky nod. “Are you religious?” He had no idea if this line of questioning was better or worse, growing up in a nonreligious household. Considering Ilya was queer, he could just be bringing up different trauma. Although he wore a cross and had a Jesus tattoo. But he did say that was for Brazil. 

Luckily, Ilya relaxed at the question. “Ah, no,” he admitted. “The necklace was my mama’s, she was religious. I… still believe in God, I think. Not how the church wants me to, but in my own way. But after my mama died, the church became… we only went for my father’s image. He wanted people to believe that he was good Orthodox, good Russian. Put– what is the saying? Bad taste in my mouth?” Shane nodded. “Also, by then I already knew I am queer, and the church did not like that. Luckily, gay clubs did. Boom, new community.” 

Shane let him change the topic to gay clubs, which were as foreign to Shane as religion. It wasn’t until dinner was finished (the pelmeni was delicious, although Ilya said that Shane would probably like it better with broth than sour cream) and they were at the fire pit that he brought up his family again. 

“I think my pelmeni is better than hers were,” he said suddenly, surprising Shane. They had been sitting in a comfortable silence for almost half an hour, Shane stroking Ilya’s curls as Ilya lay next to him, his head in Shane’s lap. “My mama… she was not a very good cook. Or maybe she did not try because cooking was punishment for her.” 

“Punishment?” Shane asked, his fingers continuing to brush through Ilya’s hair. Ilya nodded slightly. 

“My father, he was an important man. Very high ranking military during the Soviet Union, high ranking police officer after. My mother was, ah… trophy wife,” he said, finding the term. “Much, much younger than him, very beautiful. Like I said, he cared a lot about how he looked. So he did not let her work, and hired housekeepers and nannies to look rich and important. Look at the great Grigori Mikhailovich Rozanov, his little wife is so lucky, she wants for nothing. Until he would decide that she was lazy, and fire them. Or maybe he would run out of money and have to, but tell my mama it was her fault, I am not sure. My father made a lot of money and spent it very fast. It is very expensive to look rich.” His voice got quieter. “Either way, he made her life hell.” 

“How did she die?” Shane asked carefully. 

“Accident,” Ilya said. His tone was matter of fact. “She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills.” Shane’s fingers stilled in Ilya’s hair. He thought about the orange bottle of pills in the bathroom, how Ilya had said ‘anti-depressants’ quickly when he asked, and now understood why he hadn’t wanted to delve into that conversation. “I do not want you to think she was weak.” 

“I don’t.” 

“She was not. She was just… so unhappy, and could not see a way out. He made sure of that. But she was so funny, and so beautiful and kind. She had all of these Western cassette tapes, every genre. Back then, it was almost all pirated, badly recorded. You bought music from people on street corners, like fake Rolexes in New York. But she used to play them from the minute he left the house until right before he got home. She listened to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors until the tape broke. It is still one of my favorites.” Ilya pulled up the sleeve of his sweatshirt (technically Shane’s) and tapped the tattoo on his right wrist. It was slightly blurred with age, and looked like a stick and poke, but was still legible in the firelight. Rock on, ancient queen/follow those who pale in your shadow. “She didn’t really understand English, but she would always sing along, even on her bad days. For her favorites, Sveta would come over and translate them for her. She had this… terrible notebook. Falling apart, pages always falling out. But she kept it, because it was full of translated lyrics. Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Stevie Wonder.” 

“Is that why you started singing?” Shane asked. Ilya nodded. 

“And learning English, not just to understand the lyrics, but to write my own. I loved western music, and writing in Russian… it was too different from what I liked. But I liked the tapes she called ‘too loud’,” Ilya admitted. “The Ramones, Sex Pistols, Dead Kennedys, Black Flag… It was good my mama did not understand English, or I think she would have burned them.” He snorted. “She asked Sveta once to translate a Dead Kennedys song, and I think that was the only time Sveta just completely lied to her.” The amusement faded from his voice. “I had to sneak her tapes out when she died, I knew if my father found them he would destroy them. He destroyed almost all of her things. He only gave me her necklace because he thought boys should not wear a woman’s necklace. It was supposed to be an insult. He was very angry when I actually wore it.” 

“No offense, but your dad sounds like a dick,” Shane said, and Ilya let out a surprised laugh. 

“In therapy, I have tried to find ways to forgive him,” Ilya admitted quietly after a long moment. “To understand him. Maybe he was so awful because he was sad, maybe his father was also terrible. But mostly, I think he was actually just a bad person. No excuse or way to explain.” Ilya paused, and Shane resumed stroking his hair. “He died. Earlier this year,” Ilya said quietly. “Dementia. They tried to hide it for a long time, but he was already showing signs back when I left. Forgetting my mama was dead, not knowing who my stepmother was, thinking I still played hockey.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane said softly, and Ilya shook his head. 

“I was not. I think I grieved for him a long time ago, and he did not give me much to mourn. Maybe if–” 

From directly above them, a loon wailed, and Ilya yelped out a Russian curse and almost fell off the bench. The somber mood was shattered as Shane burst into hysterical laughter at his reaction. After a stream of cursing in both Russian and English, Ilya started laughing too. 

When they had resettled, this time with Shane half on Ilya’s lap, Shane tapped the lyrics on Ilya’s wrist. “So this is Fleetwood Mac?” 

“Shane. Please tell me you know who Fleetwood Mac is,” Ilya said slightly desperately. “Stevie Nicks is an icon. And she sent me an email two years ago, and I cried and framed it.” 

“I know who Fleetwood Mac is. I mean, I’ve heard of them, I know I’ve heard their music, I just couldn’t… name any of it,” Shane said. “I think my dad is a fan. She emailed you?” 

“We did a cover of Gold Dust Woman on a British radio show after people noticed my tattoo,” Ilya told him. “She saw it and sent a very nice email.” 

“Damn,” Shane said, impressed, and Ilya grinned. “I don’t know that one. How does it go?” 

Instead of responding, Ilya just leaned forward and kissed him deeply, tugging on the front of Shane’s sweatshirt to pull him closer. When he finally pulled back, his finger stayed tangled in the cotton. “Shane, I like you,” he said sincerely, and Shane blinked, confused. “But if I ever sit next to a fire pit and sing at the boy I like, like some pretentious douche, I will have to throw the guitar and then myself into the fire.” 

“No singing by the fire, got it,” Shane said with a laugh. Sing at the boy I like. “Another time.” 

‘Another time’ ended up being later that night, both of them in bed, Ilya propped up on the bedframe with his guitar in his lap. The only light came from the moonlight bouncing off the lake through the windows. Shane watched a lone loon swim through the silver reflection as Ilya sang quietly, his fingers confident on the guitar even in the darkness. 

It felt like a moment that Shane would remember for the rest of his life, a quiet memory he would return to over and over again. One that he would point at, years in the future, and think, ‘this is where it all changed’. Ilya sang the line tattooed on his wrist, “rock on, ancient Queen, follow those who pale in your shadow,” his voice rasping, and Shane turned to watch his profile in the near dark. Mine, he thought. The thought should have panicked him. 

It didn’t. 

…..

Ilya’s producers finally called on their tenth day at the cottage, popping the bubble. They needed him back in the studio. He would drive back to New York the next day. They had one more night together. And Shane had a plan. 

Over the years, Shane and his dad had spent hours finding the best star gazing spot on the property. The area was great for it due to the lack of light pollution, but was at a disadvantage due to the trees. Technically, the best spot was taking a boat out on the lake, but Shane’s boat didn’t have the space for two people to lay down, so it would result in aching necks and be a short trip. He and David had both agreed the best place was on the west edge of the property, where there was a clearing in the trees. They had originally planned to put the rink/gym there, but then had discovered tree rot closer to the house, so had been able to move it closer. The designer had told him this was a good spot to start a garden if he was ever so inclined, but he was away too much to even think about that. So for now, it was where David and Shane went with his wheelbarrow packed with outside mattress pads, blankets, David’s ancient telescope and astronomy books. On Ilya’s last day, an hour before the sunset, Shane told him he had to set something up and packed up the wheelbarrow. With his dad, he would bring one layer of padding and sleeping bags. For Ilya, he brought all the pads and a wheelbarrow full of pillows and soft blankets. On a whim, he also brought a cooler with vodka and a bottle of champagne Rolex had sent and he had never opened, as well as glasses and snacks. He left it set up, and returned to the cottage. 

He and Ilya watched the sunset from his porch. They didn’t talk about Ilya leaving the next day, but Ilya refused to let Shane leave his lap. It wasn’t until the sun had slipped below the horizon, the sky still orange and pink, that Ilya asked what Shane had set up. 

“We have to wait until it's dark,” Shane told him. “Give it an hour.” Ilya nodded, lifting Shane’s wrist to glance at his watch. Then he stood, lifting Shane with him, and carried him into the house. The view from Shane’s bedroom showed the sky getting darker as Ilya occupied their free hour with Shane. Well, hour and a half including showering and getting dressed. Shane gave Ilya some warmer clothes since the night’s got cooler, still not telling him what they were doing, but he turned off every light in the house as they walked out, leaving only the light above the oven on.  

When Shane handed him a flashlight, Ilya looked at him suspiciously. “You are taking me out into the woods to murder me?”

“What? No,” Shane said, laughing. “I’m taking you to me and my dad’s favorite spot. Just… come on.” He laced his fingers through Ilya’s, and led him down the footpath. Ilya stayed quiet as they walked, the small beams of their flashlights directed at the ground. Until they reached the clearing, and he saw the carefully arranged pseudo mattress, blankets and cooler. 

“You want to have sex outside?” he asked, sounding more interested. 

“That’s not… It's– oh my god, just lay down,” Shane ordered, and saw the brief flash of Ilya’s grin before he sprawled out in the middle of the makeshift mattress. Shane lay down next to him, resisting when Ilya tried to pull him on top of him. “We literally just had sex, Jesus. Just… turn off your flashlight and look up.” 

Ilya grumbled in Russian, but obeyed. Shane did the same, plunging them into total darkness. He tucked his head in the dip between Ilya’s shoulder and chest, and the other man wrapped his arm around him as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. And then… “Fuck,” Ilya murmured, and Shane grinned. Ilya had commented a couple of times on how many stars were visible at night. Now, the entire sky stretched out before them. They stayed quiet, just looking, until the first shooting star, which Ilya pointed out excitedly. 

“See the line in the sky, right where the star was shooting? It almost looks like a thin cloud?” Shane asked, pointing. Ilya confirmed he did. “Thats the Milky Way. It’s only visible here during the summer. My dad and I used to go out every summer with his telescope to see it better. There’s a couple of constellations you can only see during summer, and some you can see year round.” He pointed out all the constellations he could see, Ilya following his finger the best he could. They both agreed they had no idea how some of the shapes led to the images they were supposed to be finding, although both also agreed that the Big Dipper was a gimme. 

After an hour, Ilya asked about the cooler, and then to Shane’s surprise, opened the champagne instead of the vodka. “This is a very good bottle,” he commented, looking at the label. 

“It should be, Rolex sent it,” Shane said, holding their glasses steady as Ilya poured. “It just seemed… relevant.” Ilya glanced at him. “Cause of the myth around when champagne was invented?” Nothing. “It’s probably not true, but the story goes that when the inventor of champagne first tasted it, he said that he was ‘tasting the stars’.” Shane shrugged. “Something my dad told me. He likes random facts and stories. He’s the reason why I know any constellations, or the stories behind them. He calls them ‘nighttime stories’.” 

“Ah,” Ilya said, putting the bottle back in the cooler. “So our night is star and story themed.” He clinked their glasses, and they turned off their flashlights again, not fully reclining this time, but instead propping themselves up with the mountain of pillows Shane had brought so they could drink and still look up at the sky. “This is much better than other star and story themed nights I have had, those were about people they call stars, not real ones.” Shane let out a snort. They drank two glasses each, watching the sky. It wasn’t until their second glasses were empty that Ilya started asking questions again. 

“Which constellation is your favorite?” 

“The Big Dipper is good because it looks like what it calls itself and it's easy to find,” Shane said. “But honestly? Probably Cygnus, the swan. Not because of how it looks, but because of the story. It's a love story. A tragic one, but still.” He found it in the sky, drawing it out for Ilya. “You can only see Cygnus in summer here.” 

“It is an x,” Ilya said. 

“Yeah. But in the story it's a swan,” Shane said. He pointed again, outlining the imperfect x. “Head, wings. Swan.” 

“Okay. Why is it a swan?” Ilya asked, putting his empty glass down and taking Shane’s. He pushed most of the pillows out of the way so they could lay flat again, side by side. His long fingers laced through Shane’s, their palms together. “Tell me the nighttime story.” 

Shane smiled at that, squeezing Ilya’s hand. 

 “So, in the story, Phaethon was the son of Helios,” Shane explained, just like his dad had so many years ago. “Helios was the god of the sun, and he pulled the sun across the sky everyday with his chariot. And then Phaethon wants to try. Helios tells him no, that he’s not strong enough, but Phaethon is positive he can do it, and Helios gives in. Well, Helios was right, and Phaethon lost control, burning some areas of the earth, and leaving others too cold. In order to save everyone, Zeus had to destroy the chariot with one of his lightning bolts, killing Phaethon in the process. His body fell into the river, and I think his sister turned into a tree? I can’t remember. Anyway. Helios takes his soul and makes him a star in the Auriga constellation. We can’t really see that right now, you can see it in autumn and winter.” 

“Shane, so far this is a very sad story without a swan,” Ilya said. 

“Shush, I’m getting to it. So Phaethon is now in the sky, and his family mourns, but no one mourns more than Cygnus, who is a king of… somewhere, I can’t remember. But he loved Phaethon the most.”

“Oh, this is a queer tragic love story,” Ilya interrupted quietly. “No wonder you like it.” 

“Shush,” Shane said again. “Helios took Phaethon’s soul, but left his body in the river since it had been destroyed by the lightning bolt. And so Cygnus searched and searched, diving the whole river until he found all of Phaethon’s bones to give him a proper burial. The gods were so impressed at his devotion that they offered him a chance to be with his love again, and turned him into stars too. And now they're together forever in the sky.” There was a long silence. “I’m pretty sure their story was the first queer love story I ever heard.” He remembered the matter of fact way his dad had told him the story, the same way he told the others, like there was nothing different about the story being about two men. 

“Yes, most of the queer love stories are tragic,” Ilya said softly. 

“But it has a happy ending. They’re together, forever. I always try to come out here the last weekend before the season starts. It's basically the only time in our area that you can see both of them in the sky at the same time. And I like seeing them together.” Shane paused, his voice quieter. “I like that they can be.” 

In the darkness, Ilya’s fingers slipped from his. Shane mourned the feeling for only a second before he felt Ilya’s hand sliding up his arm to cup the back of his neck, and he pulled slightly, guiding Shane onto his side. Ilya turned with him, Shane’s hand instinctively resting on his hip as Ilya’s nose bumped and brushed his. Their legs tangled under the blanket as Ilya brushed light kisses down his cheek until he found his mouth, kissing his lips just as lightly. Long, soft kisses. With the lack of tongue and touching, it should have felt chaste but instead it felt unhurried. Shane’s hand slipped under the hem of Ilya’s sweatshirt, not to grope or explore, just to rest on the soft, warm skin at his waist. Pressed together as tightly as they were, both felt the other getting hard through their sweatpants, but neither moved to do anything about it, not yet. 

When Ilya’s tongue finally brushed his bottom lip, Shane opened his mouth. For a second he wanted to tighten his grip on Ilya’s waist, roll him on to his back and thrust his tongue into his mouth, treat him with a roughness and eagerness both had become familiar with. But he didn’t. He let Ilya lick into his mouth with the same soft gentleness. Ilya didn’t pull away until Shane let out a soft groan, and he didn’t go far, resting his forehead against Shane’s. 

“Do you want to go inside?” he whispered, his accent thick. 

“I want you to touch me,” Shane responded, also whispering. He wasn’t sure why, they were alone. It just felt right. 

“We do not have–”

“I have lube and condoms in my pocket,” Shane interrupted. Ilya hesitated, and Shane wondered for a second if he had done this wrong, maybe he shouldn’t have presumed– and then Ilya’s lips crashed against his again, now a little harder, a little more desperate. 

Shane gasped against his mouth as Ilya pushed him onto his back, moving with him to straddle his hips. Without breaking the kiss, Ilya’s fingers moved down to start slowly unbuttoning the flannel Shane was wearing, brushing his calloused fingertips against every inch of newly exposed skin until he could pull the shirt completely open. He had spent the last week and a half touching Shane every time he got the chance, and it still felt different tonight. Under the stars, the chilly cold night air seemed to make Shane’s skin even more sensitive to Ilya’s soft touches as he explored and stroked every muscle on Shane’s torso. Meanwhile, Shane’s own hands were moving up Ilya’s sweatshirt, tracing his carefully maintained abs, the line of hair that started right below his navel and continued down to the top of his waistband, the muscles in his back. Ilya pulled away just long enough to pull off the sweatshirt, tossing it aside. Now shirtless, he bent down again, the cross on his chain swinging between them as he resumed his slow, deliberate kisses, settling between Shane’s thighs. Instinctively, Shane lifted one of his legs, wrapping it around his hips, pressing him closer. Ilya began to grind against him, rocking slowly, with the same unhurried softness as his kisses. 

Neither of them spoke. Shane had come to expect the stream of dirty talk, both in English and Russian, but Ilya didn’t say a word as he started to kiss down Shane’s neck, then his chest, then down his stomach. Shane lifted his hips when Ilya tugged on his sweatpants, letting him strip him, and then Ilya kissed lower. Light, open mouthed caresses down the underside of his hard cock, making Shane gasp quietly before he pushed Shane’s knees up to his chest. He wordlessly pulled Shane’s hands to his own knees, a non verbal command to hold his legs there, and Shane obeyed. His mouth traveled again, further down and Shane bit back another moan when he felt Ilya’s tongue against his hole. It wasn’t the first time Ilya had eaten him out— fuck, it wasn’t even the first time today. But before, Ilya had gone in with purpose and aggression, holding Shane down and taking. The first time, he had pulled back and spat directly on it before thrusting his fingers in and calling Shane a perfect slut, something that felt both mildly degrading and so hot it had made Shane’s head spin. 

That was not the current mood. They had fucked just a couple hours earlier, Shane was still fairly loose and relaxed, but Ilya still treated him gently, licking and kissing like he was something to worshipped instead of devoured. One lubed finger slipped inside of him, stroking and petting, and Shane almost sobbed at the feeling. 

“Are you sore?” Ilya asked quietly, and Shane shook his head. 

“More,” he whispered, rolling his hips. Ilya kept his movements slow and steady, but he did slip in a second finger as he kissed his way back up Shane’s torso. Shane dropped his knees, resting them on Ilya’s shoulders instead. Thank god for yoga, he was pressed in half as Ilya’s lips found his again, kissing him deeply, two fingers opening him up. Shane’s fingers found their way to his curls, tugging him closer and he was rewarded with a quiet moan and a third finger. “Ilya.” 

“Okay?” he bit Shane’s lower lip gently, and Shane tried not to squirm. 

“Need you.” 

“You have me, malysh.” He curled his fingers, hitting Shane’s prostate, and Shane shuddered at the feeling, his hips jerking up involuntarily. 

“Need you to fuck me,” Shane whispered, his voice cracking. Ilya just kissed him again, his fingers not stopping. “Ilya. Please.” 

That worked. 

Ilya withdrew his fingers, and sat up just long enough to push down his own sweats, roll on a condom and slick more lube over his cock. He dropped down again, maneuvering Shane’s legs off of his shoulders to instead wrap around his waist. He braced himself on his elbows instead of his hands, their bodies completely pressed together. Shane’s achingly hard cock was trapped between their stomachs, just more stimulation as Ilya slowly pushed into him, his moan cut short as Ilya kissed him. 

Ilya slid all the way in, and then went still, letting Shane adjust to the new fullness, distracting him with his tongue, his lips. With Shane’s legs around his waist, and his arms around his neck, they were completely wrapped up in each other, but neither moved to change that. When Ilya started to move, it was with small thrusts, all he could really do with Shane’s legs holding him close. Like their kissing had been, it was unhurried, gentle. It made something in Shane’s chest warm, threatening to overwhelm him. 

It took them both a while. Shane could feel his orgasm slowly approaching, but chasing it wasn’t the point, not for either of them. If Shane hadn’t already been a little sore, he would have tried to make it go for longer, but he finally had to give in and beg for Ilya to speed up before his overstimulation and aches became pain. Ilya pressed his face into Shane’s neck, his hips snapping, bringing them both quickly over the edge they had been meandering on. 

Ilya collapsed onto his back next to Shane, both of them panting, sticky and sweaty. Shane didn’t protest when Ilya pulled him to his chest, ignoring the mess on both of their bare torsos as he kissed Shane’s hair. Slowly, their breathing normalized. 

“I would like to see them together,” Ilya said quietly, breaking the comfortable silence. Shane glanced up at his face, and saw he was looking up at the sky again. “Your swan and his sun boy. When they are both visible.” 

“Okay,” Shane whispered back. “We’ll do that.”

Chapter End Notes

I hope you liked how I changed their backstories to fit this AU! I have been loving your comments (because I love praise) and not responding to them (because I do not know how to properly react to praise). Please keep commenting, and I'm sorry. Also, I do not have a beta reader, so if you see a typo, no you didn't. If you see such a massive mistake that the sentence didn't make sense, yes you did and please tell me.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 7: Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Chapter Summary

Last time: The boys bonded at the cottage over Ilya's past and stargazing.
This time: Ilya has a song, and training camp starts.

Chapter Notes

Hello! We are going to do a quick tag check here, and I am just going to remind you lovely people that this is tagged with "relationship fluff and career angst", "homophobia" and "Montreal Voyageurs Being Assholes". You have been reminded.

July 30-September 22, 2017

They weren’t able to make it to the cottage to see the stars again. Between Shane’s multiple photoshoots and training, and Ilya’s recording sessions, the trip would have been a squeeze. And then Ottawa was hit by a storm, making stargazing impossible. “Next year,” Ilya had said when Shane listed why it wouldn’t work, and the confidence in his voice that they would still want to next year made Shane feel slightly dizzy. 

Despite not being asked (told) to attend rookie camp (for the first time since getting a letter), Shane stayed in Montreal, hoping that someone would call and tell him to come in. When he finally accepted it wasn’t going to happen, he booked a flight to New York to spend his last days before his pre-season started with Ilya. 

They had been able to see each other a surprising amount since the cottage, Ilya coming to Montreal for a day or two, and Shane going to New York when he couldn’t. Shane had hung out with his bandmates there, getting to know them better from the privacy of Ilya’s living room. 

It was a new world for Shane, being around other queer people. Svetlana and Ilya were both bisexual. Troy was gay and dating their PR guy Harris, who was also openly gay and flamboyant in a way that almost made Shane uncomfortable at first, a feeling he didn’t like (Harris was also horrified to discover that Shane had never watched RuPaul’s Drag Race and had made him watch two episodes. He didn’t get it. As in, he literally didn’t understand what the drag queens were saying. It was like they were speaking a different language and Shane didn’t want to admit to a guy he had met twice that he didn’t speak it. When he had confessed this later to Ilya, he just said “you do not need to like drag race”, and then convinced Shane to watch several episodes of a different show about blonde housewives who all seemed to hate each other but called themselves friends. Shane found this equally as baffling. Ilya seemed to love it.). Hazy was straight, but his doctor wife was bi and his sister was gay. Queerness was a part of their world the way straightness was part of Shane’s- the status quo, unquestioned. For the first time Shane was surrounded by people who knew about his sexuality and truly didn’t care. The first time Ilya had touched him in front of them, just a brush of his hand against Shane’s lower back, Shane had jumped, nervous. By the third dinner with Svetlana, Shane had allowed Ilya to pull him into his lap without so much as a blink. 

Ilya hadn’t met anyone in Shane’s life, and didn’t push. They didn’t talk about what they were. They didn’t talk about exclusivity, or the fact that they never went out, or that Shane hadn’t even told anyone but Rose about him. His friends knew not to post the photos they took, and no one questioned his need for secrecy. When they couldn’t see each other, they called and texted, and they didn’t talk about how Shane would only contact him when he was alone, or how Shane was only making short trips to New York so that no one would ask about him being out of town so much. They avoided talking about Shane’s team, and what Shane might be facing when the summer ended. When Ilya went for runs in New York, he didn’t ask Shane if he wanted to join, and Shane did the same when he ran in Montreal. They stayed in the bubble they had created, letting very few people in, and pretending the world outside didn’t exist. 

The idea of the outside world knowing about them, even getting a hint of them being together didn’t come up until that last weekend before Shane’s pre-season started, when Ilya had nervously confessed that he needed Shane to hear something. Shane had nodded, already dreading the conversation that would ruin his quiet peace in… whatever they were in the bubble. But it hadn’t been a conversation. It was a song. Ilya had sat him in the kitchen with headphones and a page of handwritten lyrics and escaped to the living room, leaving Shane alone to listen. All the lyrics were written in all caps, the title was completely in lowercase, a trend Shane had noticed in their songs. He planned on asking why all of their song titles were in lowercase, and then was immediately distracted by the song itself. 

Shane listened twice, and then, lyrics in hand, gone to join him. He found Ilya sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Shane stopped at the door, and just watched him until he looked up. 

“sin bin? Really?” 

Ilya grinned at the expression on Shane’s face. “You like?” 

“This is about fucking someone in the penalty box,”  Shane told him. 

“Not someone, Shane. It’s about fucking you in the penalty box. Until you stop making your angry kitten face.” 

At least the song didn’t use the phrase ‘angry kitten’. Shane was grateful for that at least. “You use real hockey terms!” 

“Sin bin is slang, could mean anything,” Ilya said, still grinning. Shane looked down at the sheet of lyrics in his hand. 

“Sin bin, soft hands, checking, five minute major, rink, skating… this is a hockey themed porn song!” 

Ilya burst out laughing at this description, but his eyes softened when he saw Shane scowl at the page again. “Okay, yes, it is not subtle. But it is also a very silly song, Shane.” Shane chewed on his lip, and Ilya’s smile became sympathetic. “Solnyshko. No one is going to listen to this and think, oh, he is fucking professional hockey player Shane Hollander.”

Shane stood for a second, his face blank, just looking at him. Then he sighed. “I’m being paranoid, right?” 

Ilya held out his hands, gesturing for Shane to join him on the couch. Instead of sitting up, Ilya pulled him down. Shane allowed it, settling on top of him, his head on his chest. The page of lyrics fluttered to the ground next to them. Ilya wrapped an arm around him, his other hand going up to stroke his hair. “Maybe a little bit. But you are allowed to be. Coming out has not been easy for you. You’re allowed to be paranoid after bad experiences.” 

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to be and now you have to be for my sake,” Shane said softly. “It’s not fair to you. You’re out.”

“Shane, I might be out but I'm famous, remember? Lots of people in my industry are not public with who they are seeing, not just for gay reasons. Often for image, or safety or privacy. This doesn’t bother me. Even if you were out, maybe my label wants us to be secret because I am supposed to be sexy and single bisexual fantasy man.” 

Shane listened to his heartbeat and considered this. Rose had said the same thing. Ilya was more famous than he was, at least outside of Montreal. Quite a bit more famous in areas where people didn’t care about hockey, although all the brand sponsorships he had done through the years made him recognizable to non hockey fans in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. 

“Besides, I am publicly Boston Bears fan,” Ilya said casually, interrupting Shane’s thoughts. “Public is more likely to think this is about Cliff Marlow. Or Yury Makarov.” 

“Oh, he would hate that,” Shane blurted out. “Forget my concerns, I’m onboard now. All good. When will this come out?” 

Ilya tugged his hair gently, tilting his head back, and Shane craned his neck to look at him. There was a smirk dancing around his lips. “You are petty, Shane Hollander,” Ilya said. “Everyone thinks you are such nice Canadian boy, but you are secretly an asshole. You do not have to hate Makarov just because he is hot and Russian and good at hockey.” 

“I hate him because he’s racist, homophobic, sexist and a dirty player,” Shane argued, and the smirk disappeared. “Marlow’s okay, though. Dumb as a brick wall, but not an asshole. Well, yes, an asshole, but not the bad kind.” 

“Mmm,” Ilya said, thinking for a second. “This is sad to hear about Boston’s star.” His tone brightened. “You should chirp him in Russian. Confuse him.” 

“I don’t know Russian,” Shane said, confused. “And I’m really not good at chirping.” 

“Yes, I know,” Ilya said, almost cooing. Shane blinked, not sure if he was being mocked. “It does not normally matter because you are so talented. You embarrass them with skill, not words, yes?” Shane just nodded slowly. Now he was being complimented, he was sure of it. “Nothing complicated, you just learn some basic Russian insults, throw him off. And then when he plays dirty, you confuse him even more and use Russian fists on him. And when sin bin comes out, you wait until you are on mic and ask if it was written for him.” 

Shane smiled at the thought. “It is a sexy song,” he admitted, and Ilya beamed at him. 

“Of course it is, it is about fucking you,” Ilya said confidently. “Has to be sexy. All songs I write about you will be sexy and they will be jealous of me and my mysterious sexy man. Who I fuck in the penalty box.” 

“We’re not actually going to fuck in a penalty box.” 

“They do not know that.” 

When Shane laughed, Ilya looked pleased again. And then his face went serious again. “It is not silly hockey fuck song that is stressing you out.” He brushed Shane’s hair back from his forehead. “Your season is about to start.” His hazel eyes searched Shane’s face as Shane nodded. Feeling too seen, Shane buried his face into Ilya’s chest. “And you are worried it will still be bad.” 

“Yeah,” Shane whispered, closing his eyes. 

“What will you do if it is bad?” Ilya asked, his voice also quieter now. His fingers continued to stroke through Shane’s hair. 

“I don’t know,” Shane confessed. “I really don’t know.” He pressed his face harder into Ilya’s chest, tightening his arms around him. “I don’t want to talk about this. I want– I just want a good day with you before the shit starts.” 

“Okay,” Ilya whispered. When Shane kissed him, he kissed him back, his hand tightening in Shane’s hair, allowing the distraction. They did what they did best, and didn’t talk about it. 

…..

Shane knew as soon as he walked into the locker room that his team had not spent the summer adjusting and getting used to it. They had spent the summer getting angrier. 

He should have guessed. He had guessed, if he was being honest with himself, but had chosen denial and optimism. The dead groupchat, the lack of communication with anyone besides Hayden and JJ, not being invited to rookie camp. Luckily, the prospects had their own locker room and practice sessions. He had to focus on the bigger problem. Which was the ‘we hate gays’ club in his own locker room.

What he had not expected was for the bigots' leader to be Ned Holt. Holt was their third line center, and a weak player even in the third line, only moving up from the third from the fourth due to seniority, not talent. Until last season, he had basically been the grocery stick for his career. And for some reason, Wilson, Comeau and Drapeau had decided he was their ringleader. It was almost more insulting than the slurs they immediately started flinging at him. 

He had greeted them when they had entered the locker room, the four grouped together, trying to keep his voice neutral. He already felt off. He had discovered too late that his normal first day sweatshirt, the one he had worn the first day every year since he was 20, no longer fit comfortably. Part of him was pleased that his new summer routine had worked so well, part of him was immediately distressed that this part of his routine was off. He had compensated by throwing on one of Ilya’s plain black sweatshirts, lying to himself that it was about it being big enough, and had nothing to do with the comfort of wearing Ilya’s clothes. 

“Yeah, I had a good summer,” Holt had responded loudly, smirking. “You look relaxed, Cap. Spend your summer taking it up the ass?” The three behind him all laughed like this was hysterically funny, while most of the room stilled. Some laughed with them. Next to Shane, Hayden whipped around to glare at them, and across the room, JJ dropped the compression shirt he had been about to put on, and his hands balled into fists. 

“You want to say that again, Holt?” JJ said, stepping into the middle of the room, all six foot six inches of him a picture of fury, and the four were smart enough to shut their mouths. Shane hadn’t responded, had just surveyed the room. No one met his eye. No one but JJ said anything. Shane’s stomach sank.

“JJ,” he just said quietly. “It's the first day. Don’t start a fight.” JJ threw him a furious look, but returned to his stall. 

“You good?” Hayden asked quietly as Shane stepped up to his stall, and Shane just nodded tightly. He pulled off his sweatshirt, revealing his white undershirt, and saw Hayden do a double take. “Christ, Cap. You were busy this summer.” 

“New trainer,” Shane said, pulling off the tank top. “New training routine in general.” 

“Going to one of the rainbow gyms now?” Holt asked loudly. “Hear you fags use their locker rooms like the candy aisle. Hope you don’t confuse here and there.”  

The blatant slur made some of the room still again, and worse, made some of them laugh again. Both Hayden and JJ moved with an almost eerie precision to face Holt. 

“Not a gay gym, no,” Shane just said calmly, also turning. With his shirt off, the work he had put in over the summer was on full display. “Boxing gym.” The words caused a ripple of surprise from the onlookers. He glanced around the room. “Really hope you all did your summer conditioning, boys. I did.” 

“Some of us were busy with families. And our wives,” Drapeau sneered. “You know, the shit that normal people have?” 

And I was busy with an actual rockstar, photoshoots that paid me more than you earn in three years, and I still put on eight pounds of muscle, Shane thought. For a crazy second, he wants to say this out loud. He wants to scream it at them. Wants to get in their faces, tell them he had spent the summer with someone hotter and more successful than the puck bunnies and clout chasers willing to settle for them. Wants to tell them how a Grammy winner had spent the last several months bending him into positions he hadn’t even dreamt of before, while telling him that he was perfect, he was beautiful, he was the best. 

But he didn’t. Any terse communication he had with Theriault and the front office over the summer had made it clear that his position on the team, his position as Captain, was currently unstable. He just needed to give them a reason to take it away, and starting a fight in the locker room the first day of pre-season would do exactly that. 

“Pat, you spent your summer at fucking strip clubs, don’t pretend to be a family man now,” Hayden snapped. Shane turned back to his stall, clenching his jaw so hard his back teeth hurt, and continued to get ready. “Considering I was actually with my family, including a newborn, and I still managed to stay in shape.” 

“Still had time to suck Hollander’s dick, I see,” Comeau sniped back. “Hey Pike, do you bend over for him, or the other way around? We have a bet. Pat and Wilson think it’s you, but Holt and me, we think Holly likes to take it like a bitch.”  

Holly was new. Shane wondered if Comeau had hurt himself thinking that one up.

“Don’t,” Shane said quietly when Hayden took a step towards them. “Not worth it.” 

“What? Why am I getting left out?” JJ said sharply. There was a dangerous edge to his voice. “C’mon, Gil, why don’t you get in my face and ask stupid fucking questions?” He cracked his knuckles like he was in a bad action movie. 

“Or!” Shane said sharply, in a tone everyone in the room recognized. Attention snapped to him. “How about no one asks stupid fucking questions and we do what we are paid for and practice?” He looked around the still room. “I’m sorry, I shouldn't have worded that like a question. Get ready and get on the ice! Now!” Like Pavlov’s dogs, his Captain’s voice triggered something in the team and they all spun back to their stalls. All but Comeau, Drapeau, Wilson and Holt, who continued to glare at him. So he repeated the order, louder, and this time in French. Drapeau and Wilson went to their stalls, leaving only the two. Shane met their glares with their own. “Do you need me to spell it out in fucking crayons?” Shane didn’t think it was his tone that made them finally start dressing. He was pretty sure it was because his question got laughs. He had gotten a win in their eyes, and he was confident that was going to be a problem later.  

On the ice, Shane had a couple hours of reprieve, running drills with prospects. It wasn’t until they left for the other rink and he was alone with his team for scrimmages that he realized the peace was for the sake of prospects, not for him. Theriault had treated him normally, if coldly, in front of prospects. Once they were gone, the mask was too. Shane realized how bad this was going to be when not even 30 seconds in, Comeau checked him hard and illegally. The staff did nothing. 

Three minutes in, Hayden complained that Shane was being targeted and was benched. Eight minutes later JJ complained and got the same treatment. The hits continued, worse now with Hayden and JJ off the ice. It wasn’t just the opposed practice team trying to keep the puck away from him, it was also his own. It was his own team checking him to take the puck, and the staff was letting it happen. When he sped up to avoid the hits, Theriault screamed until he was red in the face about Shane not letting his wingers keep up. If Shane hadn’t been so angry, he would have laughed when the words “team sport” came out of his mouth. Twenty minutes after that, a hit from Comeau took him down to the ice, his ribs and knee aching. 

“Shane,” one of the coaching staff said, helping him up, the first kindness he had seen from them all day. Under the guise of helping him off the ice, he leaned in, turning his head so no one could see him whispering. “You should get a lawyer. Now.” Shane just nodded. 

Off the ice, the coach passed him off to Hayden and JJ, and told them quietly to just leave for the day. No one stopped them on the way out. 

“Don’t go anywhere in the arena without us,” JJ said quietly, supporting a slightly limping Shane, and Shane nodded grimly. None of them spoke as they showered and left the arena, except to agree to all meet at Hayden’s house. 

Once inside his car, he texted his mom and Farah that he would be calling them in the next hour, and then after a second of hesitation, connected his phone to the bluetooth in his car, and hit ‘call’ for Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥. 

“Shane?” Ilya picked up after just one ring. “This is early. Did it go okay?” 

“Bad,” Shane said, his voice cracking. “It went so bad.” He rubbed his eyes hard, willing the burning to go away. “I need a lawyer.”

…..

The next week could only be described as ‘hellish’. Shane was not on the schedule for a single pre-season game, which was fine because of the amount of abuse he was taking physically during practice. After the first day, they were careful to not make it so bad he had to be escorted off the ice again, but he was ending every practice with a visit to the team doctor, who luckily seemed to be one of the few people on his side, and was careful to document every injury the team gave him. On the advice of his new lawyer, a terrifying woman named Eloise Roussel, he wore a recorder around his neck constantly (disguised as a necklace, which only brought on new insults), picking up every slur, every insult, every hit. Even as he tried to avoid the locker room, coming early and staying late, by the fourth day there were already hours of material Eloise called "devastating evidence”. 

His mom spent the week in his spare bedroom, constantly busy. At her and Farah’s urging, she was talking to his sponsors. The idea of coming out to them, telling them what was going on had made him feel sick, but when presented with his mom’s pros and cons list, he had agreed. It also helped that her meetings took her to New York for a night, making her leave Shane’s house. Ilya had arrived an hour after her plane took off, and spent the evening kissing all of Shane’s injuries and taking him out of his head. He didn’t make Shane talk about, didn’t treat their time like a war meeting like everyone else did. He was just there. It had been his only good night since preseason started, and made leaving for practice, knowing he wouldn’t be there when he got home, even harder. 

When he came home with a new bruise on his thigh from Berkes’ stick, his mom was back to give him the rundown on how the meetings went. It was mixed. Calvin Klein had promised immediate support, as had Speedo. They had expected this, both companies cared more about keeping business with the gay community than hockey fans. Rolex had also offered their support, and had gone the extra mile to point out that their sponsorship deal with the Voyageurs was dependent on Shane, one of their ambassadors, playing for them. If Montreal lost Shane, they would also be losing Rolex and a decent chunk of ad revenue. Unsurprisingly, CCM and City Drink were the most reluctant. They didn’t end their partnerships, but made it clear they would be prioritizing their relationship with hockey fans over the queer community, and continued business between them would depend on the public’s reaction when or if he came out. Shane told his mom to not renew his City Drink contract next year. He didn’t even drink it, and he left every shoot with them feeling sticky. Every free palette of their sports drink they had sent had been immediately put in the locker room, just to be ignored in favor of Gatorade, and their sodas were vile. CCM they put on the backburner. Shane had been sponsored by them since he was in juniors and ending that contract would lead to questions. Reebok had been one that they weren’t sure about, so Yuna had saved them for last. According to her, they had been wary until they learned that Calvin Klein, Speedo and Rolex were backing him, and then had come onboard. All had asked about Pride campaigns in the future, even CCM (which Shane felt was a bit hypocritical). At Shane’s wince, Yuna had dropped that particular line of questioning.  

Despite his reluctance to talk to them before, Shane did feel better knowing (most of) his brand deals would survive this, even if his career with Montreal wouldn’t. He, Farah, Eloise and his mom had meetings at the end of every day. With his sponsors now figured out, all were in agreement it was time to move against the organization. They had been debating when and how to do this, and then a text from Miitka to Hayden threw any planning out the window. Eloise requested an emergency meeting with the front office, let them know what firm she worked for and what area of law she specialized in, and told them that Shane Hollander would not be returning to the arena until they had met. A meeting was set up for the next morning.

…..

Mitty

Ooookay, I was mad about Shane lying, and now I understand why he was. 

(Audio file)

Andy recorded this. 

He says  he can’t publicly support Shane, and he can’t even have this on his phone. 

He says if Shane is confused, he should look up Russian laws about homos. 

But to say from my phone that he loves him and he's sorry. 

I’m also sorry. I was wrong. He was right to lie. Please tell Shane to get a lawyer, and if he already has one, give him this recording. I’m a second goalie, I can’t defend him like you can. I know that’s not a good excuse, but they will trade me so much faster than you. 

Hayden 

ur pathetic

ill give the audio to shanes lawyer

andy has a good excuse u have nothing but being a coward

ill tell shane you sent this and about andy but you deserve no forgiveness you fcking coward 

even now you still say homo. were not supposed to say that bud. its just for them. 

Mitty

Wait, what can we say? 

Hayden 

i just listened. ur worrying about what we can say rt now????

holt threated to rape ur cap

u understand that rt? 

he fucking JOKES about RAPING SHANE

i dont know if i want shane to listen to this tbh

also does holt know how gay he sounds in this? 

Chapter End Notes

There are some parts of canon I cannot change: Yuna is a powerhouse, Shane is a generational hockey talent, and Shane and Ilya will be bad at communicating.
One thing I can change is JJ's position, because I think he's Shane's winger in canon, and in this he's a defenseman. Needed to happen.

Chapter 8: Four Options

Chapter Summary

Last time: Ilya wrote a song about his penalty box fantasies, and Shane's training camp started badly.
This time: A lawyer, an agent, a hockey player and a bunch of secret recordings walk into a conference room...

Chapter Notes

Hello! Thank you for all your lovely comments and for continuing to be here!

September 23-27, 2017

The council room where Shane and his team met the Voyageurs’ lawyers, GM, and head coaching staff was chilly, both in environment and in temperature. Shane sat between Farah and Eloise, dressed in what Farah had called “put together business casual”— black slacks and a charcoal gray sweater over a white button down. Both Farah and Eloise, as well as Montreal’s team of five lawyers, wore suits. The staff were even more casually dressed than Shane. 

The meeting started exactly as Eloise had predicted. They denied. They denied every documented accusation. Even as Shane drifted in and out the conversation happening around him, he could hear the story they were trying to build, see the narrative they were trying to put in place: that Shane had come out, and was upset that members of the team were uncomfortable so was now fabricating accusations to make it seem worse. A gay drama queen who saw prejudice where there was just discomfort. Hayden and JJ’s reports to management were reconstructed as hear-say that Shane had told them to aid his story. They used the denials of several members of the team as well as Theriault and his staff as proof of this. 

For three hours, Eloise and Farah went through the list of written accusations and let them deny it. Deny it on record. Shane didn’t speak, even when spoken to. He knew the list that Eloise was using. It wasn’t everything, just the most damning of what Shane had recorded. 

“Shane?” He heard Eloise say, and realized he was staring at the wall behind the lawyers. At the Voyageurs banner. He jumped slightly, snapping back to attention, and looked at her. She smiled at him kindly. 

“I said we’re taking a break before we start the next phase of the meeting,” Eloise said gently. Shane looked down and saw the recorder in the middle of the table had turned off. He wondered how long he had been dissociating. 

“I don’t think this needs to continue,” Montreal’s head of legal, Noah Brown, said dismissively. 

“We can do this here, or we can do this in court,” Eloise said crisply. “But if you want this in court, I would suggest you run that by your PR department first.” 

“Fine,” Brown said, sounding annoyed. “Let’s take fifteen.” 

At Farah’s soft touch on Shane’s elbow, he was escorted by his team out of the room. They walked down the hall to a dead end and huddled together. Shane rubbed his eyes, and forced himself to pay attention now. 

“This is going as expected,” Eloise told him softly. “I think this is actually going well. Complete denial like this, they’re digging themselves into a hole. And I might not personally know the lawyers in there, but I know their reputations. They have been lied to. They would not risk their careers and licenses by lying to potential opposing counsel like this. They are very confident right now, and they don’t have a backup plan for when your claims are proven. So I need you to stay calm, stay collected, and trust me. Okay?” 

Shane just nodded. Water was pushed into his hand. Farah, seeming to understand his need for a minute, chatted quietly with Eloise until it was time to go back in. 

They looked smug, he noted as they sat down again. Shane gripped his hands tightly, and carefully arranged his face, keeping his expression neutral. Blank. The stare he used for players who chirped too much, trying to throw him off. The recorder was turned back on, and Eloise leaned back in her chair. Shane saw the arrogant expression slip slightly from the faces across the table, and when he glanced at Eloise, he saw why. She looked even more confident than they did. 

Names were repeated for the recording, the time documented. And then Eloise hit the ground running. 

“Just to recap,” she said pleasantly. “The official position of everyone in this room is that every accusation brought forward today was false. A complete fabrication on the part of my client.” 

“Your client accused his coach of calling him a slur and denying him medical attention,” Brown said. “Mr. Theriault might have a reputation as a tough coach, but that’s verging on a hate crime. It's ridiculous.” Brown had clearly picked the accusation he found to be the most outlandish. 

“Verging on a hate crime. I appreciate your word choice, Mr. Brown,” Eloise said, smiling at him. His confidence wavered for a second at her smile. “Glad to know we do agree on something.” 

And then she hit a key on her laptop. The volume was on full. The room could hear every word coming from her speakers clearly. 

“Get back on the ice, Hollander, drills not over,” Theriault's gruff voice says from the laptop. Shane watched the legal team across the table tense, looking slightly confused. And he watched the blood drain from Theriault’s face. 

“Sir, my ribs… I think they’re bruised. I think I need to see Gwen,” Shane’s recorded voice said. 

“It was a clean hit. Hockey players get hit. If you can’t take a hit, then get your pansy ass off my ice and get benched. I need real players, not fucking nancy boys. Get back on the ice and stop whining.” 

Hayden’s voice shouted, “It wasn’t a clean hit! Berkes fucking threw him into the boards when I had the puck! And he needs medical attention, Coach!” 

“Pike, get back on the ice. Hollander, you too,” Theriault yelled over the recording. “You two can suck each other’s cocks off the ice, but not during my practice.” 

“I need to see Gwen,” Shane started again, just to be cut off again. 

“You need to get back on the ice and prove that you’re a real hockey player, or you’re fucking benched, Hollander, and I’ll give a real man the C.” 

Eloise tapped her laptop, and the recording stopped. The room sat in deadly silence. The smugness that they had displayed before was gone. Eloise slid a paper over to Brown, who was staring at her, wide eyed. “This is from the team doctor. He did not visit her until five hours later. As you can see, his ribs were, in fact, bruised. Also, we both can agree that a team leader suggesting sexual acts between employees is, in this country, sexual harrassment.” 

Brown looked down at the sheet, stamped from the team’s medical team. Shane thought he looked vaguely sick. Not nearly as sick as Theriault and Stagnero.

“He can’t… that isn’t…” Theriault started to splutter. 

“Montreal is a one party consent for recordings,” Eloise said over him. “These were all legally obtained.” 

“All?” Brown asked sharply. 

“You thought I would submit anything I couldn’t prove?” Eloise asked him, her tone polite. Shane saw him tense. “My client told me dozens of atrocities that we haven’t mentioned today. But everything–” she tapped the folder inside of her, the one that matched the folder sitting in front of every one but Shane, where she had detailed every accusation. “-I have submitted comes from recordings made, not just by my client, but from other teammates who saw this and realized it was wrong. You have spent the morning claiming these were fabrications, complete lies. You put that on the record. You are now going to listen to all of them.” 

“I don’t think–” Theriault started. 

“I recommend you don’t speak right now, Mr. Theriault,” Brown said sharply. “Ms. Roussel, you know we will have to verify these recordings.” 

“I hope you do,” Eloise said, nodding. “They’ve already been sent to your department.” 

“I don’t think it’s necessary to hear them all right now–” the lawyer next to Brown started. Brown briefly glanced at him, scowling. 

“I think you just spent the last three hours calling my client a liar,” Eloise said coldly. “And that he has the right to prove that your accusation is false. I also think that everyone in this room would prefer to keep this out of a public courtroom, but if I feel my client isn’t given the chance to properly defend himself here–” 

“He has the chance,” Brown said hurriedly. Eloise just nodded. 

And then Shane watched the room as they were forced to listen to everything they had spent the morning denying. He watched the lawyers try not to react, even as they frantically scribbled notes. He watched the coaching staff go from red faced to pale and back. Brown had a good poker face. The young lawyer at the end of the table didn’t. Shane saw how he tried not to wince at every slur that rang out from Eloise’s speakers. The anger on his face when injuries Shane received were joked about from the team. He definitely noticed how quickly the insults went from homophobic to also racist, one prejudice giving permission for the other. 

Shane didn’t listen to the recordings, not really. He didn’t need to. He had been there when they were made. They were just white noise to him as he watched the people across from him. But even in the noise, the words jumped out. Fag. Chink. Homo. Ladyboy. Cocksucker. Different voices, different men. The same hatred. The same shamelessness and confidence in their right to vocalize it. 

An hour and a half later, Eloise had finished her list. There had been very little talk, just the occasional question from the legal team. Eloise told them that she had ten hours of recordings, but this was all she wanted to listen to. The additional 8.5 hours had also been sent to his office. Brown stared down at the pages Eloise had given him, now covered in his own notes. 

“I have one more recording,” Eloise said to the empty room. “Due to the seriousness of its contents, I chose to withhold it until after we were all on the same page. I have also waited until now for the sake of my client. Mr. Hollander was not present for this conversation, it was recorded yesterday by one of his teammates. Mr. Hollander has not heard it, but knows the gist of it. He has requested not to hear it, and I think after you hear it, you will understand why. So I’m going to ask Mr. Hollander to leave the room before I play you this last piece. Shane?” 

Shane stood without another word, and left the room, his knees feeling slightly unstable. Once outside, he took a deep, shuddering breath. He was relieved he didn’t have to hear Andropov’s recording, that his legal team had given him that option. He was pretty sure they thought he was avoiding it because he didn’t want to hear Holt’s specific words, but he had glanced at Eloise’s transcript. He saw what was said. ‘Might has well put the faggot to use’, ‘hear they have good mouths’, ‘not like the cocksucker will fight, he’ll probably beg for it’ had barely made him flinch. No, his reason for avoiding listening was because he didn’t want to hear who laughed. Who agreed. Who stayed quiet while a low talent, waste of cap space, 15-points-per-season ‘player’ had talked about the team gang raping their captain. 

Nothing felt real today. The meetings, the people at the table, it all felt like some terrible movie he had been dropped into. He suddenly remembered sitting on Rose’s couch just a couple of months ago as they had watched a slasher film. 

“I’m so glad my life is a contemporary drama instead of a horror movie,” Rose had said casually, grabbing a handful of popcorn. 

“What?” Shane had asked, confused. Rose had gestured at the TV. 

“This poor girl needs to realize she’s in a horror movie. Your life is easier when you understand what genre you’re in. Like, I know I’m contemporary drama, because I’m really hot and my life is good, but my love life sucks so it isn’t a romcom.” She had tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and tried to catch it in her mouth, missing it completely and making Shane smile. “You’re either in a sports movie, or a gay art film. You’re also too single to be in a romcom.” 

“You’re too funny for a drama,” Shane had told her, and she had smiled happily for a second. Until he got to the second part. “Maybe you are in a romcom, but you’re just a side character. The comic relief, or whatever.” 

“That is the meanest thing you have ever said to me!” Rose had gasped, and had thrown popcorn at him, making both of them laugh. 

Shane had thought he was in a sports movie. Today felt like he was in a legal drama. And he had never enjoyed legal dramas. Or maybe Rose was right, and this was a gay art film. He hadn’t seen any of those, so he couldn’t be sure. 

Or maybe this wasn’t a movie, just a shitty situation and he was grasping at straws trying to find something to explain to himself how he had gotten here. Standing in an empty hall, knowing that behind the door, people he was supposed to work with were listening to one of his teammates talk about sexually assaulting him. 

“Shane?” he heard someone say, and when he looked up he saw Farah standing in the doorway, looking at him. How long had he been standing here, just staring at the ground? She shut the door and came to stand next to him, her face kind. “Should I even ask how you’re doing right now?” 

“I don’t know if I’ll have an answer for you,” he told her honestly, and she gave him a small smile. “How did it… how did they react?” 

“Shock. And I think some fear.” Shane had always appreciated that Farah gave him clear answers. “They know this is bad, and they were not prepared for this. Before that last recording, they were preparing to scramble, I think. Offer sensitivity training, just to downplay it. This just went from bad PR and a civil lawsuit to a criminal threat, and Eloise has made that very clear.” 

Shane just nodded. He felt tired. No, that wasn’t right. He felt numb. This should have felt like a win, and it didn’t. He leaned his head against the wall, and allowed himself to close his eyes. He wanted to go home and lie down. He wanted to not be here. He wanted Ilya. 

“Shane,” Farah said softly. “We can be done for the day, if you want. They’ve asked to pick back up tomorrow. Eloise wants to keep going, while they’re unprepared and unlikely to put up a fight without the owner knowing, but it’s up to you.” 

“I want to be done,” Shane said quickly. “I know that… I don’t want them to be unprepared. I don’t want them to feel ambushed, I want to be professional about this. Don’t give them any ammunition, or a reason to claim later that I sabotaged this. Tell them everything they need to know, get this over with.” 

“Okay,” Farah agreed. “Let’s go in and wrap this up.” 

They walked in together, Shane ahead of her. He was greeted by silence and averted eyes. Shocking. He took his seat again next to Eloise, Farah on his other side. 

“I think we’ll agree to stop here today,” Farah said to the room. “I know that you all have some things you would like to discuss privately before we take the next steps, and I don’t think I need to explain to you that this has not been an easy day for Shane.” Shane just stared at the wall above their heads again, keeping his face blank. “I think we start tomorrow all on the same page, and that’s how we move forward.” 

“That sounds good to me,” Brown said. There were nods of agreement. 

“Before that, I think there is something we need to make abundantly clear,” Farah said. Her voice was cold. “We will be speaking at length about the discrimination of various team and staff members in this organization. We are willing to go into these conversations with good faith. But when it comes to Ned Holt, there will be no discussion. He is a risk to my client. This is now a safety concern. If he is in the locker room or on the ice, I promise you, my client won’t be.” 

“Understood,” Brown said. Shane didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at anyone. 

“Going into tomorrow, I think there’s also something we should be on the same page about,” Farah continued. “Mr. Hollander does not want a media circus. He does not want a public scandal. He is not looking to come out publicly right now. We want the same thing here, which is for this to be handled swiftly and quietly. With that being said, he is also not willing to tolerate abuse and discrimination from the team that he has done so much for. He is aware of his own value in this sport, and he understands the power of his name. This isn’t a threat, it’s a fact.”  She waited for Brown to nod. “Mr. Hollander has also said that he doesn’t want the organization to be unprepared tomorrow, so I think we should warn you of another fact.” She glanced at Eloise, and nodded. Eloise took over. 

“If you go to the back of the papers I gave you, you will see I have included a copy of the NDA Mr. Hollander signed as part of his contract. I have highlighted a portion for you, clause 4, on the third page.” There was suddenly a flurry of pages being turned around the room. “As you can see, there was a clause added regarding discrimination and hate speech. This was added to protect Mr. Hollander as a minority in a predominantly white sport, but the language is not limited to race, just hate speech and discrimination against a protected class. Not only was he subjected to racism, but queer people are a protected class, both in Canada and the United States. Due to this clause, you should consider his NDA null and void.” 

There was a long silence. Shane finally tore his eyes from the banner and looked across the table at the people facing him. They had started the day smug. That had switched to stress and anger. ‘They’re digging themselves into a hole’ Eloise had said during their first break. As the room collectively realized what it meant that Shane no longer had a NDA, Shane saw a new expression on his coach’s face, one he had never seen before in all of his years as a player. Theriault had finally figured out that he was a hole of his own making, and had gotten too deep. The man looked pale and shaken, his normal angry confidence gone. He met Shane’s eye, and they stared at each other for a long second. Theriault was the first to look away. 

“I think we’re done for now,” Farah said, and there was a general agreement. On either side of him, Farah and Eloise started to pack up their things. The room was silent outside of briefcases being packed. Shane rose and walked out with Farah and Eloise flanking him on either side.

Outside of stating his name for the record, Shane hadn’t spoken once. 

…..

Hockey Jesus and His Idiots

Hayden Pike

team having emrgncy meeting after game 2nite

coach looks like hes sick

not even yelling 

JJ Boiziau 

Capitaine, Holt isn’t here. 

I think only us and Mitty and Andy have a guess about what’s going on. 

Shane

Text me after the meeting? 

JJ Boiziau 

Of course, mon ami

JJ Boiziau 

Capitaine, I wish we could have gotten a photo for you of everyone’s faces when they found out you had been recording. 

Comeau and his evil little goblins are freaked, the lawyer just called him a “legal liability” straight to his face.

HOW DID YOU NOT TELL US ABOUT THE NDA???!!! 

There is a room full of assholes terrified you are about to ruin their careers. 

It’s so beautiful I could cry 

Hayden Pike 

bud i know this has sucked ass but it was rlly hard not to laugh at them 

still feels more like front office cares more about ppl finding out then about the homofobia tho :(

JJ Boiziau 

Ended the meeting by telling us people are definitely getting fired, and we all had a new batch of NDAs to sign.

And ‘homophobia’, Hayden, tabarnak. English is my second language and I know that. 

Hayden Pike

shane said my bad txting was offlimits chirping :(

Shane

I did, but I think now is a good time for you to learn how homophobia is spelled, bud. It's a bit more relevant now. And I’m not surprised they care more about optics. That’s always been their MO. 

Hayden Pike

homophobia

homophobic evil fuckheads

JJ Boiziau

Well done

Hayden Pike

fuck off

…..

“I think,” Stagnero said to the counsel room. “We’re all aware of what our easiest option is here.” 

It was his tone that Shane hated the most. Stagnero had always had a somewhat condescending air about him, and Shane understood that hockey players were by no means the sharpest group (even before the concussions), but Stagnero had always talked to them like they were incapable of finding the sharp end of a pencil. Shane had always assumed it was some sort of defensive mechanism. Stagnero loved hockey, but according to Yuna, had warmed the bench for his college career. He had entered the draft, but wasn’t selected and then had pivoted to sports management. He had worked for the Voyageurs for ten years now, had worked his way up to right hand man of the previous GM before taking the position three years ago when his boss retired. Yuna had told him that after Stagnero took the job, he had been quick to tell people that he had “basically been doing it for years”, and that his previous boss had “held the position in name only”. If Stagnero was to be believed, the last GM had been a doddering old man who just did what Stagnero told him– including drafting Shane. Yuna wasn’t sure if this was true, but Stagnero definitely believed it, and it just fueled his arrogance. 

Yesterday, he had seen that attitude vanish completely after the first recorded evidence against the organization. Today, it was back. 

It was easy to see what the organization’s plan was from the first hour: pick the scapegoats, protect the rest. Three of the coaching staff would be leaving the arena that day without a job. The rest Stagnero defended like they were his family. An hour was spent on Theriault, Stagnero pointing out multiple times that while, yes, he had been insulting and yes, it was inappropriate, he had walked the very careful line to avoid using what could legally be considered hate speech, and he was quick to change the topic when Eloise brought up the sexual harassment complaint again. It didn’t matter what Shane’s side said, Theriault staying had been decided before they sat down. The implication that Shane was overreacting was back. The implication that Shane didn’t understand hockey culture and locker rooms made him want to spit. 

As for the players, Ned Holt was thrown under the bus. The rest of the team were given a full throated defense. Shane couldn’t force others to be comfortable with homosexuality. Shane couldn’t expect the organization to clean out a locker room just for his comfort. Shane was supposed to be the leader in the room, it was his job to get this under control, so clearly the fault lay on both sides. Shane should be grateful that the organization was getting rid of the forgettable player who joked about raping him, and should applaud the front office for making the rest of the team take sensitivity training. Shane should know they were doing this because they cared. 

Shane wondered if the subtle sneer was just Stagnero’s resting face, and if it was, if it had always been or had developed with the job.

“Easiest.” Farah nodded. “I’m assuming by ‘easiest’, you mean my client waiving his no movement and agreeing to a trade.” 

“You’ve outlined a lot of problems. Maybe a clean break is the better option,” Stagnero said, smiling sympathetically. Fucking slimy prick. 

“Where?” Shane asked flatly. Stagnero glanced at the collected front office people. 

“Well, we were thinking about Ottawa. It’s your hometown, which would explain your move, and they have the cap space and need a star center,” Stagnero said, continuing to smile at Shane, the fake sympathy gone and replaced by a patronizing air. Shane was speaking before he could stop himself. 

“Is that a fucking joke?” 

Stagnero’s smile dropped. “Now, Shane–”

“You want to ship me to the worst team in the league? Are you kidding me?” Shane snapped. 

“It’s what would look the best–” one of the nervous PR people started. 

“Yeah, for you,” Shane interrupted. “Do you really think I feel inclined to blow up my career to do you a favor?” 

“Shane,” Farah said softly, putting her hand on his arm, and he snapped his mouth shut. The tone across the table was changing quickly. Placating smiles were gone, and Shane saw anxiety sneaking it. Shane had barely spoken so far, leaving it to Farah and Eloise. It seemed they had expected him to still stay silent now. They really thought he would take the trade, he realized. They really thought he would just roll over, agree to what they wanted without a thought for himself. Of course they did, that’s what he had been doing since rookie year. Shane Hollander, the Golden Boy, so easy to work with, so polite, so agreeable. 

“It’s not purely about optics,” one of Montreal’s people said, his tone almost pleading. “We all know that the Centaur’s locker room is less… traditional than ours. The whole team has been publicly supportive of Scott Hunter. It would be easier for you. And New York can’t take you, they can’t afford to.” 

“It would also mean you could dump me without making me a viable contender against you, not for a couple years at least,” Shane said flatly. “Stop trying to pretend this is for my benefit.” 

“The way I see it, you have four options,” Farah said calmly before they could try lying again. “One, find an actual trade, one that makes sense for Shane Hollander, not just for you. Two, release his contact- which you are already in breach of- and put him in free agency. Three, fix the problems here, keep him, and avoid angering your fans. Or four…” she glanced at Shane. He nodded, and her eyes went steely. “You can keep jerking us around, and we sue. Loudly. Publicly. In the quote on quote ‘gayest city in Canada’, where Shane Hollander is worshipped, and we see how your optics look after that.” 

“You said you didn’t want to come out,” Stagnero said. 

“I said I would like to avoid it, not that I definitely won’t,” Shane said, and Stagnero's mouth twisted. “If I have to, I will. I’ve already talked to my sponsers–” visible shock, oh, they hadn’t even considered him doing that an option. “-And they know and have offered their support. Their public support. Hell, if it comes to it, I’ll ask Rose Landry to post my coming out from her account, for her twenty four million followers, alongside the recordings I made here.” Farah touched his arm again. Pull it back. Across the table, they finally were starting to look properly nervous. “Don’t confuse ‘would rather not’ with ‘won’t’,” Shane finished coldly. “That would be a very expensive mistake for this organization.” He looked around the table. “As for your optics, it doesn’t matter where you send me. I have been the face of this organization since I was a rookie. Everyone in this office made sure of that. You made me the youngest Captain in franchise history. I led this team to two Stanley Cups after decades without. You will get backlash losing me no matter how this goes, no matter how nice you make the story sound, and if you try to paint me as the villain here, I will not take that lying down. You think I don’t know what I mean to this city? To this sport? 

“So stop insulting me and stop fucking around.” 

“I see,” Stagnero said after a long pause. Farah’s hand had found Shane’s arm again, a gentle touch to ground him and remind him of where they were. Stagnero was looking at Shane more closely now, and Shane stared back. Do you think I’m bluffing now, asshole? Stagnero looked away first, looking at his team at the table. “I think we need to talk. Can we pick this back up tomorrow?” 

“The season starts in a week, and Shane is missing practice to deal with this,” Farah pointed out. “If you have a list of trade options, you’ll send it by 4 today, and we can talk tomorrow morning after we’ve looked them over. If he’s staying, he needs to get back to practice. If he’s leaving, we’d like him with his new team before final rosters are set. Either way, that decision will be made by tomorrow.” 

Stagnero nodded sharply. He didn’t look at Shane again.

The sneer was gone. 

…..

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

So where are you going? 

Shane

The list was an insult, I’m not letting them trade me

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

??? 

Shane 

They sent a list of the most publicly homophobic teams, and tacked on Ottawa and Buffalo. 

They’re not even trying to be subtle in where they want me to go, I said no, and now they’re trying to trick me into going with some bullshit “choices” they know I can’t take. 

So fuck them. Farah already called, told them a trade is no longer on the table. They either fix the problems so I can stay, release my contract completely for free agency, or we sue. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

You are very hot when you remember who you are 🥵🥵🥵

Shane 

I’m too pissed to sext right now. Fuck, I wish you were here. 

Video call from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥: 39 minutes 

Shane 

Thank you

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Anytime 😘

…..

Shane didn’t know what to expect when he, Eloise and Farah walked into the conference room for the third day in a row, but it certainly wasn’t the owner of the Voyageurs. Laurence Alliet was not a hands-on owner, not like some that Shane had heard about, who liked to sit in their box and pretend to be part of the coaching staff. Shane had met the man only a handful of times since he was drafted. Everyday that they had walked in, the crowd on the other side of the table had changed. Today was the smallest group. Alliet, two lawyers including Brown, head of PR Marcel Brisson (making his first appearance), and Stagnero. 

Shane sat between Farah and Eloise again, and tried not to fidget with his shirt, which felt too small. Alliet was staring at him. The recorder was turned on, everyone stated their names, and Farah jumped right in. 

“As we said last night, that list was in bad faith and the option of a trade is now no longer on the table,” she said briskly. 

“We really don’t–” Stagnero started, and Farah was quick to interrupt him. 

“After receiving your list, I decided, on a whim, to google ‘most homophobic teams in the NHL’ and found that your options perfectly matched that list,” she said clearly and coldly. “I am also a very good agent, Mr. Stagnero. I happen to know that Chicago is, in fact, looking for a center right now, and would probably jump at the chance at signing Shane. And if you choose to release him from his contract, they will be my first call. But not through a trade, not through this organization. Not after that.” 

“I’m sorry for the reasons you can come to that conclusion,” Alliet said quietly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “But we would also not like to trade Shane. Or release him from his contract.” All eyes snapped to the older man, but he was looking only at Shane. Shane forced himself to make eye contact, unsure now of what was going on. “Mr. Hollander, I was only made aware of the struggles you’ve been facing here yesterday. I am not trying to give you an excuse, just explaining why I was not here sooner.” Shane nodded, not sure what else to do. “Since then, I have listened to the recordings in these meetings, and something stood out to me. At no point did anyone wearing this logo or sitting under this banner apologize to you for what you have been put through by your employers. And my lawyers do not want me to be saying this–” he glanced at Brown, who was staring at the table in front of him. “Something about admitting fault. But you wear my jersey, on my team, and you were a victim of harassment, discrimination, and what in any other setting would be considered assault. By my employees. So Mr. Hollander, I sincerely apologize for the treatment that you have received. And I sincerely apologize that you had to get lawyers involved to have it addressed. As the owner, I am ashamed that it got to this point.” 

Shane just stared at him, wide eyed, as his words hit him. Because he was right. No one had apologized. First he had been treated with disdain when they tried to claim he was lying, and then panic, and then more disdain with those pathetic trade offers, but always treated like a problem. Something to deal with. His coach, his GM, the team around them… no one had even said a simple ‘I’m sorry’ yet. Not until now. 

“Thank you,” Shane said quietly when he realized that people were waiting for him to speak. Luckily, his voice didn’t break around the lump in his throat. 

“Mr. Hollander, you said yesterday that you were the face of this organization, and you are correct,” Alliet continued. “You also said that we had choices going forward. Trade, free agency, fix it, or a lawsuit. I am asking you to give me a chance to fix it. Not just because I think this team will suffer without you. But also because when my granddaughter told me that she liked girls instead of boys, I was scared for her and the world that waited for her. And I am horrified to find out that those fears I had for her have been happening, in my name.” He took a deep breath. “So, I would like to offer another option. You have three more years on your contract. Please, just give me one year. Give me a season to try and fix this. If I can’t do that, if you still want out after this season, I will trade you wherever you want, regardless of what we get back, or release you from your contract to free agency.” He looked between Shane and Farah. “Scott Hunter just came out. Spend the year finding out how the locker rooms felt about that. Figure out where you actually want to go if you leave. And while you do that, please give me a chance to right this wrong. Not just for me, but for the city and the fans.” 

Shane and Farah looked at each other. Alliet had raised a point that Shane had been secretly worrying about, which is that he didn’t know which locker rooms would be safe. From an outside perspective, he was sure most people would assume Montreal would be safe, considering the culture of the city. But he now had proof that a gay friendly city did not necessarily mean a gay friendly team. He knew which teams were the most likely to use slurs and homophobic language, but he also knew that several members of his team never used slurs and still turned on him. While JJ, who used to use ‘cocksucker’ as his favorite insult, had immediately stepped up for him, making it harder to use slurs as proof of beliefs. He knew which Captains he liked across the league, who seemed to run a clean room, but he was sure that he also had a good room, and look at what had happened. 

Until he found out more, safety wasn’t a guarantee. And right now he had the Voyageurs over a barrel, legally speaking. A snap decision was made. 

Shane gave Farah a small nod. She leaned forward, bracing herself on her elbows and lacing her fingers together. 

“Well then, Mr. Alliet. What would ‘fixing it’ look like to you?”

Chapter End Notes

Yuna is not in the meetings because her work on Shane's team is for all of his stuff outside of hockey, Farah does the hockey stuff. Also, Shane did not want her there, hearing the worst recordings.

I went with the team names from the books because I wanted Boston to be the Bears. Thank god for spellcheck, because I do not think I have spelled 'Voyageurs' correctly a single fucking time, this word is becoming my writing nemisis. And yes, I misspelled it while writing this note and had to correct it.

See you next chapter! ♥️❤️❤️

Chapter 9: Something Is Rotten In The State Of Montreal

Chapter Summary

Last time: Shane brought lawyers to a hockey fight.
This time: Did we really expect rich, straight, older white men to fix the problem? At least the new rookie is cool.

Chapter Notes

Hello! Thank you for all your nice comments. I learned from one of them that someone recommended this on reddit. That was very nice of you, and explained why I suddenly got a jump in bookmarks. I'm glad you like my story. Anyway, enjoy the new chapter.

Sandy Explains Hockey Podcast

October 7th, 2017

Sandy Manos: Hello! I’m Sandy, and this is Sandy Explains Hockey! Welcome to the 2017-2018 season!  This is the podcast where I, Sandra Manos, retired pro hockey player, three time winner of the Clarkson cup– Stanley Cup for women’s Canadian hockey, for people who don’t know, and two time gold medal Olympic winner, explain hockey to my friend Gavin. 

Gavin Collins: And I am just some guy. 

SM: Or, that used to be the premise, but we’ve been doing this for a couple years now, and Gav now knows a lot about hockey, so now it's really just buddies talking about hockey, but we don’t know how to change the name of the podcast. 

GC: Just two buddies chatting, and one has a super impressive resume. And I still ask a lot of questions, don’t worry. 

SM: We're going to start the season off like we always do here, and give first day predictions for who we think are going to do well this year, based solely on their first game and performances last season. I will admit, this has become less funny since Gav learned hockey–

GC: The first year, I picked based on vibes and who had the best uniforms. 

SM: But we asked our audience last year if we should stop and got a very loud “No!” But they did mention they missed the chaos. So, last year, we introduced a new element, which was the ‘chaos picks’. I have, right here, a bag with the logo of every NHL team. Gavin and I will pick our contenders, and then I will draw eight random teams from the chaos bag. And I will say. Last year, both of us said the Admirals, and so did the chaos bag. The Admirals won the Cup. Last season, neither of us said North Carolina, the chaos bag did, and NC got to the second round of playoffs. 

GC: So maybe the bag knows. 

SM: Obviously, do not use this game or especially the chaos bag for betting purposes. But I’m excited to see what the bag says. But we’re going to have the humans go first, Gav, who is top of your list for this year's playoff contenders? 

GC: Obviously, the Admirals. They’re going to want to defend the cup. And it’s not just the Cup they’re defending, it’s Scott Hunter. Hunter has had to see a lot of think pieces this summer suddenly questioning his abilities as captain and as a player after coming out as gay. 

SM: Coming from the women’s league, people freaking out about this is genuinely so weird to me. As some of you know, I am literally married to someone I used to play against. Queerness is so common in women's sports, watching people melt down because of one gay man is just… pathetic, honestly. But I do agree with you, and New York is also on my list. Also, and I just need to say this before we move on: some of these pieces I’m seeing are acting like Hunter became gay when you learned about it. He has been gay the whole time. During his prolific early career, repeat playoff runs, Olympic gold medal, and Cup win, gay the whole time. You just didn’t know. 

GC: For people who want to hear more on this, Sandy wrote a really good article for our website. You can find our thoughts there. 

SM: And I wrote that so the podcast could stick to our normal routine and not become a queer think piece, and I’m still doing it. Moving on! New York is also on my list. And the chaos bag’s number one pick… (a pause and a small rustling sound)... Vancouver. Okay, not a terrible pick. Not on my list, but not too far off of it. Gav, second choice?

GC: I mean, LA. Lost the cup to New York, and played a hell of a season opener, 5-1 game against Utah.

SM: Honestly, almost everyone who got to the second round of playoffs last year had good season openers. For the Western Conference, we saw LA win, we saw Winnipeg, Chicago, Edmonton all win their games. For the East, New York, Detroit, Philly all won, and man, Boston destroyed Montreal. 

GC: Can I say something controversial? 

SM: Floor is yours, bud. 

GC: I’ll start by saying, we base our bets on just the first game and the last season, right? Nothing before that? No… historical precedent? 

SM: I think I know where you’re going with this. 

GC: Based on that, and that alone…  I don’t think Montreal is on my list this year. 

SM: It's not on mine, either. 

GC: I feel like we’ve insulted Shane Hollander and the hockey gods are going to smite us. 

SM: Oh, I don’t feel good about it. I’ve met Shane Hollander, as I have bragged about many times. I have hung out with the guy. He is this generation’s Hockey Jesus and genuinely so nice. But… look, we’re going to finish the predictions and get into the Boston-Montreal game, okay? Because I have some thoughts. But for now, we both agree New York and LA, my third choice is Philly. 

GC: Mine is Chicago. Chaos bag is…. Ottawa. 

SM: Okay, so the bag is broken.

…..

October 5-November 28, 2017

“It’s a slow start,” Shane told the press their first week of the season after their second loss. “But I know we can turn it around.” He was lying through his teeth. 

“We have a lot of talented players, things just aren’t clicking at the moment,” he said the third week. They had officially lost more games than they had won. “We’ll figure it out.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He went home and logged the loss on the growing spreadsheet. He also logged the injuries he shouldn’t have taken, the shifts that were too long, the full eight minutes he spent on the bench in the second. 

It wasn’t just the team. It turned out that “fixing it” still did not include firing Theriault, who now just ignored him unless there were cameras on them. This left communication during practice to his staff who were clearly nervous to appear too friendly with him, except the new people who everyone knew were hired to watch and leash Theriault. This led to weird power dynamics in the whole crew that Shane couldn’t figure out. “Fixing it” was Stagnero pretending to listen when Shane, Hayden and JJ reported the continuing problems and then doing nothing. They had finally stopped reporting Comeau, Wilson and Drapeau’s whispered slurs when they happened, instead putting a compiled list into an email at the end of the week, just to be asked for proof. Since Shane had agreed to stop recording, he didn’t have any, and apparently Stagnero didn’t value historical precedent or Hayden and JJ’s collaboration. He continued the emails anyway at Eloise’s insistence, CCing her in all of them. “Fixing it” seemed to amount to very little, the lack of effort tracked on the spreadsheet Shane shared with his mom and Farah. For all of his supportive words, it seems Alliet’s idea of “fixing it” was to tell people to fix it and then fucking off without making sure they actually did. If Shane’s expectations hadn’t already been so low, he would have been disappointed. 

There was also a new growing category on his spreadsheet, and that was dealing with the public. He noticed after two weeks he was only told to talk to the press after losing games, someone else always selected for wins. Sometimes JJ and Hayden since they both had As and media experience, but Comeau and Wilson were starting to get more camera time. As much as Shane hated what this meant, he did enjoy watching them try to defend their poor performances to the press after games where neither had  put points on the board. It was hard to be the face of the “winners” when the press immediately asked about their personal mistakes and declining numbers. Unfortunately, instead of this inspiring them to play better, it just made the two of them angrier at Shane.

…..

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

You played well against Detroit. 

Shane

We lost.

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

That was because Comeau was playing like he is concussed. Has anyone checked?

Shane

Not concussed, just fucking stupid. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

😂

You will be in Vegas next week, yes? First time against new team. 

Shane

I’m dreading the whole thing. For some stupid reason they gave us the whole night off after the game, and a late flight the next day, so no curfew. In fucking VEGAS. The whole team is going to go insane. And when I pointed out that this was a terrible choice, I got another hour long meeting about “team morale” and my “leadership responsibilities”, which basically means I’ll get blamed when they’re all hungover and puking on the flight the next day. 

AND JJ keeps insisting we go out and not let the assholes have all the fun, and that sounds like its own nightmare. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

JJ is still refusing to hang out with the team? 

Shane

He is, which sucks. He’s such a social person, and Hayden and I aren’t enough for him, even if he pretends he’s fine with it. But he saw me stressing about Vegas and insisted we need distraction.

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

This is why JJ is my favorite. 

Shane

Yeah, he and Hayden have been really good. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

I said JJ, not Hayden. Pike is a cockblocker who is always in your room when I want to have phone sex. 

Anyway. Vegas. You have whole night off? Good. You will have to disappoint my second favorite Voyageur, because you will be busy. 

Shane 

???

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

(Photo of plane ticket)

(Photo of hotel reservation for Bellagio penthouse) 

I got room with big windows. I am going to bend you over and fuck you in front of Vegas skyline until you come untouched.  And then I’m going to lick your cum off the glass 😈 

Shane

Jesus fuck. 

Wait, you’re coming to Vegas?????

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Yes. It is fun city, and I hear my favorite hockey player will be in town. I want him to sign my jersey. 

Shane

You don’t even have one of my jerseys. I asked, and you said “I will not wear that fuckass team’s colors”, remember?

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

I mean McForrest. I know he is in Vegas now, but ask if he will sign my Boston jersey. You know him, right?

Shane

McFORREST? Oh, fuck you. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Yes. That is the plan. In Vegas. Against big windows 😈

Shane

He hasn’t even been good in years, Vegas is his version of being put out to pasture. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

You are very sexy when you are jealous, kotik 🥵

Do not worry, you are still my third favorite player. 

Shane

THIRD??? 

Video call to Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥: 49 minutes

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

You are my first favorite hockey player and the sexiest in the league. 

Shane

And don’t you fucking forget it.

…..

It had been his mom who first noticed the decrease in pictures and videos of Shane on the Voyageurs socials. She had mentioned it in passing, but it wasn’t until both Ilya and Rose also brought it up that Shane had actually looked. It had gone on the spreadsheet, and had given him a whole new category to start, simply labeled “48”. 

Number 48, 22 year old Marcelo Rhodes. Drafted in the third round, and had played in college as a prospect all four years before signing his Montreal contract days after getting his degree in communications. He had promise back when he was drafted, would probably have been drafted higher if he had been willing to skip college and go straight to the AHL. But Montreal had been willing to wait, and like they had hoped, his years playing college hockey had supplied the improvement he would have gotten from the minors, making him a solid player. Good enough to make the official roster his first year, replacing Ned Holt as center on the third line. He was also the new star of the Voyageurs social media page, and Shane knew that his presence there had nothing to do with hockey. 

Because Marcelo Rhodes was very good looking, with golden skin, sharp cheekbones and a severe nose that made him look regal, chocolate brown wavy hair that often fell into his dark eyes when he wasn’t wearing his helmet. He was tall and fit, especially compared to the other, younger rookies in the league. And Marcelo Rhodes was half Mexican, making him one of the rare Latino players in the league and the only one in their division. 

Shane knew that the Voyageurs front office worried about looking racist. They worried more about looking racist than they actually cared about dealing with racism. Three times in his career, players calling Shane or JJ racial slurs had been caught on a hot mic, and every time Montreal had faced a slew of criticism for not properly protecting their minority players. It had made them nervous. Shane and Farah had hoped this need to appear tolerant would help him now, since they knew pushing him out would result in at least one op-ed asking if it was race related and bring attention to the matter again. 

But with a new Latino star, the PR office had seemingly decided that was no longer a problem. Despite being a middle talent player, they were determined to make Rhodes the new face of Montreal. 

This was probably the most insulting part for Shane. Made harder by the fact that he actually liked Rhodes. 

The team had been warned against telling any of the prospects about Shane’s sexuality. It wasn’t to protect Shane, it was because the majority of them would be returning to the feeder team, and the front office didn’t want rumors. Of course, it was impossible to hide that the majority of the roster didn’t like their captain, but they weren’t given a reason before heading back to the minors. Despite the fact that many of them picked up something was wrong, several of them decided to benefit from the fact that Shane stayed late on the ice all through pre-season practices. This was to avoid the locker room, but some of the prospects realized this was time to train with Shane Hollander, and potentially get one-on-one coaching from him. Marcelo Rhodes was one of those prospects. Always staying late, and when he noticed that Shane was also coming in early, he did too. Unlike many of the teenage prospects who were almost too nervous to look at Shane, Rhodes asked questions, cared about Shane’s answers, and called him either “Hollander”, “Holzy” or “Cap” like Hayden and JJ did (some of prospects had called him Mr. Hollander or sir, making JJ laugh hysterically). He never called him Holly, like Comeau and his band of bigots were doing.

The day the season roster was set, Rhodes and another rookie, Cloutier (a 19 year old that Shane already had some doubts about), were officially on the team and someone– Shane suspected Comeau, Drapeau or Wilson, had told them about Shane’s sexuality. JJ had texted him that night, warning him that the rookies had asked him if it was true. Shane had shown up early for the first practice of the official season, and had been surprised to see Rhodes still showing up early as well, walking in to find his new stall in the team locker room just as Shane was getting dressed, chatting with JJ. 

“Hey,” he greeted them casually, and then started to dress. “Hey, Cap, before practice starts, can you show me those slapshot drills again?” 

“Sure,” Shane said after a short pause. He looked at JJ, who just shrugged and pulled on his practice sweater. The three of them were on the ice, Shane watching and correcting Rhodes running slapshot drills as the rest of the team arrived. 

Practice started, an easy morning because they had their first game of the season that night against Boston. Unfortunately, just because the team was no longer allowed to show their animosity towards Shane in the form of violence like they had been doing before the lawyers got involved, they could still show their lack of respect by ignoring him, not being where they needed to be, and generally playing badly. By the end of the practice, Shane was ready to break his stick. The other rookie, Cloutier, seemed more than happy to stick with Comeau on the ice, following his lead when it came to ignoring Shane, even though he looked nervous. Rhodes hadn’t seemed to react at all. 

“I have a bad feeling about this season,” he muttered to Hayden as most of the team left the ice and headed for the locker room. 

“Go do some angry laps, I’ll get the cones,” Hayden responded. When Shane had finished his two laps around the rink, he had found Rhodes, still on the ice, two cones left that he was doing tight figure eights around. Hayden and JJ sat on the bench, chatting and waiting. 

“Rhodes,” Shane greeted him. “You need to get home, eat, shower. Nap, if that’s part of your ritual. First game tonight.” 

Rhodes had stopped, turning to him abruptly. “The rest of the team,” he said bluntly. “Did you do something bad, or are they acting like a bunch of assholes just because you’re gay?” 

“It’s the gay thing,” Shane said. “Also, I don’t know what they told you, but I did sort of record them calling me slurs and basically threatened to sue the organization.” He shrugged. “They didn’t like that either.” 

Rhodes blinked at him for a second. “That’s it? You’re not a secret creep, never led on and then cheated on one of their sisters, or anything? Just gay?” 

“All my partners have been consenting adults, and their sisters have never been my type,” Shane said. “It’s just the gay thing.” Rhodes scowled. 

“That’s some bullshit,” he said, annoyance clear in his tone. 

Shane couldn’t stop himself from smiling, even as his stomach tightened. “You know, Rhodes, not that I don’t appreciate that, but it might not be good for you to be too friendly with me. In the eyes of the team. You’re just starting out, getting labeled a problem isn’t going to help your rookie year.” 

Rhodes glared at him now. “Cap, I’ve been excited to play with you since I got drafted four years ago. With you, not just in your general vicinity. Also?” he shook his head violently. “If my moms found out I was being rude to someone because of their sexuality, even to protect myself… I would die. Literally. I would be buried in a shallow grave before I could even say ‘but he said it was okay’. No gravestone, just a sign that says ‘I warned that boy’.” Shane let out a surprised laugh, and some of the anger dissolved from Rhodes’s face. “People round here might think they’re scary, they got nothing on my mama and her flip flop.” 

“Okay,” Shane said, not sure what the flip flop had to do with anything. “But know I won’t be insulted if you start to pull away. They’ve been shitty to Hayden and JJ, they might be shitty to you too.” 

“I can handle myself,” he said, with the confidence of a 22 year old in his first job, and Shane hoped he was right. He was pretty sure he would be wrong. 

Rhodes was not wrong. 

Despite his lack of asshole behavior towards Shane, Rhodes had very quickly been accepted by the team. Shane was no longer being invited or pressured to join the team when they went out after games (the only silver lining in this whole mess) but Rhodes was 22 and able to go out even in the states. And did. Frequently. While Shane might not be invited to gossip anymore, he still heard it around him and Rhodes was very quickly proving himself as successful with the only thing hockey players cared about as much as hockey: women. Any side-eye he might have gotten about not being uncomfortable around a gay man was canceled out by the line of women parading through his hotel rooms (also, Rhodes was from San Francisco. It seemed some of the team had decided that growing up in the United State’s “gayest city” explained his attitude, seemingly forgetting that they themselves played for Canada’s “gayest city” and were still assholes. As Ilya reminded him, he had to stop looking for logic in bigotry.). Shane heard his teammates crow with excitement about the fact that Rhodes always left early, always with a beautiful woman on his arm. One of the few times Shane would be acknowledged by his teammates now was when one of them wanted to point out how different that was from Shane, normally in a mocking tone. Sometimes a clear mockery of his sexuality, and sometimes Shane wondered if his teammates actually fully understood that his being gay meant he wasn’t interested in women and did not mourn his “inability” to pick them up. 

…..

hockey.net 

Voyageurs Season Off To Slow Start, Rumors Of “Locker Room Problems” Persist (By Vincent Morre)

Montreal Times 

The White Men Fail, The POC Get Blamed: Shane Hollander’s Treatment Is Just Another Example Of Casual Racism In Sports (By Michelle Deonte) 

Barstool Sports 

Is The Hollander Era Over? Montreal Has Their Worst First Season Start Since Captain’s Debut (By Nikolas Green)

Buffalo Shout

Buffalo Tigers Beat Montreal Voyageurs 4-2 For First Win Against Canadian Team In Six Years (By Alex Whedon)

ESPN

Longer Shifts, And More Shots On Goal– The Voyageur’s New Play Style Isn’t Working (By Kevin Lenno) 

Hockey News

Hollander Out On Injury For One Game, Third Time This Month (By Jean Hartman)

…..

Shane knew it was only the threat of what he could say if his C was taken that kept it on his sweater and the As on Hayden and JJ’s. If they were taken, there would be questions, and with his new custom written NDA, no one liked the freedom Shane would have to answer those questions. So his C stayed, even as the responsibilities that came with it were taken. This has just caused more problems, a lot of the staff not realizing how much work Shane really did. Hayden and JJ had basically laughed in their faces when they were asked to pick up some of the slack. So the staff had been forced to, which didn’t help his already strained relationship with them. About half appeared to understand that this wasn’t his choice, and he wasn’t happy about it either. The other half blamed him. 

The staff’s frustration just gave more ground to the loudest assholes in the locker room. About halfway through November, Shane started making note of who in the locker room rushed to get in and out, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Right after the meetings with the lawyers, the room had felt like there was an active grenade hidden somewhere, and everyone was scared to be the one to find it. As the season progressed without the grenade detonating, the tension in the room changed. The obvious bigots started gaining confidence again, and the men surrounding them started getting quieter. Because they wouldn’t speak to him, Shane wasn’t sure where their discomfort came from. Was it because they agreed with the bigots, but were too nervous about Shane’s lawyers and connections to publicly agree? Or did they disagree, but saw that management was still dragging their heels and didn’t want to publicly take his side against the people holding their contracts? 

Either way, their silence was also a choice. 

The players union was turning into another headache. Eloise updated Shane weekly that they were still avoiding her and sending back auto-reply emails. This made her furious, but Shane wasn’t surprised. Fucking Wilson was the Voyageurs’ rep. Shane was positive he had a hand in the union ignoring him. And considering the union seemed to care more about dress codes and protecting domestic abusers than dealing with slurs and targeted violence against minority players, Shane hadn’t expected much from them anyway. It was just another thing on the long list of failures from the league, and not one that Shane could prioritize. There was too much happening in his own barn. 

Stagnero avoided Shane and his allies, Theriault refused to speak to him, the staff grumbled and snapped, and entering the locker room made Shane feel vaguely sick. All while they lost games and dropped in the rankings. 

This was their version of “fixing it”. 

When Ilya or Rose or his parents called and asked how it was going, Shane gave half answers, and never said the real concern that was starting to live in the back of his head. He told him which staff members he hated, which teammates pissed him off that day, enough to make it sound like he was giving a real answer. 

He didn’t tell any of them that he was worried that if things didn’t change, he would start to hate hockey. 

…..

Montreal Weekly 

Despite Lagging Numbers, Hollander Promises Team Will “Give It Their All” In Upcoming Game Against Rival Boston Bears (By Francios Lamontes)

Chapter End Notes

The whole reason why I was giving the chapters titles was to put the name of the next chapter in the end notes (and because I love named chapters and do not understand why more books don't have them. They're like previews! They're great) and then I completely forgot to do that for eight whole chapters. My bad.

Anyway.

Next time: 'One-Sided Rivalry'

Bye!

Chapter 10: One-Sided Rivalry

Chapter Summary

Last time: Shane's season starts with some obvious problems
This time: It's Montreal vs Boston, baby.

Chapter Notes

December 1, 2017-January 2, 2018

Yury Makarov of the Boston Bears would probably be attractive if his personality wasn’t so shit. Tall, with broad shoulders and long legs, in killer shape. Deep set eyes in a startling shade of icy blue, set in a pale face and contrasted with dark brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. When he had first been drafted, he had very quickly been branded an arrogant asshole by the press and the fans even as he was hailed as the savior of the failing Bears, much like Shane had been for Montreal when he was drafted. Shane had given him the benefit of the doubt, remembering the pressure and assuming that his monosymbolic quotes to the press were a language barrier. Until their first game against him, when he had asked Shane in perfect English if it was true that Asian men had tiny cocks and if that was why his mother had married a white man and made a half-breed. Shane had immediately stopped feeling sorry for him. 

Over his four years in the league, Makarov had just become another one of the racists who hated Shane and enjoyed targeting him. The press had tried to paint it as a rivalry at first. Montreal vs Boston, leading into Canadian prodigy vs Russian phenom. Always Single Golden Boy vs Womanizing Party Boy. Shane’s high hockey IQ and practiced skill vs Makarov’s brute force and raw talent. 

Shane had shut that down with a lack of answers or interest when he was brought up. Not only did the whole thing feel vaguely racist and xenophonic (smart Asian vs violent Russian, what an original story from the sports media) but he also genuinely did not like Makarov and did not want to talk about him. And didn’t see the need to. Maybe if Makarov was actually as talented as he thought he was, Shane would have to deal with it, but from a pure statistical standpoint, he wasn’t much of a professional rival. He was very good, sure, but Shane was better. He didn’t see any need to pretend Makarov was his equal for the sake of a narrative he wanted to avoid. 

Makarov might chirp him in the press, but when asked about him, Shane would just shrug and change the topic, refusing to give them anything to work with. Makarov hadn’t liked that. He seemed to take Shane’s lack of interest as a personal insult. Shane’s refusal to insult him back just made him look immature and mean, especially when he couldn’t live up to his own claims. Games against Boston (which had already been tense and high pressure, due to the long standing rivalry between their teams) had reached new levels of brutality. Makarov had targeted Shane, and Shane’s team had responded with equal violence.

Which is why Shane spent the days leading up to their second game against Boston with a deep sense of dread.  Their first game of the season, Boston had crushed them in their own barn, the worst season opener Shane had ever played in his entire tenure as a hockey player. It had been humiliating, and it had been painful. 

Shane had no doubts that their next game would be a repeat of their first. He knew Makarov would target him. And he knew that he would be unprotected.

…..

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

I have been watching Makarov interviews. I have thoughts for you. How to chirp him. 

Shane 

I don’t want to chirp him, I want him to leave me alone. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

We both know that will not happen. 

Call from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥: 58 minutes 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

(Voice memo)

(Voice memo)

(Voice memo) 

To practice Russian pronunciation. 

Get the little shit. 

…..

Makarov had hit the ground running, bending over the faceoff circle across from him with a nasty smirk around his mouthguard. “Hello Captain Cocksucker, should we have repeat of last game? Last game I win 6-1, I think tonight I do 10-0. Double hattie for me. You have never done this, no?” Shane ignored him, keeping his face blank, even though he wanted to. A double hat trick, seriously? That hadn’t been achieved since the 70s, and Shane had gotten more hat tricks during the 2014-2015 season than Makarov had gotten in his entire career. But he stayed silent, focused. 

Shane’s refusal to react to chirps drove some players crazy, distracting them. He knew from experience that Makarov was not one of these players. He would go and go and go, not caring that Shane wasn’t responding. It was one of Shane’s least favorite things about him. 

As he waited for the puck to drop, he repeated the Russian words Ilya had sent him in his head, as well as the “intel” (Ilya’s word, not his) that Ilya had given him. 

“Makarov wants to be the best, and wants to be seen as new, fresh, exciting,” Ilya had said over the phone. “That is why his play style is so flashy. He wants the highlight reel more than the win. He does not hate you just because of race. He hates that you are better on skill and technique and get talked about more.” 

“And how do you know this?” Shane had asked. 

“I watched all of his interviews,” Ilya said. “He is a bigot, yes, but is proud of that. He is also insecure little man who is scared of being forgotten and forgettable. I am guessing he has to prove himself, picking the NHL over the KHL. With his talent, he would have been a bigger star in Russia. Fuck, he would have been the Shane Hollander of the KHL. Here, he is good, but you are better. Hit him where it hurts. It will work.” 

Shane won the faceoff and took off, Makarov hot on his heels. Makarov and Marlow closed in, Shane passed to Hayden, and took off around the net in a burst of speed that lost both of them just to retake the puck from Hayden, where it became a brief game of him and Hayden just passing it back and forth and completely ignoring Wilson until Shane was in the right position and sent it into the net with a wrist shot. The goal buzzer blared. They weren’t even 40 seconds into the game. Hayden slammed into him, grinning and they tapped helmets as the Boston crowd screamed their fury. 

“You will kiss him next, 35?” Makarov mocked them as he passed. “We know Captain Faggot would like that.” 

The adrenaline from the goal giving him a high, Shane looked at him with disgust, Hayden’s arm still around his shoulder. “Get better material or shut up. You’re so fucking boring.” 

Makarov came to an abrupt stop. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” 

Before Shane could answer, they were being called back to the bench for the line change. As they skated, Hayden looked at him curiously. “Where did that come from?” Shane just shrugged, and swung himself over the wall to sit on the bench. Hayden was not the only one looking at him side-eyed. He ignored them all, focusing on the game. 

His next opportunity came ten minutes later, when Makarov called him a “cocksucking Jap” as they battled over the puck in the corner. “You’re a boring chirper and a boring player,” Shane said flatly. Makarov’s stick slipped, and Shane took the puck easily. 

During the first intermission, he checked his phone, after making sure no one in the locker room could see his screen.

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

He looks like his head is going to explode. 

He is about to start swinging. 

Shane 

Luckily his right hook is as predictable as his chirps 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

So hot when you are bitchy 😍😍

Do it more 😈

Makarov started the second period visibly angry, and just seemed to get angrier as Boston remained goalless. No one had scored since Shane’s opener, Miitka focused today, keeping Boston at a disadvantage and making Makarov sloppy as he got repeatedly shut down. Apparently Shane’s idiot team had decided they didn’t want to be trounced by Boston again, and were actually making an effort. Shane wasn’t aware that was still an option. Eight minutes to go in the second period, the score was still 1-0 and across the faceoff circle, blue eyes were burning into Shane. 

“What, nothing to say?” Shane asked, the words out of his mouth before he even knew he was speaking. “No tired, outdated slurs that make you sound just like every other middle talent asshole in this league? Go ahead, it’s not like I haven’t heard it.” 

“Faggot,” Makarov spit, and Shane grinned. 

“Ty mne naskuchil,” he said back clearly. You bore me. Makarov reared back, shocked. Shane won the faceoff, snapping the puck to Hayden and flying down the ice. Makarov was slow to follow this time, Marlow and St. Simon were easy to dodge, and the trip to the net was clear as Hayden sent the puck back. Eight seconds later, the score was 2-0, Montreal. 

“What the fuck was that?” Makarov yelled at him, skating up fast. Hayden was glued to his side, wary. 

“Oh, it was a goal. That’s what happens during hockey games,” Shane said in a monotone. Instead of heading for the bench, Theriault waved at him to take the next faceoff. Boston had the same idea, keeping a now confused and furious Makarov also on the ice. Shane skated towards the face off circle, Makarov right there with him. “Should have been harder, but you’re not a very good player. You’re… you know. Predskazuyemyy.” Predictable. Makarov almost tripped as he gaped at him. Shane just shrugged, and bent at the circle, stick ready. “It’s why you’re not really that fun to play against. There’s just nothing original or exciting about your game.” 

The man stood staring wide eyed at him, and the ref glanced between them, confused. “Makarov, you playing?” Still obviously distracted, Makarov joined them at the circle. Shane won the face off, passing it to Hayden and turning to follow it, just to be slammed into from the side. 

He stumbled, just managing to stay upright from the force of Makarov’s hit. The other man was yelling in Russian, ignoring the ref’s whistle on his illegal hit as his gloves hit the ice. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Hayden racing over, Marlow coming up from behind Makarov, and then Makarov swung, crazy and angry. Shane leaned back easily, letting his knuckles brush his cheekbone instead of break it. 

Makarov had not expected Shane to chirp him. He hadn’t expected those chirps to be tailored to his exact insecurities. He hadn’t expected them to be said in his mother tongue, but those had been surprises for him and for him alone. No one in the arena that night, not Makarov and the Bears, not the Voyageurs, not the spectators, expected Shane Hollander to fight, not really. Shane dodged hits and pushed players away, Shane let the refs step in, Shane pulled his guys out of brawls, Shane responded with bruising but perfectly legal checks later in the game. Even this season, being targeted without protection, it hadn’t come to blows yet, not from Shane at least. He had been saving it for when it would count, and that was now. 

Makarov pulled back, raising his arm to swing again. Shane’s glove hit the ice and his fist connected with Makarov’s nose in a vicious jab, feeling it break. And for a split second, the arena went silent. Shane’s second punch sent Makarov down, and the silence was shattered as the crowd started screaming. Screaming in anger over their guy getting hit or in joyful bloodlust, Shane wasn’t sure. Impossible to tell in Boston. 

The ref, Hayden and Marlow were on him in the next second, the ref stepping between him and Makarov, Marlow grabbing the front of his sweater to push him away. Shane expected him to also start swinging in retaliation, but Marlow just looked shocked. 

“The fuck was that, Hollander?” he asked, still holding Shane’s sweater until Hayden pushed him off. He held up his hands, signaling peace. The ref was helping the bloodied Makarov up. Marlow didn’t seem that concerned for his Alternate Captain’s well being, his focus still on Shane. Shane had never minded Marlow. They had played together and hung out at All Stars a couple of times, and Marlow always had the decency to look uncomfortable when Makarov was being a bigot. 

“Just got sick of his shit,” Shane muttered flatly, checking his knuckles. He wrung out his hand, wincing slightly, and Marlow let out an incredulous laugh. 

“Who are you?” he asked, and Shane just blinked at him. 

“Number 43, Boston, five minute major fighting, two minute minor instigating,” the ref announced. Makarov was already headed towards the tunnel towards medical, someone else would serve his penalty. “Number 24, Montreal, five minute major, fighting.” Even he sounded surprised to be saying it. 

“You need me to show you where the penalty box is, Hollander?” Marlow asked, amusement in his tone.

“Fuck off, Marlow,” Shane said back blandly. Encouraged by the roaring of the crowd, Shane skated towards the sin bin, his expression carefully blank. At the last second, he turned, and called, “HAYD! You need a goal, I want my Gordie Howe.” 

“Got it, Cap,” Hayden called back, sounded delighted, just as Marlow shouted,

“Seriously, who are you?” 

…..

Missed video call from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Missed video call from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Missed video call from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Shane pick up the phone

Shane that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen

Shane please please please please please 

Video call from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥: 1 hour, 21 minutes 

…..

Massholes Talk Puck Podcast 

December 2nd, 2017

Bill McDermit: Welcome to Massholes Talk Puck, THE Boston Bears podcast where we also sometimes talk about other teams. I’m Bill McDermit, former D1 player, as always I’m joined by my brother Seamus and our friend and former teammate, RJ Spires. Boston played our rivals last night, the Montreal Voyageurs and bro, what a fuckin’ game. 

Seamus McDermit: Shane Hollander punched Yury Makarov in the face. Shane Hollander. And also seemed to be chirping him? 

RJ Spires: I’m so glad we’re finally talkin’ about Montreal, boys. I know this is a Boston podcast, and we only talk about other teams when they play Boston, but I’ve been waiting to talk about Montreal all season. 

SMD: I mean, we talked about them after the first game, we played them in the opener. 

BMD: Crushed them in the opener. 

RJS: Yeah, and all of us were a bit surprised we beat them so badly back then, but holy fuck, what the fuck is happening in Montreal right now? They’re a fuckin’ mess! 

BMD: They haven’t been playing great, no. 

RJS: They’re playin’ like their head coach has a fuckin’ head injury. Nothing about their play makes sense right now. And listen, do I love that they’re losing? Yeah, of course I fuckin’ do. Fuck Montreal–

BMD and SMD, in unison: Fuck Montreal! 

RJS: –But I also like good hockey, and this ain’t good hockey, boys. And then there’s Hollander. And we’ve said it before, we’ll say it again, we might hate his team, we fuckin’ bleed black and gold, but Hollander is the GOAT. 

SMD: He really is. We hate saying it, but it’s a fact.

RJS: And Montreal built their entire team around him. And doing that won them back to back fuckin’ Cups, so why are they hangin’ him out to dry? 

BMD: Honestly, you’ve been saying this, but I didn’t really see it until the Tampa game last week. When I- hand to God- said out loud, “oh fuck, he’s gonna die.” 

SMD: That game was brutal. Tampa didn’t even seem to care about scoring, they just cared about bashing Hollander without his team retaliating. 

RJS: And why aren’t they? Hollander used to be so protected. We used to complain about that! Fuckin’ Boiziau, Hollander’s personal goon. Hollander used to always be on the ice with Boiziau, now he’s sharing shifts with fuckin’ Comeau and a goddamn rookie whose name I don’t even fuckin’ know, because he’s playing like shit so who the fuck cares, both of them skating like they got goddamn cement in their pants–

BMD: It’s not just them, it's Wilson too. He’s been on Hollander’s line for four years, now suddenly he’s forgotten how to play. He’s been missing passes from Hollander that a Mites player should be able to get, much less a professional. 

SMD: He’s also been refusing to pass. So have Comeau and dipshit rookie. They won’t pass to Hollander or Pike. All three have been taking a lot more shots on goal, too. Which is embarrassing for them, because they miss. Which would be funny, but…

RJS: It’s hard to laugh when it’s not just them or their team getting punished, it's mostly Hollander.  Seriously, the amount of injuries he’s taken this season, triple what he was taking this time last year. And it’s not just his team, its the fuckin’ coach! Look at Tampa. We saw, we fuckin’ saw them realize they could brutalize him without retaliation, and they made the game a bloodbath. And what does Montreal’s coach do? Does he pull his star player and main scorer, make sure he’s protected? No, he puts him out on a fuckin’ three minute shift! What the FUCK? 

BMD: Deep breath, brother. 

RJS: I just don’t fuckin’ get it. Like, I feel like I’m goin’ crazy. It doesn’t make fuckin’ sense. And! And! It makes beating them less fun. The Boston-Montreal rivalry, it’s been fun the last couple of years. It was okay when we both sucked, we all remember that. Then it sucked when we still sucked and they didn’t. Then we get the Yur-man, now we’re both top teams again, and the rivalry is awesome. I want to watch good hockey. I want to watch the best teams battle for first place, and I want two of those teams to be my team and the team I hate. And we had that, and now Montreal is fucking it up. 

SMD: Did anyone else feel like Hollander punching Yur-man was kinda a long time coming? 

BMD: Except for the part where Hollander punches anyone. 

RJS: I love him, but Makarov swung first. And hit him illegally. And yeah, Seamus, I’m with you on that. Hollander is pretty famously liked in the league and he doesn’t talk shit, but he and Yur-man seem to actually hate each other. And they’ve definitely gotten rough against each other, but Hollander had Boiziau there to do the actual punching. I think the most surprising part was how… well Hollander hit him? Hollander’s been sayin’ for years he can fight, he chooses not to. I don’t think anyone actually believed that. I didn’t. 

SMD: We believe it now, he punched like a boxer. Wonder why he didn’t bring that in Tampa. 

BMD: Calculated risk. In Tampa, it would have been five on one if he started swinging. Well, five on two, at least Pike still seems to be with him. This is Hollander, he thinks about everything. Boston might play rough, but we keep it fair. 

SMD: You really think the Voyageurs would have let all of them beat on their captain without stepping in? 

RJS: I wanna say no, but you know what? I have no fuckin’ idea. 

BMD: Maybe if it keeps up like this, he’ll leave Montreal. 

SMD: We’ve been praying for that since his rookie season, but I don’t like that it’s happening like this. 

RJS: I’ll tell you this, boys. I think it’s gonna get worse before it gets better. 

…..

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

People are noticing 

(Podcast link) 

Shane 

Did you seriously just send me a Boston fan podcast? What would they know about hockey, they’re fans of Boston. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

You know, the most shocking thing about you is not that you are gay. It is that you are an asshole. 

And I like them, they are funny. I stopped listening because one of them was being homophobic about Hunter, but he apologized so I can listen again. Which is nice, they are fans of Boston but also very big fans of Shane Hollander. 

Shane

The guys with the Bear fan podcast are fans of me. Okay.

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Yes, they hate Montreal but say you are GOAT. And right now they are worried about you. 

Shane

We’ll see if it matters. Montreal does care about optics more than the actual problem. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Twitter is angry too. 

Shane 

I wonder if they would still be angry on my behalf if they knew why my team suddenly hated me. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Some of them would not be angry anymore. But a lot would get much, much angrier. 

Your team and management keep telling you that everyone would turn on you if they knew the truth. 

I worry that you believe them. 

Shane 

They turned on me. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

I know. And I am sorry for that. But they are not the rest of the world. You know how I know that? 

Because they seem to have forgotten that you are Shane fucking Hollander, and the rest of the world has not. Even Boston fans know who and what you are, even if your fuckass team does not. 

Shane

Call? 

Call from Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥: 1 hour, 22 minutes 

…..

reddit.com

r/popculturechat

Tuesday Tea Tip Discussion Thread 

Welcome to Tuesday Teatime! For tea and nothing but the tea. Share your tea or ask for some! 

Use this weekly thread to share tea that doesn't need its own post or to ask for tea on your fave. Unconfirmed gossip and rumors are allowed in this thread.

u/nycclubrat95: Are there any rumors about Ilya Rozanov from MEDVEDI? He was super active in the NYC club scene and he’s completely vanished. I know from his socials and paparazzi that he’s def still in the city, but he hasn't been in the clubs and his hookup page is DEAD.        

   ↪️u/arianasfakepony: I’m sorry, his hookup page? 

      ↪️↪️u/nycclubrat95: He was basically communal dick, I know multiple people who have hooked up with him. And yeah. There’s a medvedi fan site that includes a chat room for his hookups, but the only people to submit in months have been proven false.  

         ↪️↪️↪️u/harmlesslystalkingurfav: I just scanned the NYC gossip pages and his socials, he hasn’t been photographed with a hookup since June. Most obvious reason would be getting into a relationship, but if he is, it’s super on the DL. 

            ↪️↪️↪️↪️u/nycclubrat95: If that man has been locked down, the hookup scene in NYC is going to hold a public funeral. 

u/mudclaydolly: Anyone know why Rose Landry keeps denying she’s still dating that hockey player? It’s so obvious. They were literally holding hands in the paparazzi photos and she wore his jersey in LA’s arena. 

   ↪️u/astarianhoebag: Either they’re not lying and they are really just friends, or maybe it's because of how crazy people went when they were dating? It was seriously one of the most parasocial relationships I’ve ever seen and I have TMZ bookmarked. He had to move because people were showing up at his apartment building and camping out in the lobby. 

      ↪️↪️u/heeeeeeeygirlie: Being famous seems awful, tbh

   ↪️u/drwmelkurfrnchgrl: First of all, “that hockey player” is Shane fucking Hollander, Prince of Montreal and Hockey Jesus. Secondly, I live in Montreal, and there have been rumors since this summer that he’s gay. 

      ↪️↪️u/snipernosniping: Man, as a queer hockey fan who cried when Hunter came out, that would be amazing. But also Montreal is playing so badly this season, and it’s because his team has completely abandoned Hollander on the ice so I hope that isn’t true and we’re not seeing proof of homophobia. 

      ↪️↪️u/askaboutmyvineaccount: I’m also in Montreal, people have been saying that since his rookie year because he doesn’t go home with puck bunnies. Until Rose Landry, there were rumors he was gay or a hockey robot built in a lab and they forgot to program a sex drive. 

…..

Shane ended 2017 in a hotel room in Utah. For Ilya in New York, the new year had started two hours ago, which meant he was able to leave the party he was at to call Shane, but also meant he was drunk. Shane sat on a freezing cold balcony, wearing his travel jacket and wrapped in the itchy, but thick blanket that had been at the foot of his bed. Hayden hadn’t questioned Shane getting his own room. Outside of the two day christmas break, they had been on the road for almost three weeks now and both took space when they could. At least Hayden had seen Jackie during the Christmas break, Shane had been with his parents and had only been able to call Ilya after they went to bed. 

“Did you have fun tonight?” he asked into the phone. 

“Yes,” Ilya confirmed. “Would have had more fun if you were there. Or here. I wanted to kiss you at midnight.” 

“I want to kiss you at midnight too,” Shane said softly. 

“Two days,” Ilya said. Two days until this roadie was over, and Shane would be back in Montreal for four days. Four nights with Ilya in his bed. “We have champagne, and we look at the stars from your porch and I kiss you at midnight in two days.” 

 “I don’t know if we’ll be able to see stars, it's snowing in Montreal.” 

“Then we drink champagne, cuddle on couch, and look at video of stars on TV,” Ilya said smoothly, and Shane let out a soft laugh. 

“Okay,” Shane whispered. He watched fireworks in the distance, and slouched further into the blanket. Utah was cold, but clear of rain or snow.

“You are ready to play Utah tomorrow, yes?” Ilya asked. 

“Yeah.” Shane sighed. “We’re gonna get crushed.” 

“Utah is doing very good, but you can not decide already that you will lose,” Ilya said, and Shane could hear the frown in his voice. 

“My team sucks right now,” Shane reminded him. “Did you watch the LA game? And Utah is doing even better than LA.”  

“Yes, I watched the LA game, and saw Rose Landry in your jersey,” Ilya said darkly, and then he barrelled on before Shane could remind him that he and Rose had broken up because he was gay. “Your team has always sucked. You do not. Stop passing to them. They are not acting like hockey is team sport. Maybe you stop too.” 

“You’re telling me to play selfishly.” 

“I am suggesting you play like you are a generational talent surrounded by incompetent scarecrows,” Ilya said heatedly. “Just try it. Try it against Utah. Play like you are Shane fucking Hollander and the rest of your team are blow up dolls in skates.” There was a pause. “Actually. Blowup dolls are very useful for lonely men. I should not insult them like this.” Shane let out a huff of laughter. He checked his watch. 

11:59. He watched it click over to midnight. 

“Happy New Year, Ilya.” 

“Happy New Year, Shane. This year will be better, I promise.” 

Montreal loses to Utah, but Shane gets two goals, one assisted by Hayden, one unassisted on a breakaway. It’s the best he’s played since March. And as they headed into the new year, Shane started playing the most selfish hockey he’s ever played in his life. 

And Montreal started winning again. 

Chapter End Notes

Makarov came from knowing that Boston had to still be a viable rival without hockey player Ilya, so I needed to give them someone else. The actual character came from my love of HR social media fics, and how Ilya (canon hockey player Ilya, not my AU Ilya) is (incorrectly) viewed by his biggest haters. Undeniably talented, undeniably attractive, sure. But a showboating, overrated, over confident asshole who cares more about himself than the game. Not a guy who likes women, a genuine fuckboi. Not a researched, funny chirper, but someone who uses anything (slurs, homophobia, racism) and calls it chirping. So that's Ilya's Wario, basically. Wilya.

Anyway.

Next chapter is called:

sin bin And Penalty Boxes

Bye!

Chapter 11: sin bin And Penalty Boxes

Chapter Summary

Last time: Shane fights a Bear, and would really like to see Ilya
This time: Shane fights a Guardian and would really like his colleagues to stop singing about fucking him in the penalty box.

Chapter Notes

I'm not gonna lie. I am both very excited and very nervous about this chapter. Partly because I know that some of you have been waiting for it since chapter 1. So I'm just going to say, its here, thank you for reading, and please be nice to me, I am not a songwriter, I haven't even written poetry in 10+ years. But I tried.

Anyway, here's the chapter.

youtube.com

MEDVEDI- sin bin (Official Lyrics Video)

The ice might be cold, you’re hot enough to melt it

Check me hard, baby, leave proof that I felt it

Bruises up my side, aching in my spine

You’re a dancer, a fighter

Mark me up, bruise me up, show me that you’re mine

     (Chorus) 

   Show me how mad you are, let me see your angry face, 

   Let me swallow your anger, you know I love the taste

   Take it out on me, its only you and me, 

   Trapped together in the sin bin

   You have bruises from the game, I’ll have bruises from your touch

   Keep going, baby, it’ll never be enough

   It’s only you and me, take it out on me, 

   While we’re trapped together in the sin bin. 

I know your soft hands, and I know how you fight

Show me your hard hands, no need to be polite

A five minute major, love, served on my knees

No rules here- we suck, fuck and bite

If this is my punishment, never set me free

     (Chorus) 

   Show me how mad you are, let me see your angry face, 

   Let me swallow your anger, you know I love the taste

   Take it out on me, its only you and me, 

   Trapped together in the sin bin

   You have bruises from the game, I’ll have bruises from your touch

   Keep going, baby, it’ll never be enough

   It’s only you and me, take it out on me, 

   While we’re trapped together in the sin bin. 

Leave blood on the ice 

(paint the rink red!)

Leave teeth in your wake

(paint the rink red!) 

A demon in your skates

(but so sweet in my bed) 

     (Chorus) 

   Show me how mad you are, let me see your angry face, 

   Let me swallow your anger, you know I love the taste

   Take it out on me, its only you and me, 

   Trapped together in the sin bin

   You have bruises from the game, I’ll have bruises from your touch

   Keep going, baby, it’ll never be enough

   It’s only you and me, take it out on me, 

   While we’re trapped together in the sin bin. 

   Together in the sin bin

   Together in the sin bin

(Released December 28th, 2017, copyrighted December 2017, MEDVEDI through Breaking Vinyl Records. Music and lyrics by Ilya Rozanov and Svetlana Vetrova.)

…..

January 5-20, 2018

Within a month of its release, sin bin was a meme. 

It had started in Boston, because of course it did. Boston loved MEDVEDI. They had still loved Ilya after he relocated to New York, although Ilya had told Shane that was very dependent on him not supporting any New York sports teams. And not even three weeks after sin bin had come out (decent numbers, mid reviews, did exactly what it was supposed to do and got people talking about an album, at least according to Ilya), the Boston Bears’ defenseman Connors had been caught on mic singing it quietly to himself while sitting in the penalty box. 

Ilya had sent the video to Shane with two lines of laughing emojis. 

Connors had been mic’d up for a game against Tampa. Ten minutes in, he had gotten seven minutes in the penalty box. 

“This is bullshit,” he had muttered into his mic as soon as the door had closed. “Fucking bullshit call, bullshit ref…barely fucking tapped him, he just has soft teeth, needs some fucking milk or shit…” he had continued to complain for almost two full minutes before finally quieting. He had asked how the attendant’s night was going. And as the clock ticked to two minutes remaining, he had put his head down and started singing under his breath, almost too quietly for the mic to pick up. “...trapped together in the sin bin.” He had looked at the attendant. “You heard this song?” The response wasn’t picked up. Connors had started singing again, a little louder this time, staring at the action on the ice. “Show me how mad you are, let me see your angry face/let me swallow your anger, you know I love the taste/take out on me, it’s only you and me/trapped together in the sin bin.” He looked at the attendant again. “You listen to MEDVEDI?” This time, the attendant’s voice is picked up slightly. “...saw them last...” Connors nodded. “Hear they’re dope live. And now they have a hockey song, I’ve been-” and then time was up and he was swinging out of the box with a whoop. 

Shane had watched the clipped video Ilya sent, confused until he started singing. 

Shane: 

Isn't the Bears posting this copyright infringement or something? 

Sexy Rockstar 🔥🔥🔥

No, they got permission. Free advertising for us. A hockey player singing sin bin in the actual sin bin? Our PR people are really happy. 

Our social media manager is hoping it becomes a trend. 

Shane

But that’s not likely, right? 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

Very unlikely, he’s just optimistic. 

Boston loves us, doubt it will happen anywhere else. 

It happened two days later in LA. Three days after that in Chicago. Then in Detroit, Toronto, and again in Boston with a different player. Mic’d up players were taking intentional penalties to continue the trend. By mid January, enough players had contributed that a fan was able to cobble together the entire song through various players singing small sections. MEDVEDI had reposted it. It had gone viral. 

Shane

You know the video of all the players singing Sin Bin? 

Sexy Rockstar 🔥🔥🔥

YES

Shane

It’s in the group chats I haven’t touched in years. 

It's in all the group chats. 

It has more views than the Stanley Cup finals. 

They’re playing it in the locker room now. 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

This is the greatest achievement of my career

Shane

You’ve won two Grammys 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

🤷🏼

Shane

ILYA

This song is haunting me 

They’ve put up a sign in our penalty boxes asking people not to sing it 

(picture of sign) 

Sexy Rockstar🔥🔥🔥

GREATEST. ACHIEVEMENT. OF. MY. CAREER.

Punch someone so you can sing in the sin bin

Shane

NO.

Sexy Rockstar 🔥🔥🔥

😢😢😢

…..

Shane very rarely fantasized about people getting hit by buses, but Dallas Kent from Toronto was an exception to that. The mental image of Kent getting thrown by a bus was helping him stay sane as they prepared for the Toronto game. It had almost been canceled due to snow, but it seemed the world was against Shane right now, because not only had the storm switched course, allowing the Guardians to get to Montreal, but some asshole in his locker room was blasting sin bin. And it was hard to focus on his ‘Kent gets hit by a bus’ daydream when he was surrounded by his team singing about Ilya wanting to fuck him in the penalty box. 

How did they not realize how queer the song was? How did the entire league miss that? In Shane’s experience, most male hockey players seemed to completely forget that women’s hockey even existed, and Ilya was clearly a man singing about having violent sex with a hockey player. Shane had seen members of his team call tofu gay, and those same men were now happily singing about railing a hockey player. Shane had learned the term "heteronormativity", how when straightness is expected, queerness can slip under the radar, and most of it made sense. This didn’t. Ilya was openly, publicly bisexual. Shane had seen the people on Twitter, MEDVEDI fans specifically, discussing which NHL player Ilya was thirsting over (not by choice, Ilya kept sending him screen shots. The top theories were Cliff Marlow, Yury Makarov and Scott Hunter, like Ilya had predicted. Shane’s name had come up, and then been quickly dismissed because he wasn’t a violent player. Shane had been relieved, but also slightly annoyed in a way he didn’t fully want to unpack.). That conversation hadn’t seemed to reach the hockey world. 

Part of him wanted to point out to the room the likelihood that the song was about a man lusting after another man just so they would stop fucking playing it. A larger part did not want to invite the blatant homophobia that conversation would invite. And a very tiny part (the part he would never admit to Ilya as he complained about being followed, haunted and tortured by the song) did find the humor in seeing Comeau, Drapeau and Wilson singing the gay porn song written about him. For how annoying the whole situation was, hearing Comeau loudly sing about serving a major on his knees, with no awareness that he was singing about sucking dick— sucking Shane’s dick, did make Shane want to laugh every time. Hysterical, manic laughter, but still. 

It also didn’t help that the song was catchy. Shane was not the only player irritated to catch himself humming it, that was actually becoming a common complaint. It had an easy, repetitive beat that would burrow into his brain and play on a loop. 

It was playing in his head, now, loudly, as he bent down to face off against Kent. And maybe it was the irritation, maybe it was a tiny bit the boost of confidence that hearing Ilya’s voice in his head gave him. But when Kent chirped, Shane was ready for it. 

“Hear you suck cock, Holly,” Kent hissed. The new nickname made it very clear where Kent had heard that. 

“Only when your dad says ‘please’,” Shane said flatly, and won the face off. 

Shane had been hearing ‘jokes’ from hockey players about them fucking his mom since he was twelve. It was a boring, go-to chirp, barely worth remembering. It was also very easy to retool ‘mom’ to ‘dad’, and to Shane’s delight, the implication that Shane was fucking his father made Kent furious. His irritation ebbed the redder Kent got. 

“Do you call him daddy? He calls me daddy,” Shane taunted as they battled for the puck. Kent stopped to instead slam Shane, but Shane was faster, scooping it up and taking off before Kent could check him.

“Trying to make your dad jealous? Hot,” Shane said when Kent pinned him to the boards, their bodies pressed together, and he laughed when the other man jumped back like he had been electrocuted. Shane skated away, still laughing. It was probably the most fun he had playing the Guardians since Kent was drafted. And his enjoyment was showing on the scoreboard. By the beginning of the third, Montreal was up 3-1, two of those goals from Shane, and the third from JJ, in a rare moment where they got to share the ice due to Shane’s long shift. His team had figured out what was going on, and half of them seemed to be as angry as Kent, while the other half swung between being impressed and amused. The half on his side seemed to be actually picking up their game, helping him more than he had gotten used to. The most they had stepped up since Boston. At least Shane could say that some of his teammates didn’t hate him as much as they hated Kent and Makarov. 

The bar was in hell, but at least he knew it was there. 

But, like with all good things, it eventually had to end. It wasn’t even a particularly vicious chirp that pushed Kent over the edge (“Tell you dad to stop texting me during games, it makes him look desperate.”), but it seemed to be the final straw. Kent dropped his stick and his gloves, grabbed the front of Shane’s sweater and punched him hard enough to make Shane’s head snap back. His jaw ached, and Shane could taste blood in his mouth as he returned the punch. They both got a couple hard hits in before they were being ripped apart by their teammates and the yelling refs. Even Comeau was there trying to prevent a bigger fight, but Shane knew that was because he was afraid of Toronto’s d-man, Ryan Price, not out of loyalty or a desire to do his job. Shane leaned over Hayden’s arm to spit his mouthful of blood onto the ice. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Shane,” Hayden hollared into his ear. The arena was screaming, the entire crowd on their feet. “Fuck, bud, is that yours?” 

Shane blinked the sweat out of his eyes, and looked where Hayden was pointing. There was a bloody tooth on the ice. Shane ran his tongue over his teeth. All accounted for. “Nope.” He spat out more blood. “You think this will hurt my chances for the Lady Byng this year?” 

Hayden laughed incredulously, and Shane knew his answering bloody grin must look psychotic. His and Kent’s penalties were announced, he got cleaned up and checked by the medic as the ice was scraped, and then Shane skated to the box, nodding at the attendant as he sat down. The game continued, and Shane watched with narrowed eyes as his team actually managed to work together to keep their lead. 

He didn’t even notice he was humming until the attendant cleared her throat loudly. When Shane looked at her, she tapped the sign asking occupants not to sing MEDVEDI’s sin bin. Unbelievable. 

“Sorry,” Shane said to her sincerely. “Didn’t do it intentionally. Stuck in my head.” 

“Tell me about it,” she said flatly. Shane gave her a small smile. 

“I’m assuming you’ve been tormented by it?” He got a small nod in response. “Sorry.” 

“Not your fault,” she murmured.

Shane had to clench his aching jaw to stop himself from laughing.

…..

ESPN 

A New Record Coming? Shane Hollander Leading The League In Unassisted Goals (By Caleb Stumps) 

Montreal Weekly 

“Do They Think We’re Blind?” Montreal Voyageurs Continue To Deny Problems With Team Dynamics To Outrage Of Fans (By Francois Lamontas)

Barstool Sports

Shane Hollander Losing His Locker Room Is Proof He Was Never Equipped For Leadership (By Nikolas Green)

GQ Sports Canada

Shane Hollander Isn’t Playing Selfishly. He’s Playing To Win (By Stephen Michaelson)

Hockey News 

After A Distasterous Season First Half, Shane Hollander Is Bringing Wins Back To Montreal- Completely By Himself (By Jean Colleidge and Derek Helms)

TMZ Sports Canada

A Captain Out Of Control? More Rumors Of Conflict In The Voyageurs’ Locker Room, Head Coach “Out Of Options” For Diva Captain! (By Neil Sebastiano)

BuzzFeed Canada 

10 🏒Shane Hollander🏒Moments That Made Us Kick Our Feet And Giggle 😍🤭 (By Delia Fuller (Community Member)) 

…..

It was pouring rain in Vancouver as Shane drove his rental car to Ilya’s hotel. For the first time ever, Shane was not only missing an optional practice, but had also lied about a sponsorship meeting in order to go to Vancouver early. He had seen how conflicted Theriault had been when he had asked to do this. Saying yes meant giving Shane something he wanted. Saying yes also meant Shane would miss practice and wouldn’t be flying with the team. His dislike of being around Shane had won, and Shane had caught the red eye out of Montreal after losing to Florida. 

God, this was just a bad idea. He shouldn’t have agreed to this. They could get someone else, someone from the AHL, and not risk Shane being recognized. That had been the original plan, and then Ilya had looked at his schedule, and asked Shane if he could make it work. He had said “We will not film you above the thigh, no one will know it is you”. He had said “we would be able to see each other” and Shane had folded immediately. 

So now here he was. In Vancouver. To skate in the sin bin music video. Because Ilya asked, and Shane was beginning to realize that when he came to Ilya, he was a very weak man. So weak that he was now picking up the keycard left for him at the front desk and heading up to Ilya’s room. He had been nervous about this, but Ilya had assured him that no one knew it was Ilya’s room, just that it was in the block of rooms reserved by the band. When Shane had suggested that he don’t go to Ilya’s room at 5:30 in the morning and wake him, he had received a string of angry, increasingly unhinged texts accusing him of “withholding cuddles and access to freckles” and calling him a literal villain. Shane sometimes wondered how people would react if they knew that Ilya Rozanov, international sex symbol and rock and roll bad boy, was also a drama queen who threw tantrums over cuddles. 

The drama queen who was currently splayed out on his back, snoring, as Shane slipped into the hotel room and quietly put down his bag. He didn’t wake the other man, just went to the bathroom and stripped quickly as he turned on the shower to wash off the commercial flight and the airport. 

Ilya’s snoring stuttered to a stop when Shane, warm and naked from his shower, crawled into bed with him. Shane was trying to move quietly, so as to not wake him (it would be a long day of shooting and sleep is important), but he had barely settled before he was grabbed. He heard sleepy Russian muttering as Ilya pulled him across the bed, pulling Shane on top of him. 

“Hi,” Shane whispered against Ilya’s neck. Ilya’s arms were wrapped around him tightly. 

“Shh, you are teddy bear now,” Ilya mumbled back. Shane let out a quiet laugh, but Ilya just nuzzled the top of his head and then dropped back to the pillow. A minute later, he was snoring again, still wrapped around Shane like an octopus. 

Shane closed his eyes, and matched his breathing to Ilya’s. He knew going to sleep was unlikely, but he had read enough sleep studies to know that just relaxing with his eyes closed in mock sleep had its own benefits when it came to rest. So he let himself drift, focusing on the sound of heavy rain against the window, Ilya’s breathing and the feeling of his arms around him, and shut off his brain. It was somewhere between dozing and meditation. 

Shane wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, but dim light was coming in from around the thick hotel curtains when Ilya stirred again, letting out a quiet groan as he woke. Shane had slipped from completely on top of him to curled into his side, his head on his chest, their legs tangled. As Ilya woke, his arms, which had loosened in his sleep, tightened again as he stretched like a sleepy cat under Shane. 

“This is very good dream. Pretty Canadian boy in my bed,” Ilya murmured. His hands slipped lower, his big hands cupping the cheeks of Shane’s ass. “Pretty naked Canadian boy in my bed.” 

“We don’t have much time,” Shane told him quietly as Ilya continued to grope him. He wasn’t sure how much time they actually had, but he knew they had a fairly early start. “And I’ll still be here tonight, remember? After the shoot?” 

“Mmm,” Ilya agreed noncommittally, his attention still on fondling Shane. “Yes. Shoot. Whole day where I have to share you.” He said ‘share’ like it was a personal insult. 

“You’re not sharing me, we’re working together,” Shane reminded him. Ilya responded by tugging on Shane’s leg, pulling his thigh higher so it now pressed against the underside of his erection and he thrust against the soft skin. 

“Sharing,” Ilya said stubbornly. “Everyone seeing you skating and being polite Canadian and having freckles–” Shane let out a quiet scoff. “And they will all want you and think about you naked.” 

“What?” Shane asked, biting back a laugh. 

“Everyone thinks about you naked. You are too pretty. Should tie you to my bed so no one can see you. Just for me.” One of his hands left Shane’s ass to move up his torso, outlining his abs. 

“Sure,” Shane said. Ilya’s hands were roaming more now. And then he paused. 

“You do not think this? You do not know that everyone wants to see you naked?” Ilya asked. 

“I mean, I know I’m hot,” Shane said matter-of-factly. “I think you are a bit… over enthusiastic in your belief that literally everyone wants to fuck me.” 

“Shane,” Ilya said seriously. “Everyone wants to fuck you. You should know this. World sees you, and wants to fuck you. This is why we can not film your face today. It is not just to hide identity. It is also because if people see your freckles and your baby deer eyes–” 

“My what?” Shane wheezed. 

“-they will not pay attention to song, all the comments will be only be about how hot you are and how much they want to fuck you and then I will have to fight them, and Harris will be so angry at me–” 

“You’re not fighting people who want to fuck me!” 

“-and then no one will care about song at all, all headlines will say is ‘sexiest rockstar in the world, Ilya Rozanov, goes on violent rampage’ and the band will be so angry and I will be in prison and I am too sexy for prison, Shane.” 

“You are insane,” Shane told him, but even he could hear the fondness in his voice. 

“Mmm,” Ilya hummed, not disagreeing. He rolled Shane onto his back, settling between his thighs. He didn’t kiss him, knowing how Shane felt about morning breath. Instead he kissed his shoulder, rocking against him. One of his roaming hands settled on Shane’s hip, squeezing it and then he recoiled completely at Shane's small gasp of pain. “What was that?” 

“Nothing,” Shane said. “Just a bruise. No big deal.” 

Ilya was already leaning over to fumble on the lamp, and they both blinked at the sudden brightness. Shane saw Ilya’s concentrated gaze sweep over his body, finding every blemish and discolored spot. 

The new, still developing bruise that covered his hip from being checked by Florida’s center the night before. The multicolored blotches on his left shoulder that went all the way to his elbow, a gift from Toronto’s defenseman. The purple discoloration on his knee, a result of Comeau sneakily tripping him during practice. And of course, the evidence of Kent’s fists that still colored his jaw. 

“Oh, malysh,” Ilya said quietly. 

“I’m a hockey player, Ilya. I’m going to get bruises,” Shane said, defensively. 

“Yes, but this many?” Ilya asked. 

“Sometimes, yeah,” Shane said. “Sometimes worse, honestly. 2013 after the conference cup finals against Philly? Jesus, I was actually relieved that our season was over because my whole body was just one big bruise and I had two cracked ribs.” Ilya scowled at this. “Hey. I’m fine. And I’ve been checked out. It's not pretty to look at, but it’s fine.” 

“Mmm, still pretty,” Ilya argued. He ducked his head, brushing a soft kiss over first Shane’s bruised jaw, then his shoulder, down to his hip and finally to his knee. 

“Only you would call bruises ‘pretty’,” Shane said, trying to keep his voice steady as Ilya’s lips started to trail from his knee up his inner thigh to Shane’s quickly hardening cock. 

“Not bruises, you,” Ilya said. “Pretty boy, pretty body, pretty cock–” he licked up the underside of Shane’s dick, making him gasp before he sucked lightly on the tip. 

“Please,” Shane moaned when Ilya didn’t continue, just played with the head of his cock. 

“So pretty when you beg,” Ilya murmured, but he then took Shane deeper, pressing his head down until Shane was pushed against his throat before coming back up. He wasn’t being too rough, wasn’t deepthroating him, instead he was keeping his movements steady. He alternated between sucking, bobbing and teasing with the metal ball in his tongue until Shane was gasping and moaning. 

And then he pulled back, and had to gall to grin at Shane’s groan of frustration. 

“But I am only one who sees you like this,” Ilya said. He wrapped his hand where his mouth had just been, and Shane thrust into his grip. He wasn’t actually jerking Shane off, just stroking lightly enough to keep him on the edge. It was infuriating, but Shane’s brain felt too fuzzy to properly vocalize a complaint as Ilya started kissing up his stomach again. “Everyone wants to, but only for me.” 

He straddled Shane’s hips carefully, avoiding putting pressure on his bruise, and spit in his own hand as Shane squirmed underneath him. Ilya’s cock was now pressing against his own, and he tried to move against it, but Ilya had him pinned to the mattress. 

“Stay still,” Ilya said, but it wasn’t with the authoritative bossiness he sometimes brought into their bed. “I am going to take care of you.” He reached down, easily wrapping his big hand around both of their cocks. “I take care of what is mine, yes?” 

“Yes,” Shane gasped, his eyes locked onto where Ilya was jerking them both off together. Ilya’s hand was slick with spit and Shane’s precum, the callouses on his fingertips so familiar now. He wasn’t teasing anymore. 

“You going to come for me, pretty boy?” Ilya asked and Shane’s gaze flicked from his hand to his eyes for a second. Ilya wasn’t looking at what he was doing, his gaze was locked onto Shane’s face. Shane’s already flushed cheeks got even darker and he moaned loudly. Too loudly, but Ilya’s grip just tightened. “Come, malysh. Let me watch.” 

Shane’s back arched as he obeyed, his release covering Ilya’s hand and his own stomach. Ilya swore in Russian as he followed Shane over the edge, adding to the mess on Shane’s abs. They were both panting as Ilya slumped over him, pressing his face against Shane’s sweaty neck. The alarm on Ilya’s phone started ringing. It was time for them to get moving. 

After their breathing stabilized, Ilya was pulling him out of bed to the bathroom. Shane started the shower as Ilya brushed his teeth. He had planned to quickly clean himself and get out before Ilya could join (showering together often went on for too long), but he was still rinsing off when Ilya stepped in and crowded him against the wall. 

Shane let him kiss him, if only because they hadn’t kissed yet, before lightly pushing him off and handing him the shower gel. Ilya gave him a dramatic pout, making him laugh. Drama queen. 

Shane was almost completely dressed when Ilya joined him again in the bedroom, a towel around his waist. 

“We don’t have time,” Shane said as Ilya grabbed his waist, pulling him against his damp body. But Shane let him kiss him again, Ilya’s hand curling around the back of his neck as his lips lingered, and then skimmed over his cheek to lightly kiss the bruise that still darkened the right side of his jaw where Kent had hit him. When he pulled back, Shane saw his eyes still lingering on the blotched skin. 

“Hey, it looks worse than it is,” Shane said gently, and Ilya just nodded, stepping away to go to his open suitcase. “And I’m fine. Can’t say the same for him. You see what happened last night?” 

“To Kent? No, I stopped paying attention to horrible little man after a very sexy, very angry kitten knocked his tooth out,” Ilya said, and Shane gave him a halfhearted scowl. Ilya just grinned back, pulling on his underwear. “What happened?” 

“Toronto played Detroit last night, Kent broke his wrist,” Shane reported. Ilya’s smile got even bigger. “That’s not even the best part. It wasn’t even in a fight. He tried to check Ovum, Ovum dodged, and Kent slammed himself into the boards and broke his own wrist.” Ilya laughed. “I’ve watched the video, like, twenty times. And that means he’s missing All Stars, thank fuck. He’s even worse at All Stars, gets too drunk and acts like he’s the biggest star there, loses everything because he’s hungover and then bitches about how it doesn’t matter anyway and how anyone who tries at All Stars is pathetic.” 

“Which, of course, includes you,” Ilya said, amused, pulling up a pair of black joggers, and Shane scowled again. 

“All Stars might be stupid and a waste of time. And it sucks when you’re on a good roll and it interrupts momentum,” Shane said. “But it’s still hockey. Of course I try. And when I win, they put it on my Wikipedia page.” Ilya blinked at him for a second, and then burst out laughing. “What? They do!” 

Ilya responded by grabbing him again,  and then lowered his head to bite his neck, hard enough to make Shane let out a small yelp. “Ow! Why, asshole?” 

“You are so cute,” Ilya just murmured, turning back to the suitcase. 

“And that made you bite me?” Shane asked. 

“Yes.” 

Strange, strange man. 

Chapter End Notes

In the book, Bears' player Connors full name is Connor Connors. That's not relevant, I just think it's funny. I also think it's funny to punch Dallas Kent.

Thanks for reading. Next chapter is: "All Star Menace"

Bye!

Chapter 12: All Star Menace

Chapter Summary

Last time: Ilya's song is sung in penalty boxes around North America
This time: Scott Hunter has heard a rumor.

Chapter Notes

Hello! Just a note on this, obviously this is an AU, but it has to start from canon. And I've been using a mix of show and book canon. So I had to decide if my AU had show Scott (8-9 years older than Shane, dated Kip on and off for several years in the closet, looks like Francois Arnaud) or book Scott (only three years older, dated Kip for just a couple of months before coming out, looks like taller Captain America). I went with show Scott, he just works better for this story.

February 2-4, 2018

Shane had been selected a captain at All Stars. While his team still wasn’t playing well, he had been voted in by the fans (JJ had been the team’s selection, just like last year. Last year Shane had actually encouraged them to pick JJ, positive he would get the fan vote. This year they didn’t ask, and this year, he has seen some blatant annoyance from Theriault’s staff when he was picked by the fans), as well as winning the second fan vote to make him the Atlantic Division’s team Captain. Just because his team had decided they didn’t like him didn’t mean the fans felt the same, something Ilya was very quick to point out. Montreal might be an established institution, but they answered to the fans as much as they answered to the NHL, and the fans loved Shane. Montreal the city loved Shane. And Montreal the city spent a lot of money to see Shane play and wear his name on their backs.

It was a position of power that Montreal the front office really wished Shane was unaware of. And if it wasn’t for Rose and Ilya, they might have convinced him of its unimportance. The All Stars fan voting also helped. He and Scott Hunter had won their Cs in landslides. Scott Hunter had received more online votes to secure his spot as Captain than all of last years’ All Star voters combined. Carter Vaughn and Eric Bennett had also been voted in by fans at insanely high rates, meaning there would be three Admirals at All Stars this year. They were the most recognized team in hockey, and it wasn’t just because they currently held the Cup. 

All Stars was bullshit, everyone knew it. But after the year he had in the league, getting voted in as Captain felt like validation. Seeing Scott Hunter and his loudest supporters get voted in felt like validation. It was just too bad he had to go to Texas to get that validation. 

After three hours of press where they asked the same questions over and over again (yes, it was an honor to be selected for All Stars. Yes, he hoped to break his own records during the skills competition. Yes, of course he was disappointed about missing the Olympics.) Shane was finally set free by the league officials (one who was very clearly annoyed with him for answering honestly about being disappointed to miss the Olympics). He went up to his room to wash the product out of his hair and change out of his press suit, staying simple with dark jeans, a white t-shirt and navy Reebok hoodie. Not wanting to deal with his damp hair, he just put a backwards (unbranded) baseball cap over it, and went back downstairs. 

Various players from across the league were gathered in the hotel bar. Most greeted him. Some didn’t. He was used to it, but this year felt… different. Some players seemed a little too enthusiastic to greet him, including guys in the Western Conference that he barely knew. And he saw more than one player that used to say hi quickly look away when they saw him, avoiding even a hello. He thought about the increase of homophobic slurs he’d been hearing on the ice, about Kent’s comment and use of the nickname ‘Holly’ and it wasn’t hard to figure out why certain players no longer wanted to buddy up to him. 

At least Kent wasn’t here. Unfortunately, Zackerson, the Toronto goalie was, and Shane saw him holding counsel with some of the other known assholes. When they saw him, they all stopped talking abruptly, staring, and then starting frantically whispering amongst themselves.

He stopped by the bar for a drink, opting for a beer. He had been here for less than four minutes and already felt exhausted. At least last year he was still (publically) dating Rose (they had broken up right before and just didn’t tell anyone) and had brought her along. She had been an excellent buffer, since basically everyone besides Carter Vaughn was too nervous to initiate a conversation with her. He could have done without the locker room talking about her nonstop, but it made the socializing easier. 

He saw JJ, already in a large group, looking like he was having the time of his life. It would be easy to just go and hang out with him, but he knew that if he looked uncomfortable at all, JJ would feel the need to babysit him, and he didn’t want that. JJ actually enjoyed the social aspect of this shit, and had spent months depriving himself of social interactions for Shane’s sake. He didn’t want to ruin his night. So instead, he circled around the room. He stopped when someone greeted him, but kept moving from group to group, not staying for long, just long enough to exchange pleasantries and some small talk. 

It took thirty minutes and three groups before sin bin came up, from a d-man from Vancouver. 

“Does anyone else now have a sign in their penalty box banning the MEDVEDI song?” he asked, chuckling. The group around him, all vets, all groaned in unison. Shane just took a sip of his beer. 

“It’s just encouraging the rookies,” someone complained. “What were they thinking, trying to ban it? It just made it even more popular.” 

“Ban that song from my fucking brain,” someone else muttered, and Shane couldn’t stop the smile flitting across his face. 

“It’s a pop culture reference, someone explain it to Holzy,” he heard someone joke, and looked over to see Anders, who had played with him in Juniors and the Olympics. When Anders grinned at him, he smiled back easily. Anders was nice. He wasn’t being mocked. 

“It’s Hollander, someone explain what the penalty box is,” someone quipped, and there was now a lot of laughter, some lighthearted, a couple that definitely seemed more mean spirited. 

“Are you kidding?” An arm was thrown around Shane’s shoulders, and he looked over to see Carter Vaughn beaming. “Our boy has seen the box this season. Golden boy has turned over a new leaf. Please, Holzy, we’re begging, describe how it felt to punch Kent’s tooth out. Slowly. In detail.” 

“Oh, fuck, that was good,” someone agreed. “Did not see that coming.” 

“Fuck Kent. I’ve watched that asshole break his own wrist on repeat,” another voice agreed, and Vaughn laughed loudly. He wasn’t the only one. Shane also chuckled at that. 

“And that little shit out of Boston,” Anders chimed in. “Wish you’d taken his tooth, Holz. Maybe some dental surgery would make him shut the fuck up.” 

“Naw, he’d find a way to bitch even if his jaw was wired shut.” 

“We should test that theory. Boston’s playing Philly in two weeks, I could see if Herm is willing to break his jaw.” 

“Bro, you know Philly is good for that shit.” 

“Fuck Philly, they put me out for four games.” 

“Buddy, don’t fucking lie. We all watched you trip and knock yourself out, you fucking beaut.” 

“Holy fuck, that was funny. For us, I mean. Super embarrassing for you.” 

“Bro, how are you an All Star?” 

“Yeah, you would think hooking yourself would disqualify you from being here for at least two years.” 

“Well, this has been fun, but I’m kidnapping the new menace for a better chat,” Vaughn broke in as the entire group was now entirely focused on chirping the grinning (but red faced) North Caroline winger (who had tripped over his own stick and knocked his head on the ice last month, and the group was right, after it was confirmed he was okay, the replay was hilarious. Between that, Kent breaking his own wrist, and the clip of Buffalo’s d-man accidentally scoring into his own net, it was getting hard to pick the best individual fuck up of the season). The group all laughed again when Shane was visibly startled that Vaughn started to pull him away. 

“Wait, I’m the new menace?!” 

And they only thought that because he had punched a couple of disliked hockey players. ‘Menace’ seemed like a very lighthearted title for the man that had inspired the song currently driving the entire NHL insane. 

“We need to talk to you,” Vaughn said quietly into his ear as they walked away from the group. 

“We?” Vaughn didn’t answer, just continued to pull Shane along with a smile on his face until they got to the doors, and then he turned, directing Shane into the most private booth available, hidden from the rest of the bar. Scott Hunter and Eric Bennett from the Admirals looked up as they approached, and Shane felt a pinch of dread. He liked Hunter, he really did, but they were playing on different teams this year and even if they were friendly, they weren’t really friends. He suddenly had a very bad feeling he knew what this secret meeting with the Only Out Gay Player was about. 

“Hey, Rook,” Hunter greeted him. 

“Haven’t been a rookie for years,” Shane reminded him. He half sat, half was pushed into the booth across from them by Vaughn, who immediately sat, trapping him. “Benny.” They nodded at each other. The three men just looked at him seriously. “Either I’m being invited into the Illuminati or you’ve heard a rumor.”

“I think the Illuminati would pick a better bar,” Bennett said, giving Shane a small smile. “How’s it going in Montreal, kid?”  

“Fuck,” Shane muttered. “I was hoping it was the Illuminati. What have you heard?” 

“That a Captain in Canada came out and his asshole team decided to be assholes," Vaughn said bluntly. The three continued to just look at him, and Shane felt his face redden. 

“Well,” he finally said dully. “I think that about sums it up, honestly.” 

“Fuck,” Hunter said quietly, and Shane saw in his face just how much he had hoped it wasn’t true. 

“Shouldn’t have expected it to stay in the locker room,” Shane muttered. “Everyone knows?” 

“Sort of,” Bennett said. “The guys that were spreading it…” he winced slightly. 

“Weren’t looking to throw me a pride parade?” Shane suggested darkly. Hunter let out a huff of laughter, but it sounded hollow. 

“But that led to a lot of people not believing it,” he said, nodding. “You know this, you’ve had guys hating you since your rookie year just because you’re better.” And racism, but Shane just nodded, not bothering with false modesty and not wanting to distract. Hunter wasn’t telling him something he didn’t already know. “At first it seemed like…” 

“Ugly, insecure shitheads saying something they think is negative about you,” Vaughn finished helpfully. 

“So they’ve been telling everyone that I’m gay,” Shane said dully. 

“I think I speak for most allies when I say, a known homophobe telling me someone is gay doesn’t mean jackshit to me,” Vaughn added, and Hunter and Bennett both nodded. “I don’t care about what they think and I don’t value what they say.” 

“Nicely put,” Bennett said, raising his glass to Vaughn. 

“Is that the general consensus?” Shane asked slowly, looking around the three of them. “The homophobes care, the non-homophobes don’t believe it?” 

“Honestly, a lot of us didn’t believe it at first. You were here last year with Rose Landry,” Hunter said. “I think that led to a lot of people dismissing it immediately. But I think there are a lot of us who have…  heard it too many times. And we might not care about the rumor, but we care if you’re being mistreated in Montreal.” The other two nodded. 

“Is that part of the rumor?” Shane asked quietly. 

“I would say it's more people hearing the rumor and putting two and two together,” Bennett said. “We notice things, kid. You were hung out to dry the end of last season, very suddenly, and it's bad this year. Fuck, Hollander. They’re not protecting you properly. Not like they used to.” 

“What’s management doing?” Hunter asked when Shane didn’t respond to this. 

Shane let out a scoff, looking at the table instead of them. “Are you kidding? They would trade me in a second if they could. They tried to convince me to go to Ottawa. I’m only still there because the owner has my back and because they’re concerned about optics. But he’s pretty much the only one, and yeah, he’s the owner but…” Shane shrugged. “Not around a lot.” 

“You have no support from management?” Hunter demanded. 

“Hunter, I’ve already had to get lawyers involved,” Shane said tiredly. “We’ve hit a… mutual understanding. I’m not suing them for a hostile work environment, breach of contract, blatant discrimination and failure to protect a protected class, they keep the worst behaviors under control in the locker room, make them stop hurting me in practice, we all avoid the press, and tolerate each other until this summer, where hopefully I’ll have a better idea of where I want to go, and we’ll renegotiate my no-movement clause.” 

“Hurting you in practice?” Hunter said, horrified, and Shane nodded, then gave a dismissive wave. 

“Jesus,” Bennett muttered. “That’s not a compromise, that’s blackmail.” 

“My lawyer doesn’t like that word,” Shane said darkly. “But yeah. I have recordings and Rose Landry’s fanbase on my side.” 

“Wait, what? Rose Landry knows you’re gay?” Hunter asked, confused. “But you guys dated.” 

“How do you think she figured it out?” Shane responded, already tired of this line of questioning. “We dated for three months and after three months she lost her patience and yanked me out of the closet. She was very nice about it. She’s one of my best friends now.” Shane hesitated, watching the shocked reactions from the men around him. “And she will absolutely set her fanbase on someone who hurts me if I ask her to. And she has more fans than most of the NHL combined.” 

“You’re kind of scary, Holzy,” Vaughn said after a long pause. “Respect.” 

“I put those fucking banners on the ceiling, they don’t get to chase me out like this,” Shane said simply. 

“Huh,” Hunter said, looking at him. 

“What?” 

“I’m just glad to see you’ve finally realized that you’re Shane Hollander,” he said bluntly. “You know every team wants you, right?”

“I thought Montreal did,” Shane said. “My agent has been asking around, trying to get a gauge on what locker rooms might be safe. But it’s too hard to tell right now. All we know is ‘definitely unsafe’. And I refuse to go through this shit again. But the only team we know for sure is okay is yours and Ottawa, you guys can’t take me right now, and I refuse to let Montreal ship me off to the worst team in the league.” 

There was another collective nod around the table. 

“I’ve been hearing things,” Hunter said. “Players have been telling me about their rooms. Unfortunately, I mostly hear the bad ones. But I can also tell you which captains sent me support after I came out.” 

“Hunter, I sent you support. We both know what the captain thinks only goes so far,” Shane said tiredly. “But send me both. I’m curious to see how your unsafe list lines up with my ‘increased slurs’ list.” 

“Oh, I’m pretty sure that ven diagram is a circle,” Hunter said, nodding. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with this too, Hollander.” 

“I just want to fucking play hockey,” Shane said tiredly. 

“Yeah, we know that, Rook.” 

“Would have also been nice to come out to the league by showboating with my boyfriend after winning the Cup instead of having a rumor spread by fuckheads,” Shane added as an afterthought. Hunter’s jaw dropped. 

“Showboating?” 

“It was a bit dramatic,” Shane said flatly, and Vaughn giggled into his beer while Bennett tried and failed to keep himself from grinning. Hunter looked in between them incredulously. 

“Seriously? Fuck you two. God, I fucking hate being an elder gay, the younger ones show up and just give you shit…” 

“You have someone to showboat with, Holzy?” Vaughn asked, grinning. 

“I did not showboat!” 

“Sort of, it’s complicated,” Shane said, ignoring Hunter’s protests. This got his attention. “We haven’t had the ‘what are we’ conversation yet.” 

“Ah. Stalling?” Bennett asked, grinning. Shane nodded. “How long you guys been… talking?” 

“Since June,” Shane admitted. 

“Since June? And you haven’t made it official? Kip moved in with me after a week!” Hunter said, staring at Shane.

“Okay, but that’s actually insane,” Vaughn pointed out. 

“No, there's a phrase for that,” Shane said. “Hold on, he and his friends have been teaching me the gay culture shit, I just need to remember it...” There were so many jokes and phrases to remember, but he knew there was one for this, one Svetlana had said… Shane snapped as he remembered, and then pointed at Hunter. “U-haul lesbian.” 

Bennett spat beer and Vaughn burst into loud laughter as Hunter gaped at him. 

“Oh, fuck this,” Hunter finally said. “Eric, let me out. Let the baby gays in the league suffer, I am done being the resident elder queer, fucking no respect…” He was still muttering as he walked away. 

“Did I get the phrase right?” Shane asked Bennett and Vaughn, who were both still laughing. 

“Yeah, kid,” Bennett said, sounding almost proud. “You nailed it.” 

“Tell your man and his friends that you read Scott Hunter to filth,” Vaughn added, snickering. “They’ll be so proud.” 

…..

For the last couple years, All Stars had allowed their captains to select their own teams through a draft. Shane had enjoyed this format, getting to pick his own team. It had meant he had been able to avoid the worst people in the league, at least in the locker room. This year, the league had selected the teams for them based on division. Which meant, unfortunately, Makarov was on his team. It wasn’t the first time they had been forced to play together at All Stars. It was the first year that Makarov was convinced Shane knew Russian. 

“I don’t know what that means, I don’t speak Russian,” Shane said for the third time that day. He was wearing his slightly oversized All Stars sweatshirt. 

Every year, they asked what size he wore, and every year he knew it didn’t really matter because everything was auctioned off. Except for one sweatshirt, which he was allowed to keep. So this year he had asked for an extra large sweatshirt to keep, even though he wore a large. But Ilya wore an extra large, and this year the All Star sweatshirt was plain black, with his number on the back in red, ‘HOLLANDER’ above it, and ‘ALL STARS 2018’ under it. There was also a small ‘24’ and a much larger ‘C’  on the front. And once Shane had seen it, he had desperately wanted to see Ilya in it. He had several MEDVEDI shirts at this point, Ilya should have something, and he was still refusing Montreal merch. This seemed like something that Ilya would wear. 

Unfortunately, Ilya wasn’t the Russian demanding his attention this weekend. Makarov had taken to startling him, just popping up and letting out a string of unfamiliar words, like he was trying to catch him understanding him. 

“Then how did you speak to me in Russian?” Makarov demanded in English. This ongoing back and forth between them had gotten the attention of the locker room, who seemed to find it both confusing and amusing. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Shane lied, hoping he just sounded frustrated. “Dude, I don’t know how to prove to you that I don’t speak Russian!” 

Makarov just muttered in the language in question, his pale eyes narrowed as he glared at Shane. And then to Shane’s relief, he slammed out of the locker room. It’s not until the team was rinkside, preparing for the first skills competition, that someone asked. Makarov was on the ice, stretching before starting them off as first selection as a shooter for the goalie contest, Shane leaning against the wall. He would be going next, but he didn’t want to join Makarov in stretching. Carter Vaughn, who wasn’t a shooter and had no reason to be on the ice, skated over, leaning against the wall next to Shane nonchalantly. He started with some bullshit small talk, and then leaned in closer. 

“Why does Makarov think you speak Russian?” he asked quietly, quietly enough that only Shane could hear him over the loud arena, easy as they were several yards from the bench. Vaughn wasn’t on his team this year, which means that Shane and Makarov’s weird, one sided argument had left the locker room and become new gossip. 

“Oh, cause I chirped him in Russian,” Shane admitted, just as quietly. If anyone else asked, he planned on saying he didn’t know, but he knew that Vaughn also disliked Makarov. And despite being ambushed by him last night, he liked Vaughny. 

Vaughn paused for a second. “And now you’re pretending that you didn’t.” 

“Yup.” 

“That’s…” Vaughn let out an incredulous laugh. “That’s actual gaslighting. Shit, Holzy, you are a fucking menace.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Shane deadpanned, his eyes on the ice. The competition was about to start, the refs were above to wave them away. “I’m a nice Canadian boy who is always polite and has never done anything wrong in his life.” Makarov was about to skate by, and he needed to take this shot. “Hey, Vaughny? Back me up. I’m going to say ‘don’t be boring.” Before Vaughn could respond, Makarov was close, and Shane raised his voice. “Oi, Makarov!” 

The Russian stopped slowly, drifting towards him. “Hollander.” 

“Don’t do your weird backhand trick shot, it's pretty, but your accuracy is shit on it. But this All Stars, and people like a show. Do that flashy slapshot bullshit you love so much, it's also pretty, and you have insane aim with it. That and your wrist shot, you have this in the bag,” Shane told him. 

Makarov scowled at him. “I do not need you to tell me how to win, Hollander.” 

“Of course you don’t. Ne bud’ skuchnym,” Shane said flatly. Don’t be boring. Makarov’s eyes widened. 

“That was Russian! I have said–” he looked at Vaughn. “You heard him!” 

“He told you not to be boring, that seems like good advice,” Vaughn said, nodding. “Also, I’m telling my goalies about your trick shot accuracy.” 

“He said it in Russian!” Makarov insisted, and Vaughn shrugged, looking at Shane. 

“I don’t speak Russian, and I understood it,” Vaughn said easily. He pointed at the officials over Makarov’s shoulder. “You’re being called.” He waited until Makarov was gone before turning to Shane. “God damn, Hollander.” 

“What?” 

“Hockey robot, my ass,”  Vaughn said gleefully. “You’re a little shit.” He was beaming at this revelation. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” Shane said, still in a deadpan, even as he tried not to smile. “They’ll question my programming.” 

Vaughn laughed hard enough to get attention from the crowd and two cameras. The photo snapped of the two of them, Shane smirking and Vaughn’s head thrown back in laughter, was the most popular photo online from the entire weekend. 

…..

Face Off with Sonya Shepherd 

February 4, 2018

(Intro music, a shot of the four people sitting at a long panel desk, the show logo on the screen behind them)

Sonya Shepherd: Welcome to a special weekend edition of Face Off, and thank you for joining us as we wrap up our coverage of hockey’s All Star weekend. I am Sonya Shepherd, as always I am joined by Dan Feldings, former director of analytics for the LA Conquistadors–

Dan Feldings: Hey Sonya. 

SS: -As well as Mike Jorsten, two time Stanley Cup winner and former Captain of the Chicago Vultures. Thanks for being here, guys. 

Mike Jorsten: I am contractually obligated to be here, Sonya. 

(Fake TV laughter from everyone.) 

SS: Also joining us, special guest Erik Lindstrom, former goalie for New Jersey. Welcome back, Erik. 

Erik Lindstrom: Nice to see you again, Sonya. 

SS: Now, Erik, Mike, you two have been to more than your fair share of All Star weekends. Always a fun weekend. We saw great performances from so many players this weekend, including Gregory Knulton at his very first All Stars, winning the revamped goalie skill contest. Shane Hollander again won at speed skating, though he failed to break his own 2014 record, and then leading the Atlantic division to victory, first against Scott Hunter and the Metropolitan division, and then against Abel Mathews and the Pacific division. Great show from him this weekend, although that’s to be expected. 

MJ: Yeah, Hollander never slacks off at All Stars, one of the few players that takes it seriously. 

DF: Nice to see him having fun, though. Been a while. 

MJ: Can we not do the Hollander conspiracy theories right now? It’s All Stars. 

DF: Not a conspiracy theory. (He turns to EL) There’s something wrong in Montreal, Hollander is taking the brunt of it, and he constantly looks miserable. Seeing him laughing and playing with non-Voyaguer players this weekend really just highlighted how unhappy he is around his team. 

MJ: You and your tin foil hat are embarrassing us in front of our guest. 

EL: I actually agree with Dan. 

DF: Ha! And that’s coming from a goalie. And they see things. In your face, Mikey. 

MJ: I can’t believe you, Erik. 

EL: I’m just saying what I see. 

MJ: He’s the captain of a team having a bad season, and it’s Hollander. He hates losing. This is very easy to explain, and you want to make it a conspiracy! 

DF: I don’t want to do anything, I’m just stating the obvious– 

SS: Hey, guys? Let’s not do the Hollander thing again. This is about All Stars. We can talk more about Hollander during the week. 

MJ: Sorry, Sonya. 

DF: This is censorship. I’m being silenced.

MJ: For the love of… 

SS: Back to All Stars, this really was the battle of centers, and we have that highlight reel for you, coming up… 

Chapter End Notes

Oh, did you think Scott would live life peacefully without Rozanov in the league? I will not give this man peace when it comes from the 2009 draft class. Sorry Scott.

Next chapter is: Questions and (Non)Answers