Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov/Other(s), Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya Rozanov/Original Female Character(s), Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s), Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova, Connors (Heated Rivalry), Rose Landry, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

idiots in love who are trying to be friends, or idiot friends who are trying not to be in love, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Yearning, Slow Burn, Fucking by Proxy, Messy, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, discussion around complex sexual dynamics that could be read as non-con by some, this is a rom com, Romantic Comedy, Miscommunication

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-18 Completed: 2026-05-13 Words: 59,096 Chapters: 13/13

in your arms i'd start a war

Summary

Ilya widens his eyes, moves his hands in an impatient “get on with it” motion. He has the urge to say it for him, end both their misery. Shane blinks rapidly a few times, takes another deep breath. “I want to stop,” he says simply.

Ilya lets out one humorless laugh, “Stop what?”

Shane ignores him. “At the All Star Game, I told you I liked you. And you said about Russia and your family. And I looked some things up. I get it. I get it better now. I know we can’t but I can’t stop wanting to be…more. Unless we stop.”

OR

Shane just wants to be friends and Ilya is, like, fine with that or whatever

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

title from "bad things" by cailin russo
do you guys know that one? ;)

TV canon compliant up through the scene in Boston in the morning where Ilya's like "Oh, you're the asshole. Everyone Shane Hollander is the asshole!" If you need to refer back to the source material, here is your permission.

April 2017 Montreal

 

Ilya looks down at his shirt in the cab.  Shane is nothing if not a sure thing at this point but he undoes one more button.  For fun.  

 

And it would be fun.  He knew that.  The Raiders had beat the Metros 2-1 tonight so Shane would be all pissed and pouty, frustrated at how close he had come to tying it up in the third period.  Ilya would gloat, then watch Shane’s scowl turn into something else as he backed him into a wall.  It was more fun winning when it was Shane.

 

Shane met him in the creepy back alley as soon as he texted.  Like he’d been waiting in the corridor on the stairs.  Ilya smiled, voice low and cocky, “So eager, Hollander” as Shane rushed him inside.  

 

As soon as the door slammed shut, Ilya whipped around so their faces were inches apart at the bottom of the stairs.  Pitching his voice even lower, he asks in Shane’s ear, “What are you so eager for, huh?” places an arm around his waist.

 

Shane steps out of the grip.  He’s not looking Ilya in the face.  “We should, uh, talk…come upstairs ok?”  Shane starts up the stairwell without glancing back like he expects Ilya will just follow.  Like a dog.

 

Slow dread furls in Ilya’s stomach.  He watches Shane’s calves behind him as they walk the two flights.  He casts around in his memory.  Hollander had seemed normal at the game, during the Face Off he met Ilya’s eyes with bold determination.  Normal in Boston a week before at his house.  In his bed.  Smiling and laughing underneath him when Ilya asserted that actually he was the asshole.  

 

As they enter Hollander’s apartment, Ilya perches with a hip cocked on the kitchen counter, watches Hollander fumble with his shoes taking them off.  He doesn’t move to take off his own.

 

“Do you want some water?”  Shane asks, standing up, starting to busy himself in the kitchen.  “Or I have kombucha.  I don’t think you drink that but-”

 

“Hollander,” he interrupts.  He scratches at his own nose when Shane finally makes eye contact with him.  “You want to talk so talk.”

 

He watches Hollander take a deep breath and nod.  “Um, I just, I’ve been thinking since the All Star Game.”  He lets the sentence cut off there, spins around in the room a little before resting his own hip on a counter across from Ilya.  He stares, swallows.

 

Ilya widens his eyes, moves his hands in an impatient “get on with it” motion.  He has the urge to say it for him, end both their misery.  Shane blinks rapidly a few times, takes another deep breath.  “I want to stop,” he says simply.

 

Ilya lets out one humorless laugh, “Stop what?”

 

Shane ignores him.  “At the All Star Game, I told you I liked you.  And you said about Russia and your family.  And I looked some things up.  I get it.  I get it better now.  I know we can’t but I can’t stop wanting to be…more.  Unless we stop.”

 

The All Star Game.  Ilya remembers laughing at Shane’s confession of being gay.  Remembers his own confessions about his father, his country.  That’s it, isn’t it?  Ilya cringes internally at the memory of crying in Shane’s arms. He doesn’t know why he cares so much.  He had intended to end this so many times before too.  Just a hit to his pride he supposes.  Like in so many things with them, Hollander got there first. 

 

“You make everything too complicated, Hollander.  Just let it be simple.  Let it be simple again.”

 

Shane shakes his head, “It’s not simple.  For me at least.  And it's affecting my game.”

 

Ilya scoffs, "Oh so this is because I beat you."

 

"No, Jesus," Shane protests.  "I just mean..." The sentence peters out and Shane shakes his head a little.

 

Fuck this shit.  He is Ilya fucking Rozanov and plenty of people would be dying to get on their knees for him.  Tonight even.  He might have time if he calls the taxi now. 

 

“Fine, Hollander.  So we stop.  See you around.”

 

Hollander makes his first move towards Ilya then, standing from the counter.  “But I was hoping we could be friends.” he rushes out.

 

“Why would I want to be friends with you?”  Shane looks like he’s been hit, his eyes a little wet.  Good.  Ilya wants him to hurt.

 

But stupid Shane pushes on bravely forward, “Because you’re the only one who knows about me.  Except Rose.”  Ilya can’t help but roll his eyes at the mention of her name.  “And I’m the only one who knows about you, I think,” he continues when Ilya offers nothing in return, "You're the only other person who gets what it’s like to be gay or whatever,” he gestures at Ilya vaguely, "in the League.  Plus you-” he hesitates here, glancing nervously at Ilya’s face, “You shared stuff about your family.  I want to be able to ask about that.  I don’t know.” Shane sighs hard, shrugs in a way that doesn’t quite reach casual,  “I care about you.  I mean, doesn’t it feel sad after all this to just never see each other again except on the ice?” 

 

Ilya stares at him, hard, at those wet hopeful eyes.  He’s never considered if he actually likes Shane outside of the sex.  Maybe in Boston, once, with the tuna melts.  But that had ended disastrously, Shane freaking out, not totally unlike now.  “What would being friends even look like?” he asks, more generously than he means to.

 

“I don’t know,” Shane looks around the kitchen like he might find the answer.  “We still get together after games but instead of fucking we talk or watch tv or…I don’t know what do you do with your other friends?”

 

Ilya thinks about that.  He briefly considers answering honestly that he does have sex with his friends.  Well, one friend.  His only friend, actually, Svetlana.  But it feels a little too tender, like something he doesn’t want to hold up to Shane’s scrutiny right now.  He has teammates.  They drink and chirp each other and work out.  He can’t quite picture any of that with Shane.  Instead he answers, “We pick up women.”  It’s not dishonest.

 

Shane’s eyes narrow a little and he scratches the back of his head.  “How about hockey?  We could talk about hockey.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya deadpans, “Definitely neither of us have enough people to talk about hockey with.”

 

Shane laughs, small and a little tired but not nothing.  Ilya feels his lips quirk up just a little in response. “Shut up,” Shane says, then adds, “I’m trying here.”

 

Ilya looks down at his feet, thinks for a moment about what it would feel like to only ever see Shane across the ice, only ever speak to him in the ten seconds before a face off.  Maybe it would be a relief.  

 

“Ok,” he says exhaling slowly, “I will be your friend, Hollander.  As, like, a charity thing because you are so uncool and you probably need some.”

 

“I am not-” Shane starts with an incredulous smile but Ilya holds up a hand to interrupt him.  “But I want to have sex first,” he says plainly.

 

“What?” Shane looks at him like he must be joking and Ilya quirks an eyebrow before repeating, “I want to have sex one more time.  I am horny and it’s almost curfew so there’s no time to find someone else now.  We fuck one more time and as soon as we cum- friends.  Ok?” 

 

It is a little funny watching Shane’s meticulous brain work over this proposal, turn it around with the consideration of his next employment contract.  He knows he’s got him when Shane lets out a long exhale, shoulders slumped, “Ok.”

 

“Ok,” Ilya repeats and stands from his position, starts to walk toward Shane.  Ilya lifts Shane’s legs so he’s fully sat on the counter and slots himself in between Shane’s thighs.  Ilya lifts Shane’s chin so they have to make eye contact, snakes an arm around his waist.  He wants to say something mean, something witty, something biting to show how little he cares, how fucking inconsequential this is to him.  But instead he leans down, kissing Hollander slowly, feeling the way his mouth responds, opening it more with his tongue.  He likes the way Shane melts into him, chest to chest, lets out the tension he’s been holding maybe.  Maybe Ilya too.

 

He tries to pay attention as it speeds up.  Tries to slow it down in his mind and take stock of Hollander’s fingers tightening into the muscles of his back, Hollander letting out one soft breathy moan when Ilya bites his neck and soothes it with a kiss.  The way it feels almost chemical when their shirts are finally off skin to skin.

 

Ilya wants to torture him a little so he wriggles a hand into Shane’s pants just over the bulge in his boxers and squeezes lightly.  Again and again.  Hollander is arching into him trying for more friction and Ilya sucks on his collarbone keeping the hand in his pants gentle, teasing, not enough.  

 

He moves his head down to suck on Shane’s nipple.  “Fuck,” Hollander breathes, as the nipple hardens under Ilya’s tongue.  “Please” Shane says barely a whisper, trying to press his hard on firmly into Ilya’s hand.  “No,” Ilya breathes nuzzling the wet, hard nipple, kissing up up his chest, his neck, back to his mouth, pulling Shane’s hair so his mouth opens wider and Ilya can shove his tongue in.  He starts to trace the line of Shane’s bulge with his cupped hand, pulls his dick out fully, jerking it slow and steady to the pace of their making out.  “Oh God,” Shane moans, “Can I please-”

 

“No,” Ilya repeats and grabs Shane’s face so they are eye to eye, Shane flushed and glassy eyed already.  Ilya leans close to his mouth, says, “I’m in charge here tonight.  You do not ask for anything.  You do not come until I tell you to.”  He kisses Shane hard, biting at the bottom lip as he pulls away.  Ilya licks his own lips, cups a hand under Shane’s mouth and says, “spit.”  Shane does, watches with dark eyes as Ilya switches hands, letting the newly wet one take over on Shane’s leaking cock.  Shane gasps at the new, faster pace and Ilya tries to catalogue it in his brain for later, the way his hips jerk when Ilya slides a thumb over the head.

 

Ilya bends his knees, lines his face up with Shane’s crotch., “You tell me if you’re going to come” he says before lapping at the head of Shane’s cock. He moves his dick gently with his hand, letting it circle around the wet hole of his mouth.  The heels of Shane’s feet dig into Ilya’s back and he grabs at Ilya’s hair, encouraging.  Ilya grabs the base of Shane’s cock and lowers his mouth, sucking gently at first, letting his tongue swirl around, get everything wet.  He hollows out his cheeks, bobs his head, and lets Hollander hear the wet, porny pops.  He looks up and Shane is grasping onto a cabinet over his shoulder, watching him with mouth open.  When their eyes meet, Ilya runs a hand up Shane’s abs, lets his cock in deeper and Shane’s hand is on his shoulder, “Stop.”

 

Ilya is charmed if not a little disappointed that Shane is so close already.  He stands, undoes his own fly and steps out of his pants.  He guides Shane’s hand to his own rock hard cock and Shane moans into his mouth as they kiss.  “Bedroom,” Ilya says and they make their way up the ridiculous modern steps, tripping a little as they kiss and Ilya gropes his ass.

 

In the bedroom, Ilya lays down, grabs the lube from the bedside table where it always is.  “Come here,” he says to Hollander who is waiting in the doorway, like a very good boy.  “Suck my cock,” Ilya instructs, “while I eat you out.”  

 

Shane gasps a little as Ilya guides him so he’s straddling Ilya’s chest, facing away from Ilya so he lean over the long line of Ilya’s body and start blowing him.  “Don’t come,” Ilya reminds him as he widens Shane’s cheeks and starts to lap at Shane’s hole.  Shane is moaning around Ilya’s cock and gets sloppy with it when Ilya adds one lubed up finger to his hole.  He kisses Shane’s cheek, his thigh, anywhere he can reach while he presses past the resistance, starts to fuck in.  “God,” Shane says clearly, head thrown back as he lets Ilya’s cock slide out of his mouth.  

 

“Keep going,” Ilya instructs, his voice a little strained.  He picks up the pace, fucks Shane with one finger, then two, keeps it rough, steady as Hollander’s hole clamps around him.  Hollander is moaning with abandon now, mouth just a wide whole for Ilya to fuck into.  He slaps Hollander’s ass with his free hand, in the same spot three times, bites it where it’s stinging and red.  Ilya moves his hand down to cup Hollander’s balls, then even lower to jerk at his dick.  Hollander sits up then, “Stop,” he says urgently.

 

Ilya pushes him gently off, guides Shane to lay next to him face to face.  “Good boy,” he says and kisses him.  Lets his hands roam down Hollanders chest and abs for a few moments.  He doesn’t break the kiss while he rolls on a condom and slicks up his own dick.  Hollander is gone somewhere else, face flushed, kissing gently, almost like it hurts.  

 

Ilya moves between Hollander’s legs, lines up the head of his cock with Hollander’s hole.  He wants to be mean, he really means to be mean but hears himself ask, “Is this ok?” as he pushes in.  Shane brings one hand to the side of Ilya’s face, tucking the hair behind his ear and sighs.  He’s nodding with his mouth open, cheeks flushed and this is the thing Ilya thinks he will remember later.  His dirty fucked out face looking up at him like it’s only them in the whole world.  

 

It doesn’t take long but he bats Hollander’s hand away from his own dick, uses his hole at a brutal pace until Ilya comes, hips snapping.  When he pulls out, Hollander whines, “Ilya” and only then as his own heartrate is coming down does he nod at Shane, makes one, two, three solid swipes down the shaft of Shane’s dick and he cums dribbling everywhere, swearing.  Ilya collapses on top, ghosting kisses on Shane’s neck as he gently jerks Shane’s dick through the aftershocks.  

 

When it’s well and truly done, they lay there for a quiet moment.  Ilya is the first to push himself up on hands and knees.  He looks down at Shane, arm flung over his eyes, come all over his abdomen.  Ilya taps him on the side so Shane will look over.  

 

“I’m going to go shower.”  Shane nods weakly.  Then Ilya holds a hand out to him that he stares at questioningly.  “Friends?”  Ilya says with a wicked grin he can’t suppress.

 

“Fuck you,” Shane laughs but takes his hand and does shake it.  A deal.  A promise.  “Friends.”

Chapter End Notes

this chapter is your one (1) allotted sex scene for a loooooong ass time so hope you enjoy edging as much as these guys

come play with me on tumblr (same as my pen name)

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Last time on Heated Rivalry:
Televised shot of the Boston/Montreal game, players skating off the ice, score shows 2-1 for Boston
Shot in Shane's stairwell as he steps out of Ilya's grasp, says "We should, uh, talk."
Shot in Shane's apartment, he looks pained and awkward as he says "I want to stop."
Cut to shot later in the same scene, Shane says, "But I was hoping we could still be friends."
Cut to shot later in the same scene, Ilya says "Ok I will be your friend."
Voiceover of Ilya saying "But I want to have sex one more time" over a shot of Ilya fucking Shane hard and fast.
Voiceover of Ilya saying "Friends?" and Shane responding "Friends" over a shot of Shane and Ilya naked after sex in bed together, shaking hands.

April 2017- 30,000 feet above Canada

 

Ilya has a headache.  He didn’t get much sleep last night after leaving Hollander’s.  The guys on his team sound like fucking chickens on the plane cluck cluck clucking away.  This late in the season and still in the game they’re hyped.  Ilya sits in the back, a row to himself with his forehead leaned against the window.  They’re fucking annoying, he thinks, as his head pounds at the next peal of raucous laughter.

 

Ilya stands up and calls out above the din, “Does anyone have a Tylenol?”

 

Connors at least has the good grace to say, “huh?”  The rest of them keep talking animatedly over him.  

 

“It’s gonna be us and Columbus and with the way fucking Santiago’s playing-”

“Fuck you!  Since when has Columbus been good enough for playoffs?”

“Are you watching this season?  I’m telling you fucking Santaigo’s on a tear.  He’s gonna-”

“What, you wanna blow Santiago or something?  Why are you trying to convince us-”

 

Ilya tries louder, cupping his hands over his mouth, “Does anyone have a fucking Tylenol?”

 

“Yeah I’ll get it in a second,” Brennan says and continues, “It’s not gonna be Columbus because Scott Hunter-”

“Scott Hunter?  Now this conversation is just devolving.  Hunter sucks.”

“But did you watch the highlights last night?  I’m telling you-”

“This fucking guy.  You got some shitty swamp land in north Massachusetts you wanna sell me too?”

 

The guys laugh.  It’s not even fucking funny.  Ilya steps out to the aisle and yells over them, “Can one of you fucking assholes shut the fuck up for five seconds and get me a Tylenol?”

They all turn to him.  “Jesus,” he hears Brennan mutter and start rooting around in his bag.  Ilya sits back down with a huff and stares out the window.

 

It’s Marleau who comes trudging back to his aisle and sits down heavily in the seat next to him.  “What the fuck’s up your ass?” he asks, handing over the medicine.  

 

Ilya downs it in one with no water, swallows around the feeling of it sticking in his throat once, twice before answering.  “Fuck off, Marley.”

 

“She broke up with you,” Marleau says, a statement, not a question.

 

Ilya turns to look at his idiot face.  It’s pitying.  “What are you talking about?”

 

“Montreal girl broke it off,” Marleau says and swipes at his nose, “That’s why you’re biting our heads off.”

 

Ilya shakes his head and turns to look out the window again, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

 

“Listen,” Marleau leans in and speaks gently, “I’m gonna say this nicely because you’re tight lipped about her so I can tell you actually like the girl.  The long distance thing never works out anyway.  If they’re not willing to move to Boston it’s dead in the water.  You’re not getting traded to the Metros as long as Hollander is there and I’d kill you anyway.  So let it go, brother.  There’s other fish in the sea.”  He pats Ilya’s knee in a fucking patronizing way.

 

Ilya lets his head fall back against the headrest but doesn’t answer.  Marleau stands up but adds, “When you’re ready, you tell me, man and I’ll find you a good girl in Boston.”  Then, mercifully he’s gone.

 

Ilya runs his hands over his face.  It’s not because of Hollander he’s in a bad mood anyway.  They fuck three or four times a year.  They don’t really talk in between.  It wasn’t even likely he’d see him again this season.  So there’s nothing to be upset about.  

 

Hollander wanted to be friends.  That was funny honestly.  They hardly knew each other.  Other than sex, what did they even have in common?  Hollander could hardly keep it in his pants around him anyway.  It probably wouldn’t even stick.    

 

Ilya finally shakes his head.  This was the same loop he’d kept going through last night.  He pulls the shade down on his window and places his headphones on, no music, just to dull the roaring din of his teammates.  He tries to sleep.

 

May 2017- Boston

 

Ilya is in the penalty box.  It’s just a two minute minor but still.  He’s fucking frustrated.  They can’t afford to play one man down.  They’re out after tonight.  Ilya knows it but it was dumb to hasten it.  If he could just get back on the ice maybe maybe…  

 

New York scores.  Fuck.  But at least he’s out early.  Ilya’s skates hit the ice and he doesn’t think anymore.

 

-

 

The mood in the locker room is somber. Ilya had done his Captain’s duty of a quick conciliatory pep talk but the real work would be over drinks tonight.  Ilya pulls off his jersey and pads, picks up his phone and scrolls the notifications.  One from Svetlana and one from-

 

Jane:

Shitty call from the ref

He should have given you longer ;)

 

Ilya feels his lip quirk up.  

 

Lily:

In Russia i would not get any time for this

 

Hollander writes back right away.

 

Jane:

I know.  I remember how dirty you guys played in the prospects

 

Lily:

You are still sore loser over that

 

Jane:

You only won the first game.  I evened it out the next year.

 

Lily:

Who was number 1 in the draft?

 

 Jane:

🖕

 

Ilya waits a moment.  Stares at the screen, wipes at his mouth to erase the smile there.  He puts his phone back in the stall and turns to the rest of the locker room.  “First round is on me tonight, you fuckers,” he calls out to whoops and applause.  

 

-

Ilya makes himself wait until he’s back home to open his phone again.  He could see at the bar one notification from Jane on his phone.  It left him buzzy and half hard as he tried to concentrate on Marleau droning on about the new sports car he was going to buy.

 

Jane:

Are you disappointed though?

 

Stupid, earnest Hollander

 

Lily:

What do you think?

 

Ilya watches Shane’s text bubbles appear and disappear several times before:

 

Jane:

When do you go back to Russia?

 

Ilya blinks, doesn’t want to think about booking his flight.

 

Lily:

Why are you up so late?

 

Jane:

My parents and I played Scrabble after we watched the game

 

Lily:

What is Scrabble?

 

Jane:

Like a word game.  You try to make longer words than other players to get more points.

 

Lily:

Oh my God Hollander.  That is so boring.  Please lie next time.

 

Jane:

Fuck you.

 

Ilya holds in the joke he really wants to make in return.

 

Lily:

You are home for the summer?

 

Jane:

Yeah not invited to MLH awards this year.  You?

 

Lily:

No

 

Jane:

So you go back to Russia then?

 

Ilya sighs.

 

Lily:

Yes 

 

Jane:

Are you nervous about seeing your dad?

 

Lily:

It will be fine.

 

Jane:

Do you have any fun plans while you’re there? 

Like things you like to do when you go home?

 

Lily:

Eat good food.  Party. 

 

Jane:

Is that different from what you do in Boston?

 

Lily:

The food is better and the people are smarter.

What do you do in exciting Ottawa?

 

Jane:

I have this cabin near my parents.  It’s pretty private so I like to just relax.

 

Lily:

I cannot imagine you relaxing.

 

Jane:

I mean I train too obviously.

 

Lily:

Obviously.

But don’t train too hard.  It will be waste of time since I’m winning the cup next year.

 

Jane: 

Are you texting in your sleep?

 

Lily:

What? 

 

Jane:

Because you’re dreaming.

 

Lily:

That was really bad.

 

Jane:

Admit you laughed a little.

 

Lily:

I really didn’t.

 

He was glad Hollander couldn’t see his face right now.  He would never give him the satisfaction.

 

Jane:

I’m getting pretty tired.  I should go to sleep.

 

Ilya blinked at the screen.  It felt like an abrupt end.  He realized he felt disappointed.

 

Lily:

Have a good summer, Hollander.

 

Jane:

You too.

 

Ilya went through the motions of getting ready for bed himself.  He kept his phone near him, glancing at it every few minutes.  Just in case.  In the dark, Ilya settled into his bed, reread the conversation one more time before he forced himself to put the phone down on his bedside table.  He imagined Hollander in his own bed, some 400 miles away, and wondered if he was laying awake thinking of Ilya too.

Chapter End Notes

Did you know the middle finger emoji was not released on IOS until 2015?

Come play with me on Tumblr (same blog name as pen name)

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Content warning for a quick use of the f-slur in a derogatory way.

Last Time on Heated Rivalry:
Shot of Ilya looking miserable on a plane, Marleau comes to sit by him, says "Montreal girl broke up with you." Cut to- "Let it go, brother. There's other fish in the sea." Ilya silent by looking murderous.
Shot of final score of Boston/New York game 3-1, cut to locker room where Boston players are undressing looking upset. Ilya picks up his phone from the stall. Cut to- shot of Ilya's phone with a notification from Jane.
Shot of Ilya in his bed, texting furiously and smiling at his phone.

June 2017- Boston

 

Ilya groans.  “I cannot believe I am about to watch Scott fucking Hunter win the cup.”

 

Svetlana pats his arm, conciliatory, but she’s laughing at him a little.  “I’m happy for him.”

 

Ilya rolls his eyes, sinks down deeper on the couch.  “He’s 500 years old.  Why hasn’t he retired already?”

 

Svetlana shakes her head, “Want me to turn it off?”

 

But the final buzzer is already ringing and the announcer is saying, “There you have it ladies and gentlemen.  Your 2017 Stanley Cup Champions…”  Ilya watches distantly as the Admirals throw off their helmets, skate in roughly to thump each other’s backs in a group hug.

 

He tunes it out.  “When we’re back in Moscow, you have to go out with me every night, get me blackout drunk so I forget this whole season.”

 

“Not every night,” Svetlana says, patting his hair, “I do actually have to spend some time with my father.”

 

“Me too,” Ilya says bitterly but blows a raspberry when Svetlana looks at him too seriously.  

 

She kisses the top of his head, “You will run away to my house if it gets too much.  Don’t worry.”

 

“I’m not, “Ilya says and lets her scratch his scalp as he turns his head into her chest and nuzzles a little.  They never fuck in Russia for some reason.  He’s never asked why.  He can’t always tell the pattern to when they do and they don’t.  He mostly lets Svetlana lead.  He wouldn’t mind tonight.  He’ll be in Russia a week and a half before she joins.  He feels a distant loneliness in the pit of his stomach thinking about it.  He plants a soft, open mouthed kiss to a pot on her neck, just above the clavicle.

 

“What the fuck?” she says and Ilya pulls away quickly, looks at her face.  But she’s staring at the tv.  A shot of Hunter looking into the stands.  He’s waving at someone to come down onto the ice.  The announcers are conjecturing about who it could be, lucky fan maybe.  

 

Ilya sits up.  He doesn’t know Hunter that well but something in the set of his shoulders makes him keep watching.

 

“Do you know what he’s doing?” Svetlana asks as the cameras pan on some guy in a denim jacket making his ways down the stairs, jumping the boards.

 

And Ilya doesn’t answer, just watches as Hunter pulls the man onto the ice, into his arms and…

 

“Holy shit,” Svetlana says in English.  Dimly, from his peripheral vision he notes that her hand is over her mouth.  But Ilya doesn’t look away, can’t, as Scott Hunter kisses the ever loving shit out of another man on national television.  

 

“Big night for hockey,” the announcers are saying and Ilya feels dizzy.  His heartbeat is in his throat.  

 

“I have to-” he starts to say to Svetlana and then he’s standing up before he can think about it, phone in hand.  “I’ll be right back.”  She’s still staring wide eyed at the tv, doen’t seem to notice Ilya’s legs hardly working, weighed down like lead, as he moves to the guest bedroom, closes the door.

 

He’s never actually called Hollander before.  Doesn’t exactly register pulling up his contact on his phone.  But it only rings once before the line connects and Shane is saying, “Were you watching?”

 

“Yes,” is all Ilya can manage.  

 

“Did you know?” Hollander is almost whispering.

 

“No.  Did you?”

 

“No.”

 

Then they’re quiet.  Ilya wants to say, I watched Hunter kiss the man he loves in front of everyone and my mouth filled with acrid want.  He wants to say, is it really just that simple. 

 

But his tongue is heavy in his mouth and all he can do is listen to Shane breathe down the line.

 

Svetlana calls out from the other room, “Ilya?  Where did you go?”

 

“I should go,” Ilya says.  And Shane says, “Ok.”  And when he presses the button to end the call he’s disconnected from maybe the only other person in the world who felt the universe shift beneath him and swallow him whole.

-

Summer 2017- Moscow

 

He doesn’t text Shane that summer.  It’s easier not to.  He’s not hiding from himself anymore.  He gets it.  There are feelings.  There have been feelings for maybe a long time.  And Hollander was brave enough to name them.  Brave enough to look their impossibility in the face and stop this thing between them. 

 

He tried not to ruminate.  It wasn’t helpful.  Like the summer after he turned 16 and met Svetlana for the first time.  He had had a brief, brutal crush on her that culminated in them fucking in her childhood bedroom, quiet in case anyone suddenly came home, and Ilya had admitted he was maybe a little in love with her.  She had laughed, patting his chest condescendingly. “You’re a little young for me,” though she was less than a year his senior.  Ilya had thrown himself back into hockey when she flew back to America and eventually into the arms of Sasha.  It had helped and now Ilya could honestly say they were just friends, nothing else there for them, despite their on again off again fucks.  He could do that with Hollander one day too.  Maybe.

 

The problem was he had too much time to think.  Sitting on the couch next to his father, who mostly stared into the distance, piping up every now and then to ask a nonsensical question or complain about his “lazy son,” not understanding it was Ilya sitting right there.  Even Alexei bothered him less, taking the opportunity to fuck off with his mistress, after seeing Ilya exactly once, long enough to ask for money of course.

 

Shane isn’t texting him either.  And that’s fine.  Probably helpful. Ilya forces himself to only refresh their text conversation once a day, first thing in the morning, just in case his notifications aren’t working properly. It’s better in the evenings when he can go out.  He sleeps with a handful of women.  Beautiful.  They laugh at his jokes.  He’s even funnier in Russian.  He goes dancing with Svetlana.  She buys him shots and yells over the music near his ear, “It’s good to have my party boy back.”

 

When Svetlana brings Sasha one night, Ilya doesn’t even feel annoyed.  It’s a good idea maybe.  Maybe it’s just that Hollander is the only man he’s had in awhile.  He asks Sasha back to his apartment, brushing a quick hand to his waist to make his meaning clear.  They make excuses to Svetlana about needing time to catch up.  She smiles and waves them off. 

 

Sasha is technically proficient at sex in every way.  He’s well practiced in a way that Ilya can appreciate as a fellow slut.  Much improved since they were kids.  But he blows Ilya, looking up with a smirk on his face that Ilya can’t fuck out of him.

 

Including Sasha, Ilya probably sleeps with ten people that summer.  On the plane ride back to Boston, he makes a list of all of them in his mind, whether they’d had dark hair or freckles, whether they’d blushed at his bold flirtations, and whether they’d taken his breath away with raw, earnest need shining out of dark eyes. 

-

September 2017- Boston

It’s better when the season starts back up.  Ilya is always surrounded by teammates, reporters, fans, repeat.  He understands that being busy is the key to building a life with the dull little ache that’s come to permanently reside in his sternum.  

 

There are just small moments when the veneer cracks.  Quick locker room banter- “Can you believe about Hunter?”  “I guess anyone can be a faggot these days.”  Hollander’s highlights playing on the jumbotron during a break in playtime.  But he can look away.  He can breathe through it.

Then the rest of the season’s schedule gets finalized, published to the team and like clockwork-

 

Jane:

Want to try hanging out after the game in MTL in 2 weeks?

 

Then a moment later another text

 

Jane:

As friends obviously. 

 

And Ilya lets the message sit in his phone for hours, almost a full day before he answers, lets himself sit with the sweet delusion that maybe he’ll ever text back anything other than “yes.”

Chapter End Notes

It actually hurt a little to write the Scott Hunter scene without it propelling Ilya to the cottage. That was CINEMA. But without Ilya's dad dying or an actual invite to the cottage it just has to sit in Ilya's little chest like a festering wound. Poor baby.

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Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Last time on Heated Rivalry:
Shot of Ilya at home watching the game with Svetlana, saying "I cannot believe I am about to watch Scott fucking Hunter win the cup."
Shot of Ilya's shocked face as he watches Scott kiss the shit out of Kip on the ice.
Shot of Ilya in a dark room on the phone, we hear Shane ask on the line, "Were you watching?" Ilya's breathless, "Yes."
Quick montage of Ilya back in Russia- sitting with his father on the couch as he stares blankly, partying with Svetlana, Sasha on his knees as Ilya holds his chin and looks impassively back.
Shot of Ilya back in the US, in the locker room, we hear teammates out of the shot bantering about Hunter, calling him faggot. Ilya's face is blank.
Shot of Ilya's phone, text from Jane that reads: Want to try hanging out after the game in MTL in 2 weeks?" Then another: "As friends obviously." Shot of Ilya's face, lipa quirked.

October 2017- Montreal

 

Shane lets him in the back entrance to his apartment like always, like it’s any of other other handful of times Ilya has come here to fuck the shit out of him.  

 

“Hi,” Shane says shyly in the stairwell after the door closes behind them. 

 

“Hello, Hollander,” Ilya says back.  And they don’t kiss in the long moment that follows.

 

“We should go up, I guess,” Shane says finally, gesturing up to the apartment.  

 

Ilya makes a lead the way motion and Shane blinks at him one more time before he does.  

 

In the entryway, Shane turns to him a little too close.  “You can sit on the couch if you want.  Make yourself comfortable.”  Ilya watches him swallow.  It takes some effort to look away.  When Ilya finally does, he makes a show of it, saunters over to the couch, sitting in the very middle, arms spread wide on either side.   “This couch is actually comfortable,” he says to Shane who is puttering around in his fridge by then.  

 

“What?” Shane asks distractedly.

 

“Your couch.  I’ve never sat on it before.  It’s actually comfortable.”

 

Shane comes in then, places a platter of something on the coffee table.  “You’ve definitely sat on my couch before.”

 

“No.  I’ve fucked you over it.  At least twice.  But I’ve never sat on it.”

 

Shane goes a little pink in the cheeks.  “I don’t think we should talk about that.”

 

Ilya laughs, “Why not?”

 

Shane ignores him.  “And you should move over,” he says, indicating the other side of the couch.

 

“I am your guest and I cannot sit where I want?”  Little mock shocked expression to bring it home.

 

“No,” Shane says definitively, sitting as far as possible on one side of the couch.  He shoves Ilya’s arm until he scoots to the opposite side.

 

“Wow, being your friend is so fun already.  Lots of rules.”

 

Shane tries to give him an annoyed expression but there’s a small grin there.  “I’m turning on the game,” he says and grabs for the remote.

 

“Not the one we just played, huh?”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I was there.  I already know I won.”  He cocks an eyebrow at Shane just to be a little shit.

 

Shane crosses his arms over his chest and huffs a little bit but he puts on basketball instead.  They watch it in silence for a moment.

 

“This game is easy,” Ilya says, “Much easier than hockey.”

 

Shane laughs, “Oh yeah?  Have you played a lot of basketball.”

 

“No,” Ilya admits, “Is not so popular in Russia.  But they are on regular floor, regular shoes.  What’s so hard about that?”

 

“I don’t think you should share that opinion in public.”

 

“I’m not in public.  I’m with you.”  For some reason, the silence after that is a little heavy.  Ilya breathes in and out twice, watches the little bodies on the screen run and jockey for the ball.  He turns his attention to the coffee table in front of them where there’s a large assortment of cut up vegetables.

 

“What is this?”

 

“Crudite.”

 

“Crew- what?  It’s just vegetables.”

 

“That’s what crudite is.  Vegetables and fancy sauce.”

 

“Why is it here?”

 

Shane shrugs and looks back at the tv.  His cheeks are a little pink.  “You’re my guest. I’m hosting so I put out something to eat.”

 

“You never fed me before.”

 

Shane slumps further into the sofa, crosses his arms.  “Well we were busy doing other things before.”

 

“I thought we’re not supposed to talk about that.”

 

Shane’s eyes dart to him.  The expression is somewhere between a glare and amused.  “Shut up,” he says finally.

 

Ilya reaches forward and pulls out a carrot.  He takes a loud bite.  “Mmm rabbit food.”

 

Shane laughs, “Shut up,” he says again.

 

“So far you are very rude host.  ‘Shut up’, ‘sit here’.  Very bossy.”

 

Shane bites his lip on a grin. Ilya stretches his legs out on the sofa, pushes his socked toes under Hollander’s thighs.

 

“Hey!” Shane protests.

 

“My feet are cold.” 

 

“I don’t know if we should, like, touch right now.”

 

“Why?  You can’t control yourself?  My feet in socks is driving you wild?”

 

Shane shakes his head but doesn’t move away.  “You are such an asshole.”

 

They watch the game for awhile.  Ilya can see Shane’s eyes turning to him every few minutes, then back to the tv.  Ilya is heady with the knowledge that Shane is nervous, maybe wants to make him more nervous.  

 

“What?”  Ilya asks, catching Shane’s eye the next time he dares to look.  Ilya is pressing, needling.  It feels so good.

 

“Oh,” Shane falters, caught out, “I just- I was wondering how your summer was.”

 

“Fine”

 

“Can you give me a little more than that?”

 

“What do you want to know, Hollander?”

 

“What was it like, um, seeing your dad?”

 

Ilya winces a bit.  The last time they’d talked about this he had cried, Shane’s sturdy body in his arms.  It was embarrassing to think about now.  

 

“He is getting worse,” Ilya shrugs, “Doesn’t remember much anymore.  Very…different than he used to be.”

 

“That must be hard.”

 

“In some ways, yes.  In some ways, it’s better.”

 

Shane looks at him, open, laser focused.  His face an invitation to go on.  It’s a little jarring.

 

“He is,” Ilya starts, corrects himself, “He was a very demanding person, very angry.  He is…just there now.”

 

“Does he remember you?”

 

“Yes.  He does not always recognize me but he always remembers there is a hockey player son he is disappointed in.”

 

“How are you a disappointment?”  Shane emphasizes the you, like it’s obvious.  Like Ilya is anything but.

 

“I don’t win every game.  If I was more disciplined, less lazy, you know...”

 

“No one can win every game.”

 

“Oh really?”  Ilya cocks an eyebrow, smiles to keep it light.

 

“You’re a good fucking hockey player,” Shane says quietly and his gaze doesn’t falter.

 

Ilya’s heart beats fast.  He’s not sure why it matters to him so much to hear Shane Hollander say that.  “I know,” Ilya says finally and turns away.  “What about you, Hollander?  Beautiful boring summer doing yoga on the dock at your beautiful boring lakeside cottage?”

 

“Yeah it was-” he stops short, “Wait, how do you know about me doing yoga on the dock?”

 

“Your little profile on tv.  It was very good.  So boring it helped me sleep.”

 

Shane laughs, “Fuck off.”  

 

Ilya kicks one of the feet under Shane’s thigh a little.  “Go ahead, Hollander.  Your summer.”

 

“Um, yeah it was good.  I trained a lot but I relaxed a little too.”  He pauses, opens his mouth to say something and then doesn’t.  

 

“What?” Ilya prompts.

 

Shane sighs, “I-I thought about Scott Hunter a lot actually.”

 

Ilya waits, studying the crease in between Shane’s eyebrows.

 

“I saw him actually.  We played him last week.  I thought he must be getting a lot of shit, like probably his summer was kind of hell after all of that.  But he looked actually, kind of…happy.”

 

“Good for him.”

 

“Yeah,” Shane says, working something out in that brain of his, “I guess I was just surprised.  It made me wonder if…I just sort of started to think about what it would be like to come out too.”  

 

“You would come out?”

 

“I don’t know.  Probably not.  I mean, not soon.”

 

“Hmm,” Ilya’s head is buzzing.  He considers and decides to say it anyway?  “I thought about it too.”

 

Shane’s eyes go wide, “Really?”

 

“Yes.  I mean, I can’t now because my family and Russia but maybe one day.  After my father dies.  I have a different passport.  Maybe.”

 

“But you like women,” Shane says like it’s an answer.

 

“Yes…”

 

“I mean, if I liked women I would just be with a woman.  It would be so much easier.”

 

“You think that’s how it works?”

 

Shane shrugs.  “I don’t know how it works.  I tried to like women and I couldn’t.  So if I did I’d just want to be..normal I guess.”

 

Ilya quirks an eyebrow.  “Normal?”

 

Shane shakes his head, a little flustered, Ilya thinks.  “Like have a girlfriend who hangs out with the WAGs and just be like the other guys, you know.”

 

“You care too much what other people think.”

 

Shane’s lips quirk, “Like you don’t.  You act really above it all but you care.”

 

“Mmm,” Ilya crosses his arms, “You see right through me, huh?”

 

“Yes,” Shane says, definitively without pause and Ilya can’t tell if it’s thrilling or terrifying.

 

Ilya reaches over for another carrot, lets a big crunching bite be his only answer.

 

After that it’s easier for some reason.  They gossip about the trades that happened this season, they make fun of each other’s teammates.  Hollander does a full bodied laugh, ripped out of him unwillingly after a particularly bad impression Ilya does of Wayne Gretzky, offensive Canadian accent included.  Ilya’s stomach does a flip and he feels like something is beaming out of his chest.  He wants to make Hollander do it again.

 

In the end, Shane puts a hand on his ankle and says, “You’re going to be late for curfew,” and Ilya nods, pulling his feet back from under Shane and onto the floor.  Because Shane is right and responsible and he’s always those things so there’s nothing else to say until Ilya has requested the cab and Shane is leaning on the rail in the stairwell watching him tie his shoes.

 

“I had fun,” Ilya hears himself say and he’s not sure he actually meant to say it.

 

“Me too,” Shane says softly, grin spreading across his face.  Just a few months ago, Ilya would have leaned in and Shane would have leaned in and their lips would have touched and Ilya has to crack his knuckles to stop from thinking about that.

 

“You could text me sometimes,” Shane says suddenly.  Then, “I mean, friends text sometimes.  Not just about meeting up.”

 

Ilya laughs because Shane is so strange.  “Sure, bud.  That would be great, pal.”

 

Shane rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling.  Ilya is smiling too.  

 

“Goodnight, Hollander,” he says before he can say something else stupider. 

 

“Goodnight, Rozanov,” he answers and Ilya allows himself just one more glance before he slips out the door into the night.

Chapter End Notes

Did you guys know writing is actually, like, hard?

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Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Last time on Heated Rivalry:
Shot of Ilya in Moscow sitting on a couch next to his father who is staring blankly ahead. Ilya looks miserable.
Short montage of Ilya in a club, dancing with Svetlana, dancing with a number of interchanging beautiful women.
Cut to Ilya looking down at Sasha on his knees, smirking up at him with hooded eyes.
Shot of Ilya in the locker room looking at his phone that shows a message from Jane:
Want to try hanging out after the game in MTL in 2 weeks?
As friends obviously.
Shot of Ilya on Shane's couch, feet tucked under Shane's thighs as they talk.
Shot of Ilya and Shane in the stairwell smiling at each other.
We hear over the shot: Goodnight, Hollander. Goodnight, Rozanov.

October 2017- Montreal

 

The cab ride back to his hotel from Shane’s place is a little bit of torture.  He keeps thinking about the stairwell, standing close to Shane, eyes locked.  Just the smallest shift forward and he would have been able to feel Shane’s body heat.  He’s half hard just thinking about Shane’s smile.  Thinking about pressing him into the wall, watching that smile turn into something else.  The way he always goes so pliant under Ilya’s hands.

 

Or did.  He used to do that.  And now they don’t anymore.

 

Ilya presses his forehead to the cold window.  He feels like a teenager. Overheated and horny.

 

When he gets back to the room, Connors is already in bed. Ilya shoves off his jacket and makes his way as quickly as he can to the bathroom. He turns on the shower and strips fast. Under the shower spray it takes only three strokes before he’s fully hard. His mind races through dozens of mental images. Hollander with his head thrown back and mouth open. Hollander face down scrabbling hands in the bed sheets. Hollander choking softly on his dick, head bobbing. For some reason what he lands on is not even a memory of anything that’s happened. Just the thought of Hollander’s tongue doing soft little kitten licks to the head of his dick over and over, teasing him. Ilya’s hips strain forward, fucking into his hand and he bites his lip to stop from saying out loud god please fuck please. His head hits the tile while he spills out onto the shower floor. He watches dazed as his cum washes down the drain. Maybe he’s being driven completely and utterly fucking insane.

 

October 2017- Boston 

 

Two days later, Ilya is riding a stationary bike in the team’s training room when he receives the stupidest text he’s ever seen.

 

Jane

Hey. What’s up?

 

Ilya reads it three times without meaning to, shaking his head. He knows Hollander so he knows Hollander thought about this for the whole two days, typing deleting typing deleting. And this is the best he could come up with. Sometimes Hollander is so boring it actually circles back around to surprising. 

 

He decides not to take it easy on him. 

 

Ilya swings his legs off the bike and heads towards the weights by the big mirror. He hikes his shirt up, jutting his hips out just a little to emphasize the deep V leading down to his shorts. He waits just a second until a particularly large bead of sweat rolls down his abs. He snaps a photo in the mirror.

 

“Jesus,” Marleau calls from his spot on the eliptical, “Look at this beauty queen snapping thirst traps over here.”

 

Connors whistles. “Who’s it for, Rozy?”

 

“Your mother,” Ilya deadpans and turns back to his phone while the guys laugh. He types out a quick message and hits send.

 

Lily 

[image]

Just getting all hot and sweaty at warm ups

 

Ilya watches as Shane’s text bubbles immediately appear disappear appear disappear. A pause. Then finally a thumbs down reaction appears on the photo. Ilya can’t help but break out into a grin.

 

He picks up the nearest weight. He feels like he could deadlift 500 pounds. The delight of getting under Hollander’s skin fuels him through the rest of the day.

 

-

Two days later he’s warming up again on the treadmill this time. He’s thinking about Hollander. He touches the screen of his phone, chews his lip a little. He could say anything. It doesn’t really matter. If he wants to talk to Hollander he can just do that. It’s not a big deal. He doesn’t need to think this hard. He looks up an article about his stats this season. He knows there will be a comparison to Shane. There’s always a comparison to Shane. He screenshots the paragraph that mentions them both and hits send.

 

Lily:

I’m ahead of you in the scoring race.

 

No answer right away. Ilya looks at the tv and sighs. He touches his phone screen, once, twice in the next 4 minutes and then turns it over. Fuck this. 

 

“I’m going to buy the new Ducati,” he calls out to Marleau who has to take his AirPods out and Ilya repeats it.

 

“Nah, man,” Marleau starts and then he’s explaining about the superior qualities of Porsches for 15 minutes and Ilya doesn’t have to think anymore. 

 

-

It’s late when Ilya finally does receive the text back. He’s at the bar getting a round of shots when he feels the vibration in his pocket.

 

Jane:

I got a hat trick tonight so not for long :)

 

Ilya puts the drinks fully down and responds right away.

 

Lily:

Who did you play?

 

Jane:

Ottawa

 

Lily:

Anyone can score a hat trick against fucking Ottawa

 

Jane:

Hey! That’s my home team.

 

Lily:

If you’re such a fan why don’t you go play for them?

 

Jane:

They’re my retirement plan.

 

Lily:

You will never retire. They will have to drag you off ice by your walker. Like Hunter.

 

Jane:

He’s not that old.

 

Lily: 

🦖

 

Shane sends a HaHa reaction on Ilya’s last text. He waits a minute. Nothing else comes. It’s late in Ottawa. Shane is probably going to bed. Diligent little Hollander probably never even leaves the hotel on a roadie. Ilya taps the screen one more time just to make sure. He pockets the phone, picks up the drinks, and by the time he’s sitting curled up next to a busty redhead with a tongue piercing he’s not thinking about Hollander anymore.

 

November 2017- Boston

They text now. It’s not a lot. Quick chirps, hockey gossip, once a photo of Ilya’s bloody tooth he’d spit into his hand after a high stick from a Toronto D-man. But it is most days. To the point where his phone feels a little empty, a little lonely if he doesn’t hear from Shane.

 

Ilya knows this is bad objectively. Not having sex was supposed to curb the feelings. It was supposed to make them both want this impossible thing between them less. It was not supposed to make Shane even more of a fixture in his brain.

 

Ilya can’t help that. He can’t help the twinge of disappointment he feels when his phone pings and it’s the team group chat or Svetlana or his fucking brother and not Hollander. He can make sure he rations it. He puts rules around this feeling. He never says goodnight or good morning. He always texts with a reason- a story, an insult, something. He never keeps replying to the conversation too long. And most importantly, he keeps sleeping with other people. As long as he is sleeping with other people, the phone behavior feels a little less reckless, a little less bad.

 

The other problem is the jerking off. The sleeping with other people hasn’t helped that yet. He’ll be seeing Hollander in 3 days. He’ll come to Ilya’s place after their game and they won’t fuck. The anticipation of being that close to Shane again, unable to touch him how he wants is driving him a little crazy. He’s wringing it out of himself everyday, sometimes twice as the days get closer. He can’t seem to exorcise the lust from his body. He wants to smack Hollander in the face, hear him gasp. He wants to bite into his shoulder blade and feel him squirm. He wants to press into injuries and bruises until Hollander is begging for mercy. He wants him in increasingly violent and tactile ways and his dick is going to chafe from trying to get it out.

 

He should probably cancel on hanging out alone.

 

-

When Shane finally rings the doorbell to his place, Ilya is already a little buzzed from the one shot and a beer he chugged alone at his kitchen counter. He is nervous and he realizes he was right to be when he opens the door and sees Shane for the first time in over a month. Shane’s skin in the moonlight is beautiful, cheeks just a little rosy from the cold. Fuck.

 

Shane steps just inside the doorway, enough for the door to close behind him but he doesn’t actually come in yet. He traces nervous eyes up and down Ilya’s body. “You need to put a shirt on,” he says with a hand braced on the doorframe.

 

“It’s my house,” Ilya says defiantly, chin going just slightly up in the air, “you can’t tell me what to wear in my own house.”

 

Shane’s eyes flash dangerously. “Put a shirt on or I’m leaving.”

 

Ilya smirks. “You’d have to call the cab back.”

 

“I will call the cab back,” Shane threatens, sounding steady but he’s pressed as far back as the closed door will allow, looking at Ilya like he’s a wild animal that might attack.

 

They stare at each other for a long few moments and Ilya has the hysterical urge to flex his pecs or worse yet, pull out his cock.

 

Instead he says, “Fine,” and pads into the living room to pull on a rumpled Raiders sweatshirt. Ilya returns to the entryway with arms outstretched to show himself off. “Better?” He asks sarcastically.

 

Shane’s posture relaxes as much as it ever does with Shane and he deigns to finally move inside to take off his shoes. “You have to stop doing shit like that,” he lectures to the ground. “We’re just friends now.” He starts to rise. “And you’re getting off on making it-“

 

Ilya steps forward so there’s only a sliver of space between their bodies once Shane rises to his full height. “Hard?” He offers, lifting his eyebrows.

 

“Fuck you,” Shane sighs out a humorless laugh and shoves Ilya backwards. 

 

Ilya smiles to himself, following Shane into his own living room. He wonders if Hollander is a little hard.

 

Hollander sits on the far end of the couch, the same position he’d taken almost a year ago when Ilya asked him to stay and fed him a tuna melt. Ilya feels a small wave of humiliation crash in his chest. It was a weak moment when he had thought maybe they could try on something that they can’t really have. Hollander hadn’t wanted it then, then admitted he did in Tampa, then said later they could only be friends. And Ilya’s just been along for the ride for all of it. Whatever Hollander wants, Hollander gets. 

 

He tries not to feel bitter as he watches Shane cross an ankle over his knee, fidget with his watch. There’s no point, he knows that. There’s never been a time he could ever say no to whatever Hollander will give him. But it’s nice sometimes to see it be hard for him too. He thinks if he pushed enough maybe he could find the very edge of Shane’s willpower, press into the bulging parts of Shane’s desire until it was him crashing into Ilya’s mouth, him pulling Ilya’s hair, him clutching to Ilya’s ass while begging for it on his knees.

 

Instead he says, “Do you want something to drink?”

 

And Shane says, “No.” Then remembers, “Thank you.”

 

They sit in silence until Ilya turns on the tv. He finds basketball again. Maybe it will become their thing. 

 

“You guys played well tonight,” Shane says, eyes never moving from the tv. “It seems like your line is finally clicking with the new guy.”

 

“You still won,” Ilya says, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“Yeah,” Shane shrugs, “but your line still looked good.” A pause, “ And you looked like you were having fun.” Shane chuckles, “I mean, your chirping was relentless. They probably should have given you some time in the box for a couple of those. But I think that ref likes you.”

 

Ilya smiles to himself. “That’s a serious allegation, Hollander. Player favoritism. You can be barred from the league for that.”

 

“You should be barred from the league,” Hollander laughs, “for some of the shit you pull. No one else could get away with it.”

 

Shane’s eyes are shining. It’s fucked up how good it feels to make Hollander laugh. 

 

“I’m charming,” Ilya shrugs and they smile at each other across the couch, everything from before forgiven.

 

Shane’s phone rings suddenly and he pulls it out of his pocket to look at the screen. “Shit sorry I’m just gonna get this real quick.” He walks back toward the entryway but Ilya can hear most of it anyway.

 

A lot of “yeah” and “yeah I knows” and one “I promise I’ll take a look on the plane tomorrow.” He hears Shane mutter something low, something about “hanging with some of the guys at the hotel” and needing to go. Then a quick, “Love you too,” as he’s walking back to the couch.

 

“Sorry,” he says, plopping back down on the couch, “my mom.”

 

“Ah,” Ilya says, “She is your manager, yes?”

 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, “I should probably get a real one someday. Someone who won’t call me late at night about endorsement contracts.”

 

Ilya laughs. “Does she get a cut?”

 

Shane turns, surprised. “Of my endorsement fee?”

 

Ilya nods.

 

“Yeah, I mean it’s not a lot. She’s not like taking advantage of me or something.”

 

“I didn’t say she was.” Ilya shrugs, “Just money is sometimes complicated between families.”

 

“Is it complicated in your family?”

 

Ilya sighs, “Not so complicated actually. I have money and my family wants it. They are good at asking for it. My brother especially.”

 

“Are you guys…are you close?”

 

Ilya laughs humorless. “No. He hates me. Since I was 8 and he was 12 and I was already better at hockey than him.”

 

“That must be hard,” Shane says it casually but Ilya can feel the way he’s listening a little too intently.

 

“I don’t think you really want to hear about my family problems, Hollander.”

 

“I do. I mean, I wanna hear whatever you’re comfortable telling me.”

 

“But you are perfect little golden boy with perfect little Canadian upbringing. You would be scandalized by people not getting along with their family, not playing…what was the word game you told me about?”

 

Shane thinks for a minute, “Scrabble?

 

“Yes, Scrabble,” he tries the word on. “We don’t all play board games with our families.”

 

“I know that. I’m not like some completely sheltered loser. I can hear about hard stuff.”

 

Ilya rubs his nose. “I don’t need your pity.”

 

“And you don’t have it,” Shane raises his voice a little. “Jesus, I’m just trying to get to know you!” Then a little quieter, “you don’t even give me a chance.”

 

Ilya nods, muttering a quick curse word to himself in Russian. “Ok Hollander. Here is the quick version. My mother killed herself when I was 12. I found her. My father made us tell everyone it was an accident. They all knew but in Russia you don’t say anything about that. My dad remarried my stepmother less than a year later. My brother pissed off to god knows where, got himself addicted to coke and resurfaced married to the first woman he knocked up. And I played hockey so I could get the fuck out of there. Now I am millionaire in America who sends money back to care for my father and pay for my brother’s coke habit while they take turns to call and scream at me about what fucking asshole I am and ask for more money. But oh my father is too demented to do even that now so just my brother.”

 

“So it’s fun,” he continues, “I like talking about my family very much.” He’s a little out of breath when he finishes.

 

Shane blinks. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all that,” he finally says, neutral.

 

Ilya crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. “Now you can stop fishing about my family. You know it all, ok?”

 

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Shane starts. He’s quiet for a moment. “I just wanna say-Ilya?”

 

He turns to meet Shane’s eyes.

 

Shane worries his lip and then, “I care about you. A lot actually. So I’m not trying to be nosy. I’m just- I always want to know if you’re ok. And if you’re not I wanna help. So…that’s all. I won’t ask anymore.”

 

Ilya looks up at the ceiling, rolls his head to look back at Shane.  Stupid, earnest Shane. “It’s ok. Just tell me something bad about your family.”

 

Shane laughs. “What?”

 

“I want to know something bad. So we are even. Your mom must have cheated on your dad or something.”

 

“Uh no, no cheating that I’m aware of,” Shane starts. He thinks about it. “I guess my dad’s dad is pretty bad. He wasn’t happy about my parents’ marriage. Because my mom is Japanese. He said some weird stuff about internment camps to my Japanese grandfather at the wedding. And something about me once- my eyes, I don’t know, like he was hoping I’d look more white or something. So we don’t really see him anymore. I, I didn’t really know that side of the family growing up. Which was fine. He tried to message me once after I joined the MLH but I just ignored it and never mentioned it to my parents. I don’t know,” Shane looks up after spending most of the last few sentences talking to the couch, “was that bad enough?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya nods, “your shitty racist grandfather is bad enough.”

 

Shane laughs a little. “Good.”

 

After that they talk about hockey. It’s always the safe subject. They rank their favorite players of all time. They talk about most gruesome injuries they’ve ever seen. They talk about their own injuries. They talk about the first time they knew they were good, better than the other kids. They talk about what teams they’d have wanted to be drafted to if it couldn’t be Boston and Montreal. 

 

Towards the end, Ilya can tell Shane is getting sleepy as he slumps further and further into the cushions. He wants to be considerate and tell him to go. He almost has the sentence formed on his tongue. But he doesn’t actually want Shane to leave. He actually loves watching him, eyes getting heavy while he tries to fight it. He wishes suddenly and fiercely that he could kiss Shane’s cheek, say something stupid like “come on sleepy head” and put a hand on his back to lead him up the stairs to Ilya’s room. He’s a little addicted to the texting, yes, but nothing beats Shane’s physical presence, alive and sturdy, in his house. He wants to keep him.

 

It’s Shane who says it first. “I should go.”

 

And all Ilya can do is nod, watch him order the cab. Stay he thinks at Shane with all his might stay. But he doesn’t say it.  He's learned his lesson at least. 

 

Maybe their new friendship is killing him a little. Or maybe he’s just horny. But he wraps his arms around Hollander’s shoulders in the entryway and feels him tense. He closes his eyes a moment later when he feels Hollander’s hands on his back tentative and hardly there. He counts 1, 2, 3 slow and steady  in his head then pulls away from the hug. 

 

“Goodnight, Hollander,” he says.

 

Shane’s dumb smile curves his lips as he says, “Goodnight, Rozanov.” And then he’s gone. 

 

Stupid fucking idiot that he is, Ilya goes back to the couch and sits in the spot where Shane had been. It’s still warm from his body heat and Ilya lays back pretending for a moment it’s something other than what it is.

 

Chapter End Notes

Sometimes the distance between knowing and doing something about it is a lot of chapters away, huh?

Come play with me on Tumblr please!

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

For this chapter, you do need to know one thing about how All Star players are picked in the real NHL/fake MHL. First the league appoints someone from each team and then a certain number of slots are left up to fan votes.

Last time on Heated Rivalry
Shot of Shane and Ilya in the stairwell to Shane's apartment standing close but not touching. Hold for a quiet moment on the smiles.
Cut to Ilya jerking off in a hotel shower, clearly thinking of Shane.
Shot of text from Jane: "Hey. What's up?"
Shot of Ilya taking a photo with his shirt rucked up in the gym mirror, Connors calling offscreen: "Who's it for Rozy?"
Shot of the image embedded in the text chain between Jane and Lily. Jane gives the photo a thumbs down reaction.
Cut to Ilya beaming like he's won a game.
Quick montage of Ilya kissing and generally wrapped around a bunch of different women.
Cut to Ilya holding drinks at a bar and putting them fully down to answer a message from Jane.
Shot of Ilya answering the door for Shane without a shirt on. Shane stern and serious says, "Put a shirt on or I'm leaving."
Shot of Shane and Ilya on his couch. Ilya saying, "My mother killed herself when I was 12. I found her."
Cut to Shane, wide concerned eyes, saying, "I always want to know if you're ok and if you're not I want to help."
Cut to Ilya and Shane hugging in the entryway, a little timid. Voiceover of "Goodnight, Rozanov" "Goodnight, Hollander"

January 2018- St Louis

Ilya tries very hard not to feel giddy. He’s chosen for the All Stars Game again this year of course. And so is Shane, of course. Which means an entire long weekend of playing Shane, bothering Shane, getting to sit on the bed in Shane’s hotel room. Maybe.

It’s dangerous in a different way than the sneaking around for years fucking was dangerous. It’s Hollander in his phone after an amazing game in Los Angeles sending a clip called ILYA ROZANOV INSANE ONE HAND BACKHAND GOAL!!!! with the message “I wouldn’t have gone so wide” and Ilya smiling so hard he has to bite the inside of his cheek to tame it. It’s Hollander on Christmas Day texting “Is it true Russians celebrate Christmas on January 7th?” like he was looking it up, like he was thinking of Ilya even when he’s with his perfect little family and Ilya has to turn the phone over because Svetlana is giving him a look about whatever his face is doing. It’s staring out the window on the plane ride to St Louis daydreaming about beating Hollander in the skills competition and watching his sour little face frowning on the bench.

Ilya is well practiced at not wanting the things he can’t have. He never wishes things were different with his brother. He doesn’t dwell on what his life would have been like if his mother had stayed. When he loses a game badly, he doesn’t beat himself up over it, just plays better next time. But Hollander…with Hollander he feels dangerously close to wanting.

He waits all of 5 minutes after getting to his hotel room to text Shane:

Lily:
When do you get in?

Shane doesn’t respond for a long time. Ilya flips through the tv channels, tries not to look at his phone. In his excitement to see Shane for a whole weekend, he had almost forgotten that this time last year they had fucked for one of the last times. Ilya, stupid tears in his eyes from talking about his father, had let himself be held; later had let Shane ride him still sat up and clutching to him. They fucked for what felt like hours, slow and soft, for once Shane not worrying about the time. And Ilya had felt full of fear, hope, and possibility long after Shane left, replaying his words in his mind: “I can’t keep pretending I don’t like you.”

A year later he was waiting for a text just to know Hollander was in the same building. It makes his stomach turn. He turns up the volume on the tv to drown out his thoughts.

The text finally comes when he’s at the vending machine in the hotel hallway.

Jane:
Just got here.

Ilya answers right away.

Lily:
What room?

He considers his snack options while he waits to feel the phone vibrating in his pocket. It doesn’t take long this time.

Jane:
813
But I’m still getting settled. Maybe meet up in 30?

Ilya scoffs. There’s no way he’s waiting 30 minutes so he doesn’t answer. Instead he picks chips because they’ll be crunchy and maybe he can annoy the shit out of Hollander with chewing too loud. He heads to the elevator and is knocking on Shane’s door in 2 minutes flat.

Of course Shane answers with an exasperated sigh.

“I said give me thirty minutes,” he complains but he doesn’t block Ilya when he shoulders his way into the room and plops down on Shane’s bed.

“How was your flight, Ilya?” he mocks with a terrible impression of Shane, voice way too high. Lower then for his own, “It was great, Shane, thanks for asking. How about you?”

Shane rolls his eyes and picks up a folded shirt to place in a drawer. “That’s worse than your Gretzky impression.”

Ilya smiles while he opens the chips, takes a big satisfying chomp.

Shane whips around in the middle of refolding pants, “You can’t eat in my bed.”

Ilya shrugs, “I won’t make crumbs.”

“Yes, you will,” Shane insists and he moves to snatch the bag from Ilya’s hand.

Ilya holds the bag out of reach, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “I think you want one.”

Shane actually pouts, “I don’t.”

“Come on, Hollander, admit it,” he shakes the bag a little, “you want one.”

Shane glares before going to the closet to retrieve a hanger. “If I wanted a chip I would have a chip,” he says, petulant.

Ilya licks the salt off his fingers. “You wouldn’t. You like denying yourself.”

Shane shoves his suit jacket on the hanger a little more forcefully than is necessary. “I don’t deny myself. I eat chips when I want to eat chips and I don’t want to right now.”

“If you eat chips so much, name one kind of chip.”

Shane’s eyes dart to the bag in Ilya’s hand. “Salt and vinegar,” he says quickly.

Ilya’s eyes narrow at the twinkle in Shane’s eyes. Always so proud when he thinks he’s funny.

“One chip,” Ilya insists. He stretches out a hand to hold a chip just in front of Hollander’s mouth. He knows Shane won’t actually eat it out of his hand but the little angry look on his face before he snatches the chip away and shoves it in his mouth is worth it.

“Good boy,” Ilya says quietly and he notices the way Shane’s chewing stops for just a moment, eyes locking with his, before he turns away to hang his clothes.

“You always unpack everything when you’re traveling?” Ilya asks, watching Shane’s intricate process.

“Yeah, you don’t?”

Ilya shakes his head, “What’s the point? You just have to repack it so soon.”

Shane looks scandalized, “Your clothes will wrinkle.”

Ilya shrugs but he can tell the corner of his mouth is quirked up a bit. Shane is a freak but it’s charming as hell.

Ilya watches him take out a leather dock kit and head to the bathroom.

“Please tell me you line up all your toiletries on the counter.”

Shane shoots him a withering look.

“How do you organize them? Size? Color? Function? I have to know!” Ilya calls to his retreating back and Shane calls back “fuck off” before he shuts the bathroom door behind him.

Ilya stretches on the bed and looks around. Nearly identical rooms except for the art. Shane has the famous St Louis arch. Ilya has some kind of brewery with horses. He spots Shane’s phone charging on the bedside table. He’s not too ashamed to be nosy and when he flips it over he is positively fucking delighted by what he sees.

Shane comes out of the bathroom then. Ilya has to suppress a giggle to say it, “Uh, Hollander, looks like you missed a message from,” he makes a show of looking at the phone like he’s reading carefully, “CumDaddy69. You need to answer that?”

Shane’s face goes white. “Give me the phone,” he says urgently.

“Oh no,” Ilya tsks, “Definitely not.”

There’s a moment where they stare at each other challenging, just like a face off. Then Shane throws himself across the bed and they’re tussling but Ilya manages to keep the phone high up with one arm outstretched above his head. Hollander has to lean fully over him to grab it. Their bodies are touching everywhere and it’s only that sudden realization that distracts Ilya long enough that Shane can snatch the phone out of his hand.

Shane scrabbles away swiping furiously at the screen. Ilya’s a little out of breath when he sits up in the bed. “It’s porn?” he asks, eyebrows quirked.

“It’s not porn!” Shane says horrified and Ilya knows he’d be turning pink under his freckles if he wasn’t a little already from their wrestling.

“Well?” Ilya asks with a mocking smile.

“It’s just an app,” Shane mutters, not meeting his eyes.

“An app for porn,” Ilya repeats the word to get a rise out of him.

“Jesus, no,” Hollander sits down in the rolling chair by the hotel desk and rubs the back of his neck. He sighs before continuing. “It’s like a messaging app. For guys. For gay guys.”

Ilya smiles, impossibly delighted. “For hook ups?”

Shane shrugs. “I mean, I haven’t actually- I’m just looking.”

“Looking,” Ilya repeats. It’s so Shane. It’s just so painfully Shane to have the app and not do anything about it.

Shane is scratching the arm rest on the chair over and over. He is not looking at Ilya.

“How did you hear about this app?” Ilya asks.

Shane’s eyes dart up. He looks a little guilty. “Kip,” he answers.

“Kip?” Ilya repeats. He’s not sure if it’s a name or a sound.

“He’s Hunter’s boyfriend,” Shane mutters.

“Since when do you hang out with Hunter and his boyfriend?” Ilya’s not jealous exactly but it’s interesting Shane hasn’t mentioned it in all their texting.

Shane shrugs, “I don’t. Usually. But I emailed Hunter asking if we could talk privately and he invited me over.”

“You wanted to talk privately,” Ilya repeats, a little skeptically.

“Yes,” Shane agrees. “I told him about me.” Then adds, “I didn’t mention you obviously if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Ilya’s not worried about that. He’s worried about Shane having real gay people to talk to. Real gay people who know about apps and support him to come out and maybe Shane doesn’t really need Ilya anymore when he’s not in the closet. He shakes the thoughts away. They’re too complicated for today.

“We’ll come back to Hunter,” Ilya says, not really meaning it. “But right now I can’t be distracted. Let me see this app.”. He puts a hand out for the phone.

“No.” Shane is adamant. Ilya knows because he has that little determined face on.

“Hollander,” Ilya sing songs. Shane looks up then. Ilya repeats it, crawling slowly down the bed, “Hollander.”

Shane turns his body away, defensively sits fully on top of the phone. “I said no.”

“If you do not let me see it I will have to ask all of our hockey player friends about it this weekend. It will be very embarrassing to you.”

Shane is glaring. “You would not tell them about my app.”

Ilya shakes his head. “I would not tell them it was your app. But I will talk about gay hookup sex app very loudly and you will get very embarrassed and give yourself away.” Shane is looking him up and down deliberating. “We can save both of us the trouble if you just show me now.”

Shane sighs, angry. “Fine. But you can’t look at my profile.”

Ilya is grinning. “Why not?”

“Because,” Shane’s eyes move to the floor and he mutters, “it’s like intimate pictures.”

Ilya is beaming. “Intimate? Intimate how?”

“Shut up,” Shane huffs.

Ilya barks out a laugh. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Hollander.”

“Well you’re not allowed to see that anymore,” he says through gritted teeth and Ilya’s smile loses a bit of its luster for just a minute.

“I will not look,” he promises solemnly.

Shane grimaces but he pulls his phone back out and taps at it for a minute before he hands it over. Ilya scrolls for a minute, then two. It’s all dicks and asses. Dozens and dozens of dicks and asses with some body stats thrown in. Sometimes an attempt at a funny quote, rarely the brave ones show a face.

“I love it,” Ilya mutters to himself, “I absolutely love it.”

Shane is sitting with the back of his head craned all the way back so he’s staring straight up. “You’re so weird,” he says to the ceiling.

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “This is perfect. No bullshit. Just beautiful dicks as far as the eye can see.”

“I think it’s gross,” Shane huffs. “It’s like we’re not even real people, just assholes looking for a penis match.”

Ilya considers him a moment. “You want the penises to romance you first?”

Shane lets out a little laugh, lets his neck extend back down to normal. “I don’t need romance. It just feels…” he struggles for the word, “impersonal, I guess, to wade through a sea of dick pics and not even know anything about the people the dicks are attached to.”

“This is not app for boyfriend, Hollander. It’s to fuck.”

“I know. I just- how could you even choose? They all start to look the same after a few swipes.”

“Mmm,” Ilya considers. “Then I will choose for you.”

Shane’s brow furrows, “What?”

“I will choose for you,” Ilya repeats. “Someone to fuck.” Ilya is saying it very matter of fact. He knows Shane could be spooked at any moment and Ilya suddenly wants this bad.

Shane is staring at him. “No,” he says slowly. But it’s not his definitive one and even that one can be an invitation sometimes too. Ilya knows from experience.

“Fun game,” Ilya says low, casual. “No work for you. I pick. You show up and have fun night. Back here in an hour or two. No big deal.”

Shane shakes his head a little incredulous. “I’m not gonna go fuck some stranger in St Louis the night before a game.”

“It’s not a real game. It’s All Stars.”

Shane scoffs, “Oh so you’d be fine with losing?”

“Of course not,” Ilya concedes, “but I know for a fact you can fuck before game without losing.”

Shane glowers at him. “What if they recognize me?”

“I will screen them. Make sure they are not hockey fan.”

“But what if they still recognize me?” Shane insists.

“It’s not Montreal, Hollander. You get there, you say oops hockey buddies sent me out here. Crazy prank. Gotta go.”

Shane looks out the hotel window. It’s just the brick wall of another building so Ilya knows he’s thinking, considering it.

“Fine,” he says and Ilya’s heartbeat thumps hard in his chest. “But not until the last night when the game’s done.”

Ilya starts to smile but tamps it down so he doesn’t spook Shane. “Ok, gives me more time to pick anyway.”

Shane gives him a dubious look then glances at his watch. “We should go to the mixer thing.”

Ilya nods, “Ok, I’ll spend more time on your app later” and hands it back to him. He finishes the last chip, crumples the bag in his fist.

Shane isn’t getting up from the chair. “So you want to go first?” he asks.

Ilya has no idea what he’s talking about and it must show on his face.

“You want to leave the room first,” Shane clarifies, “so no one sees us walking down together.”

Ilya’s brow furrows, “Who cares if someone sees us walking down together?”

Shane looks confused, "Because they might figure out we were hanging alone in a hotel room together.”

Ilya mirrors his confused face, “So?”

Shane is staring at him like he’s crazy, “So what if they think we were fucking?”

“But we weren’t fucking.”

“I know that. Obviously. But if they see us walking out of a hotel room together they might think-“

“Who cares what they think, Hollander? We are friends. We are allowed to hang out in hotel rooms together.”

Shane looks furious.

“You’re paranoid,” Ilya continues, “if we’re friends, then let’s be friends. I’m not sneaking around anymore.”

It’s not the least disingenuous thing Ilya’s ever said. He did just arrange to pick Shane’s next hookup. Not the most casual friend behavior. But he’s tired of being treated like a dirty little secret. At least if he can’t have Shane the way he really wants him, he can have this.

Shane relents. “Fine,” he says all huffy and places his room key in his wallet.

They walk down together in silence and he can see Shane all tense. Literally checking over his shoulder like someone might pop out of the fake trees decorating the walkways.

When they reach the big group of hockey players at the hotel bar, Carter Vaughn pops up almost immediately, calling out, “Hey the rivals are making nice!” Ilya suppresses the urge to kill him. He can feel the tension and fear radiating off of Hollander’s stiff body. “Ready to lose this year, Vaughny?” Ilya calls back and walks over to chirp him some more.

Shane doesn’t follow and Ilya notices he keeps his distance for the rest of the mixer.

-
Ilya wakes up late the next day. He had gone out for dinner and drinks with the rest of the single guys who didn’t bring their families. By the time they were leaving the hotel, Hollander had long since fucked off without even so much as a text goodbye. Ilya didn’t get drunk exactly. He had to pace himself for going out with his actual team after the skills competition tonight. But he hadn’t been totally sober when he crashed hard in his hotel king bed last night. No text from Hollander before he lost consciousness.

No text from Hollander now either when it’s getting on to early afternoon. That is fine usually. It’s not like Ilya ever normally woke up to messages from him. Their texting was daily but erratic. But he knew Hollander wasn’t busy. All Star weekend was practically like being on vacation. It’s not like he had fucking practice. So why was he wasting their time together? Probably sulking. Probably Ilya had pushed him too hard on the walking downstairs together thing.

Ilya orders room service, scrolls on his phone. He texts Svetlana a stupid Russian meme about a gorilla and crunches on some toast. Still no word from Hollander.

He stands up, scratches his belly, decides to take a shower. He comes out twenty minutes later, taps the phone screen while his hair drips on his shoulders. Still no word from Hollander.

Fuck. There’s nothing for it but to confront him. Ilya gets dressed quickly and is knocking on Shane’s hotel room door five minutes later.

When Shane opens, he is sweaty and red in the face. Ilya lets himself in.

“What were you doing?” he asks, sitting on the edge of Shane’s neatly made bed.

“Did you text?” Shane asks, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Ilya shakes his head. “I decided to just come over.”

Shane frowns. “Oh,” is all he says and swipes at his eyes where the sweat is coming down.

“What were you doing?” Ilya repeats.

“Just came back from the hotel gym,” Shane says, “Too cold to run outside.”

“Not colder than Montreal,” Ilya points out.

Shane just shrugs. He’s standing awkwardly in the walkway between the bathroom and the bed. Ilya waits.

He’s expecting Shane to tell him off. Some version of I told you so and Carter Vaughn and the word reckless. Instead, Shane says quietly, “Did you even notice Scott Hunter's not here?”

Ilya blinks at him. His turn to shrug. He hadn’t really and he doesn’t want to talk about Shane’s new best friend again.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” Shane asks and his eyes are pointed, meaningful.

“Not really,” Ilya goes for his usual tone of indifference when Hunter comes up, “He sucks.”

“But he won the cup last year,” Shane says hotly.

“The people didn’t want him,” Ilya says simply.

“Yeah that’s part of the problem,” Shane agrees, “But why was he even left up to a fan vote to begin with? Why didn’t he get picked for a league spot like you and me?”

“Because we’re better than him,” Ilya argues.

Shane shakes his head. “That’s not the point. You know that’s not the point. He won the cup and the league should have picked him.”

Ilya sighs. “It’s not such a hardship, ok? The rest of the league gets a real break while we’re doing speed skates for charity. It’s not such a bad deal.”

“But he should be here,” Shane insists, “And you know why he’s not.”

Ilya looks at Shane, studies the tense line of his body, and he feels tired. “It doesn’t mean that’s how they’d treat you.”

“Of course it does.” Shane pauses, takes a long unsteady breath. “And you should care too because it’s how they’d treat you if they knew.”

Ilya feels heat rising in his stomach, “Don’t compare me to Hunter.”

“Don’t do a whole thing about how you’re a better player than him. He’s so old. Whatever.”

“I am a better player than him but that’s not what I was going to say.”

Shane leans a hip against the hotel desk, seems to deflate a little. “What then?”

“Hunter lost All Star Weekend. He lost some fans. Maybe it’s a little awkward in his locker room. Whatever sob story he told you. I would lose a whole country, my family, probably have to become a literal refugee. Ok? So I’m not going to feel that bad for him.”

Shane hangs his head. He’s quiet when he finally does speak. “Just because it’s worse for you doesn’t mean it’s not hard for the rest of us.” He shakes his head, then: “Do you know how many Asian players have ever played for the MLH in its whole existence?”

Ilya shakes his head instead of speaking.

“Less than forty,” Shane answers, “in the whole history of the league. There’s more than that many Russian players on the rosters in one year.” He stops, swallows, “And you know how many of those Asian players have ever made captain?” He doesn’t wait for Ilya to answer: “None before me.”

Shane continues, “So yeah I’m not going to be banished from Canada for coming out but don’t act like it’s so easy. Like you know anything about the pressures of my life. What it would be like to be Asian and-“ he cuts off abruptly, “Nevermind. I need to shower.” He gathers some clothes from his drawers and moves towards the bathroom.

Ilya grabs his wrist as Shane tries to rush past. “I’m sorry,” he says and he waits for Shane to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, shaking Shane’s hand a little.

The faintest trace of a smile appears, could just be Ilya’s imagination it’s so small. “It’s ok,”
Shane says, “Forget it.”

“I won’t forget it. Not the part about you.” Ilya moves his hand down to squeeze Shane’s. Shane doesn’t squeeze back but he doesn’t pull away.

Then Shane says, “I’m going to beat you in the speed competition tonight.”

Ilya’s face cracks into a grin because he knows it means he’s forgiven. “You won’t,” he says confidently.

“I’m fast,” Shane says dangerous and low and really does pull his hand away then.

“You’re not faster than me,” Ilya shakes his head. “Maybe a better shot. Maybe,” he emphasizes for good measure, “but you’re not faster.”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “We’ll see,” he moves to the bathroom and closes the door and Ilya realizes he’s just a little hard from Shane’s competitive streak coming out.

Ilya palms at his crotch just a little but in the end he decides he’s not going to jerk off no matter how fun it is to think about Shane sudsing up naked on the other side of the wall. He searches for the remote to kill time watching tv while Shane is in there. Sat right next to the remote on the nightstand is Shane’s phone. He remembers their little game plan, wonders if Shane will really follow through or if the talk of hardships of coming out has spooked him. It would be so hot to know Shane is somewhere in the city getting fucked by a man that Ilya picks, that Shane would probably be thinking about him while he’s there, a ghost in the bedroom. Maybe Ilya could coax him to share some details when he came back, flushed, embarrassed. A little like phone sex but better. Ilya may really have to jerk off now.

The sound of the shower water stops then and Ilya sits up straighter, adjusting his shorts. When Shane comes out, Ilya lets him warm up again before bringing it up. They talk about the worst All Star gimmicks for splitting up teams, muse on the worst guys to have to play with, the best guys to play with. It rolls into ordering room service and Shane stealing almost a quarter of his fries despite insisting he doesn’t eat them. It rolls into turning on a pretentious foreign film on a paid cable channel and watching Hollander pull out glasses after squinting for long minutes at the subtitles on the screen.

Ilya almost gasps. “You wear glasses,” he breathes.

“Just for reading,” Shane says, distracted, trying to keep up with the fast subtitled dialogue on the screen. He is totally oblivious to the way Ilya’s heart is stuttering in his chest and his dick is twitching in his pants. It’s not just that it’s sexy, though it is for some reason incredibly sexy. It’s the intimacy of knowing this small, mundane thing that he never knew he was missing. He has to look away.

Ilya tries to refocus on the movie. In his defense, English is his second language and the subtitles move incredibly fast and nothing on the screen is quite as interesting as Shane Hollander’s serious face, contemplating mortality or whatever this movie is about, with glasses.

“Let me look at the app,” he says, holding out a hand for the phone.

Shane shushes him, concentrating. “We’re watching a movie.”

“I can do both,” Ilya lies and motions for the phone again.

Shane tears his eyes away from the screen for one second to shoot him a stern, nervous little look. But then he’s unlocking his phone and putting it in Ilya’s hand and quickly saying, “Don’t say anything weird to anyone.”

Ilya spends the better part of an hour sorting through dicks and abs, narrowing it down to four guys. He messages them all. He hears back from three. It’s fun to flirt as Shane, think about the things he knows Shane likes and ask for them directly.

By the time the movie ends, he’s arranged it for the next night, has the address and everything.

“I’ve got the one,” he says as the credits roll.

Shane turns to him, taking off the glasses and Ilya suppresses the absurd urge to tell him to keep them on. “Who is it?”

Ilya shows Shane the screen, “Brandon, 30, grad student at the local university. He likes needy bottoms.”

“I am not a needy bottom!” Shane protests.

“Very needy,” Ilya disagrees.

“That’s so judgmental,” Shane huffs.

“No it’s compliment. Trust me. Needy is very hot. You ache for cock.”

Shane sputters a little, changes the subject. “How do you know he doesn’t know who I am?”

“I asked him about sports. He says -“ Ilya scrolls up on the screen a little bit, “I’m not really into them. They’re so infused with violent, heteropatri-“ Ilya struggles with the word here, “something Google said is bad but I can’t pronounce,” he editorializes then continues: “I’m not really into locker room scenes if that’s your thing.”

Shane looks skeptical. “He sounds like an asshole.”

“But you like assholes.”

“Not ones who think all sports are evil.”

“Hollander, it’s for fucking, not to marry. It’s good he hates sports, remember?” Ilya swipes out of the message thread and pulls up the picture of his dick, “His cock is hot,” Ilya says, “Almost as big as mine.”

“Shut up,” Shane hits him with the back of his hand on his chest. Then a beat: “So tomorrow?”

Ilya nods. “After the game.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Ilya grins. Shane presses the power button on his phone so they’re not staring at a stranger’s dick anymore. “We have to head to the stadium soon,” Shane observes. And he’s right so Ilya does leave then to go to his own room and get his stuff but he realizes he’s reluctant to go, sad to end the day with Shane all to himself.

-
In the end, Ilya does beat Shane by an eighth of a second for the speed skate record and he’s rewarded with the sourest frown on Shane’s face when he peers down the bench. Ilya smiles around his beer when he thinks about it at team drinks later.

-
The All Star game itself is uneventful. Shane's team is favored to win and they do easily. He does win the face off with Shane but he never scores. He boards him once as Shane darts toward his goal and it’s good to have Hollander under him for a moment, grinning at him wickedly under the visor. Later, he sits on the bench and watches Shane watch the game. In three hours he’ll be in a cab to get fucked by a guy Ilya had told exactly how Shane liked to be fucked. Which was almost almost as good as fucking Shane himself.

-
Ilya comes to Shane’s room just before he’s supposed to leave. He’d texted Shane all the information but he wants to see if Shane will actually do it, will go.

Ilya shoulders into the room when Hollander answers, looks Shane up and down and says, “You look hot,” but he undoes one more button on the linen shirt.

“Why?” Shane protests and moves like he’s going to do it back up.

Ilya swats his hand away, “Because you’re going to get fucked. Not going to church.”

And Shane laughs just a little, which is good because Ilya knows he’s nervous. Shane is all wide eyed for a moment, then says “Fuck I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Ilya puts a hand on his shoulder, “You can bail at any time,” he says,” But maybe, just maybe it will actually be fun.”

Shane looks dubious but he takes a deep breath and allows Ilya to guide him toward the door. He only looks back once, hesitant when the door is open between them, Ilya still in the room and Shane out in the hall. “Fuck,” he says softly and then he’s gone.

-
Ilya waits the entire time in Shane’s room. It’s maybe a weird thing to do. He doesn’t even snoop around Shane’s stuff, doesn’t mess up the tidy clothes piles in his drawers. All the things he’d normally do with unfettered access. He just waits, wondering if Shane made it, then wondering if Shane’s enjoying it, then absurdly wondering if Shane is coming back to the hotel at all.

Not that much time has actually passed when Shane does return. But Ilya has been so still and so quiet that the sound of the mechanical lock on the door startles him.

Shane looks the same. Himself. He says, “Oh you’re here,” when he registers Ilya sitting at the head of the bed.

Ilya meets it with bravado. “Of course I’m here.”

Shane bites his lip then toes off his shoes. He sits on the end of the bed so they’re face to face but far apart and stares at Ilya.

“Well?” Ilya finally asks when he can’t take it anymore.

Shane blushes a little and looks away. “It was ok, yeah. He was nice.”

“Nice,” Ilya repeats.

Shane nods, “His field of study is actually pretty interesting. He’s observing this particular kind of beetle that’s-“

“Shane,” Ilya interrupts, “please tell me you actually fucked.”

Shane lets out a shaky laugh. “We fucked.”

“Ok,” Ilya says, encouraging, “So tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Shane asks without looking up and Ilya thinks maybe he’s stalling, playing dumb.

“Tell me what he did to you,” Ilya says low and realizes his mouth has gone dry.

“Oh,” Shane says and Ilya thinks maybe he’s about to refuse or do it shamefaced with his eyes on the floor. But the thing about Hollander- well there are so many things. But one of the things about Hollander is that, just like on the ice, he’s a snake in the grass and if you underestimate him for even one second he can surprise you in devastating ways.

Shane lifts his eyes to stare Ilya dead in the face and says, “He made me start on my knees sucking his cock. He let me hump his leg but told me if I came I wouldn’t get fucked.”

Ilya is locked in. The building could be on fire and he would have no idea because the only things that exist are Shane’s wet, brown eyes and his plump pink mouth conjuring dirty dirty images.

“Then what?” He asks breathless.

Shane doesn’t waver. “He made me take fingers and his cock in my mouth. It was hard. I had to stretch so wide. My mouth was watering.”

“Did he tell you you were good?”

“Yes.”

Ilya swallows. “Did he show you?”

“Yes. When his fingers were all wet, he rolled me over and stuck them in my ass. He played with my ass for so long, added his tongue. I thought I might die.”

“You needed his cock.”

“I needed it. But he kept stretching me, finger fucking me, licking. But I didn’t want to come from that.”

“Did he make you beg?”

“No.”

“Idiot,” Ilya says quiet, sharp.

“He saw me trying to roll my hips into the edge of the mattress. He held me down and made me stop. Then he put his cock in. It was so good to finally have him, to finally have something inside.”

“You love being full.”

Shane nods. “He fucked me for a long time and I was getting so tight but I couldn’t quite-. I brought my hand around to touch myself and he didn’t stop me. When I came, he kept fucking into me. It felt like he was fucking all of the come out of me. And then he pulled out, ripped the condom off, and came all over my ass.”

Ilya is breathing hard, staring unblinking. He licks his lips, “You were so good, Hollander. Such a good boy for him.”

Shane swallows and shudders just a little. He looks like he’s in a trance.

Ilya is achingly hard and distantly aware how dangerous it is to be this turned on in Shane’s presence. His hands twitch from the effort not to grab Shane by the neck and pull him in. It takes every ounce of willpower to say, “I should go.”

Shane finally blinks but doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything at all, his eyes tracking as Ilya rises to leave and walks across the room. Ilya stops at the door and stares back helplessly. “See you soon,” he says and Shane just nods.

In his room, Ilya jerks off frantically, like a fever dream, feeling himself do everything to Shane that that man did and comes in big spurting bursts that won’t seem to stop. When they finally do, he opens his eyes to take in his dark, empty hotel room. He thuds his head back into the headboard and says out loud to no one but himself, “Fuck.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter :)

Come play with me on Tumblr! The greatest minds of our generation are writing really weird porn there.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Quick CW for hockey typical misogyny and a use of the f-slur.

Last Time on Heated Rivalry:
Announcer voiceover talking about the much anticipated All Star Game as Ilya sits in a plane seat, bouncing his knee and reading over his text chain with Jane.
Shot of Ilya sprawled out on Shane's hotel bed, shaking a bag of chips: "I think you want one."
Shane, studiously unpacking his suitcase and not looking at Ilya: “If I wanted a chip I would have a chip.”
Ilya licking the salt off his fingers. “You wouldn’t. You like denying yourself.”
Cut to shot of Ilya reading Shane's phone, laughing as he says: "Hollander, looks like you missed a message from CumDaddy69."
Shot of Ilya and Shane wrestling for the phone on the bed.
Cut to Ilya asking: "How did you hear about this app?"
Shane, looking embarassed, "Kip."
Ilya: "Since when do you hand out with Hunter and his boyfriend?"
Cut to shot of Ilya scrolling through the app, we hear him in voiceover: "I will choose for you. Someone to fuck."
Shot of Shane returning to the hotel room, Ilya waiting for him.
They face each other on the bed and Ilya says: "Tell me."
Cut to Shane, face in a trance, saying: "It was hard. I had to stretch so wide."
Ilya equally entranced: "Did he tell you you were good? Did he show you?"
Shot of Ilya leaving abruptly, cut to Ilya jerking off frantically in his room. He comes and then hits his head back into the headboard, "Fuck."

January 2018- Boston 

When he lands in Boston after the All Star Game, there is no text from Hollander on his phone.  It maybe doesn’t mean anything yet.  They’re both travelling today, both settling back into home before the intensity of the second half of the season.  But Ilya knows Shane and the sinking feeling in his chest feels more like intuition than disappointment.

 

There’s no text the rest of the day either.  Not after Ilya goes on a run.  Not after Ilya finally pulls his overflowing hamper to the laundry room.  Not after Ilya eats reheated dinner in front of the television and refuses to let himself look at the phone for 2 whole hours.  

 

The stupidest part is he was in Shane’s hotel room not 24 hours before and Ilya misses him.  Well, no, that’s not the stupidest part.  The stupidest part is he could get hard if he thought about what it felt like in Shane’s hotel room, knowing Shane was getting fucked by a guy Ilya chose, knowing Shane was coming back to tell him all about it.  He could really get hard if he thought about Hollander’s face while he was telling him how the guy had fucked him, breathing hard, mouth a little open, eyes transfixed on Ilya.  He regrets it, he does, if it means he’s scared Shane off for good.  But his stupid cock can’t stop thinking that it’s hot.

 

He doesn’t jerk off about it.  He twists and turns in his bed, chasing sleep.  His heart nearly beats out of his chest when just after midnight, his phone vibrates on the bedside table.  It’s only Svetlana telling him when she’ll be back in Boston from her west coast industry event.  He puts his phone down and stares up at the ceiling.  It’s a long long time before sleep finally finds him.

 

-

 

The next day is better because, while there is no text from Hollander again that morning, at least he has practice.  Hockey is the best kind of distraction because there is no room for emotion.  You chirp your teammates, skate hard, and you don't have to think about things off of the ice.  It’s actually your job not to.  Ilya had found that so fucking freeing in the weeks after his mom died and he finds it a relief now too.  He wears himself out showing off, taunting his teammates, challenging Marleau to a scoring contest during breaks.  So when he gets home, packs his suitcase for the plane the next day, lays down to bed and sees there is still still no text from Hollander, at least the exhaustion helps him sleep.  

 

-

They win in Florida and the crowd goes fucking wild.  Ilya has never understood why there are so many Boston fans down here but the roar of the crowd buoys him and it’s the best he’s felt in days.  When Connors texts the team group chat about going out, he’s in without hesitation.

 

An hour later, he’s sizing up what Tampa has to offer, smooshed into a bar booth with his teammates.  Connors is talking loud over the music, breath uncomfortably close to Ilya’s face.  “The women in Florida always have neat bushes.  It’s not like the girls up north.  Because they spend half their lives in bathing suits.”

 

Marleau laughs, “So you’re fucking a bunch of full bushes in Boston, is that it?”

 

“I like a full bush,” Ilya shrugs, before Connors can answer and flashes Marleau a wicked grin at the cocked eyebrow he gives him.

 

“Fucking Europeans,” Marleau says, shaking his head and laughing.

 

Ilya is about to mouth off about how neither of them can get laid anyway when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He doesn’t mean to check it. He’s been studiously not checking his phone for the past five days actually but something like muscle memory works before he can stop himself and there, finally, is not 1, not 2, but 3 notifications from Jane. Ilya’s heart pounds and he swipes up quickly to unlock the phone. 

 

It’s screenshots of 2 different profiles from the app. Then just two words.

 

Jane:

[image]

[image]

Which one?

 

Ilya blinks, stares at the screen hard for several long seconds. Snake in the grass and Ilya has been bit.

 

He turns off the screen fast when Connors claps a hand on his shoulder, “Tell him I’m not lying, Rozy.”

 

Ilya takes a sip of his beer to buy a second. “I wasn’t listening to a fucking thing you said,” then addresses Marleau, “but if it’s about his dick size he’s definitely lying.” 

 

“Fuck you,” Connors protests as Marleau hoots and claps. Ilya stands and presses Connors arm so he’ll move and let Ilya out of the booth.

 

“Going for a cigarette,” he says over his shoulder and doesn’t wait for any response.

 

I need more information, he’s typing before he can even get out of the bar.

 

By the time he’s out on the street with a lit cigarette between his fingers, he has an answer.

 

Jane:

What do you want to know?

 

Lily:

Ask them how they will fuck you.

 

That one takes a few minutes. Ilya pulls at the cigarette, staring at his phone. It feels like if he looks away for even a second maybe the messages will stop. Maybe it will have all been a figment of his imagination. 

 

Two more screenshots come through- the message threads with the two prospects. One guy had typed simply whatever you want. The other had given a detailed paragraph that includes spitting in Shane’s mouth and getting his lips wet and ready to be fucked in the face.

 

Lily:

Easy choice. The one who actually knows what he wants from you.

 

Jane:

Ok

 

Ilya stubs out the cigarette and bites on his nail. He has no idea what the fuck is going on. The texts are strangely clinical. Hollander wants him to pick his fucks but is hardly speaking to him.  Is this still hot?  The phone buzzes again.

 

Jane:

If I go missing tonight, don’t tell them what I was really doing. Just let them think it was a random abduction.

 

Lily:

I think it will be a little obvious when they find your body and all your holes have been destroyed.

 

Jane:

Sometimes I really wish you’d never learned English.

 

Ilya bites his lip when it quirks up.. He types out a sentence, deletes it, types it again.

 

Lily: 

Text me after.

 

Shane only thumbs up reacts it and then Ilya knows the conversation really is done.

 

He walks back into the bar and takes his place at the booth in a bit of a fugue state. Hollander is somewhere- where actually? He pulls out his phone and googles the Metros game. Dallas and he’d won. A YouTube clip titled HOLLANDER DEKES AND BURIES A WRISTER has already gotten thousands of views in the last hour. Ilya doesn’t need to watch it. He can conjure the dozens of times he’s seen Shane do that exact move in person on the ice, fast as hell.

 

Hollander is somewhere in Dalls, Texas right now summoning a cab to get fucked by a man who has no idea who he is. Who has no idea of the power Hollander is capable of. And when he has Hollander on his knees, he’ll have no idea how good that really is. And afterwards, Shane will return to a dim hotel room and only think about that man long enough to tell Ilya about him. Because the point of the whole game is Ilya knowing. Ilya is there the whole time even if he’s not really there. But then that means Shane is here too, isn’t he?

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Marleau asks and gestures to Ilya’s bouncing knee, his tell.

 

“I need to get laid,” Ilya answers honestly.

 

Marleau beams and claps him on the back. “My man,” he says.

 

It only takes 5 minutes for them to be buying drinks for a pair of nursing students at a nearby table. 10 for Ilya to have the brunette peeled away from her friend. And 10 more before he asks with the most charming smile he can muster, “what if we went and talked somewhere more private?”

 

He doesn’t specifically think of Hollander while he’s fucking her. But he’s there somewhere buzzing in the back of Ilya’s mind. And after, when he’s got an arm around her, saying “that was fun” he doesn’t hesitate to pick up the phone that had been beside them on her bedside table the entire time the second it vibrates. “Sorry my dad’s sick,” he says by way of excuse.

 

Shane had sent an image. A little dark, blurry on the edges like he hadn’t quite held the camera still long enough. It’s a body shot with Hollander’s head cut off so you could never tell who it was if you weren’t someone who had studied that body intimately in the dark for 9 years. But clearly visible is something wet and glistening on Hollander’s abs.

 

Lily:

Yours or his?

 

Jane:

Both

 

Ilya stares at the response for just a moment. Then he calmly turns off the phone, and turns to his date. 

 

“Everything ok?” she asks, real concern in her eyes.

 

“Yes,” Ilya smiles reassuringly, the image of Shane covered in jizz still burned in his retinas and sending electric shocks down to his cock. “Want to go again?”

 

-

In the cab on the way back to his hotel, Ilya texts him back.

 

Lily:

So you had fun?

 

He thinks good boy Hollander will probably be asleep but he answers only a minute later.

 

Jane:

It was ok.

 

Lily:

Only ok?

 

Jane:

Yea,  good but not like top 10.

 

Lily:

Oh so you have list of top 10 fucks?

 

Jane:

It’s not a literal list

 

Lily:

Is guy from St Louis on it?

 

Jane:

Idk maybe. He’d be on it before this guy.

 

Lily:

Am I on it?

 

Jane:

Shut up 

 

Lily:

Am I the whole list?

 

Jane:

I’m going to sleep now

 

Lily:

You would be on mine. 

 

Jane:

Top 10 of what? 7,000?

 

Lily:

No can’t be more than 3,000 I am not machine

 

Jane:

Goodnight Rozanov

 

Lily:

Goodnight Hollander

 

Ilya can see how stupid his smile looks in the reflection from the dark cab window. He puts a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t have to look at iit anymore.

 

-

Ilya is so fucking relieved to have Hollander talking to him again that he bends his texting rules just a little. He lets himself chat a little longer than he used to. He sometimes does say goodnight if they’re texting late and it’s time for the conversation to end anyway. And yes maybe, texting almost everyday turns into everyday without fail.  

 

It’s boringweir as hell really. They fight about whether or not Shane puts too many greens in his morning smoothie (makes it like sludge Ilya types and sends a gif of Jabba the Hutt). They compete on their run times (how do I know you’re telling the truth if you don’t have a smart watch on? Shane types. You’ll just have to trust me ;) Ilya responds). They send pictures of fucking clouds from plane windows (well Shane does once during a sunset, looks like a dick Ilya types). But it’s the best part of Ilya’s day everyday.

 

-

He actually forgets about the stupid hookup game entirely in the next few weeks.  He’s getting off instead on learning the boring, mundane shape of Shane’s life.  He wakes up at the same time every day even when there’s no morning practice.  He eats the same breakfast.  He does the same run.  He won’t move anything around on his counters if he’s on a winning streak.  He has a pair of lucky socks he only uses for playoffs that aren’t Reebok and he’s scared to tell his mom about.  He reads hockey books for fun.  Shane is weird.

 

Ilya is collecting all these little facts, storing them away like a squirrel preparing for winter.  He kisses other people and thinks, I bet Hollander has strong opinions on toothpaste.  He’s going down on the prettiest pussy he’s ever seen and thinks, I bet Hollander organizes his mail.  So it takes him by surprise when 2 days before they’re supposed to see each other in person again, Shane initiates the game.

 

Ilya’s putting on a sheer shirt to go to whatever pathetic excuse for a club Columbus has to offer, when the text comes through, a screenshot from the app. He has to work to understand for a moment why Shane has only sent one profile.

 

Jane:

[image]

Can I?

 

It makes Ilya’s groin throb and his stomach twist. He’s not asking Ilya to choose this time.  He’s asking for permission. 

 

Ilya’s not sure he likes Shane wanting without needing Ilya to choose, to goad him, to spool it out of him. But he’s still asking for Ilya to be a part of it. He still wants him there, haunting the bedroom, and that’s something.

 

Lily:

Why him?

 

Jane:

He’s funny

Doesn’t know anything about hockey

Wants to make me come more than once

 

Funny.  That has nothing to do with it.  Ilya scrunches his nose and stares at the screen. Something dark and ugly is scraping in his throat.  He swallows it down.

 

Lily:

Ok, tell him he can’t cum until you have twice.

 

Jane: 

Text you after.

 

Ilya turns off the screen and stares at the wall. He shakes his head a little to let it go. “Fucking hurry up, Marley,” he shouts and bangs on the hotel bathroom door.

 

Marleau emerges, “Alright alright, we can’t all be natural beauties like you.”

 

Ilya pockets his phone and resolves not to look at it all night.

 

-

Later, he has his tongue in the mouth of a beautiful Asian woman with sharp bangs. It’s not because of Hollander. She was just the most attractive one in the room. 

 

He’s curling his fingers gently around her throat when the first call comes in. He slips a hand in his back pocket and silences it. He’s mouthing at her earlobe when the second call starts. He silences it again. By the time the third call comes, Ilya is pressing featherlight kisses to the top of her cleavage.

 

“Sorry,” he groans and finally looks at his phone. Fucking Alexei. 

 

“My brother,” he explains quickly to the woman. “I need to get this real quick. Can you stay right here? Please? Right here. I will be right back.”

 

She nods with a small smile. “Hurry up.”

 

He grins at her and presses a quick kiss to her lips. He pulls out his phone and calls Alexei back as he finds the exit and emerges outside into the cold night air. He hugs himself as he listens to the phone ring. He left his jacket inside.

 

Alexei finally answers, “Where the fuck have you been, asshole?” He’s slurring slightly. Drunk, coked out, something.

 

“What the fuck do you want?” Ilya barks back.

 

“He needs new medication.”

 

“Dad does?”

 

“Who else, you fucking idiot?”

 

“Ok so give it to him.”

 

Alexei laughs bitterly. “It’s money Ilya! We need money for it!”

 

“How much?”

 

“10,000.”

 

“For medication?”

 

“Send me the fucking money, you faggot!”

 

Ilya sighs. “What’s it called? What’s it for?”

 

“I’m not a doctor! How the fuck do I know?”

 

“You’re lying. What the fuck are you doing with it all?”

 

“You piece of shit. I’m the one here-“

 

Ilya cuts him off, “You’re fucked up.”

 

“Fuck you, Ilya!”

 

“Call me when you’re sober,” he says and hangs up. 

 

Ilya lets his head fall back against the concrete wall of the club. Alexei tries to call back again but Ilya declines it. He looks down at his phone and sees it, is opening the text thread before he can stop himself. One notification from Jane. An image of Hollander’s back in the mirror. It shows the long curve of his body and stops just before the bend of his ass. On his right hip, unmistakable, is a bite mark.

 

Ilya can feel his face contorting into a sneer. The guy had left a mark on Hollander and he was presenting it to Ilya now like a gift, like it was hot. 

 

Lily:

Bad boy, Hollander.  You’ll have to keep that covered in the locker room.

 

Jane:

I know.  I wanted to stop him but it was kind of hot :)

 

It’s the smiley face that does it. Hollander never uses them and it’s a choice to do it now. Fucking deranged. Ilya sees red.

 

He marches back into the club. His date is where he left her. 

 

Without preamble, he pulls her into a searing kiss. “You like rough?” He asks into her mouth.

 

“How rough?” She asks a little skeptically but she’s panting a little too.

 

“Pulling hair. Fucking hard. You can handle it?” His hand is kneading insistently at her right breast. 

 

A sharp intake of breath. “Yes,” she says.

 

They do it in her car because Ilya can’t wait. It’s not easy to get her on all fours in the backseat but they manage it, slumped over awkward. He fucks hard, fast like he promised. They’re shaking the whole car. Her nails are digging into the backseat. He’s holding her hair in a rough ponytail and gripping her shoulder. When she touches herself, her hips go still and stop fucking back. That’s better. Ilya can feel her tight around him and fucks in impossibly harder. She lets out one high moan and slumps forward. Ilya uses her for just a few more thrusts and bites her shoulder as he comes. They stay connected, sweating and panting for almost a full minute. He stares at the bite mark he left behind.

 

“I should go,” he says gently into her neck and kisses just below her ear. She nods underneath him. It’s an awkward affair getting untangled but they manage and afterwards Ilya walks the three blocks back to the club to see if any of his teammates are still there. He chances a glance at his phone. One notification from Shane over 20 minutes ago.

 

Jane:

Going to sleep now. Have to get on an early plane back home tomorrow so I can beat your ass in 2 days.

 

Ilya sighs. Everytime he thinks he has control over this fucking thing…in the end, he just does what he always does and types back.

 

Lily:

Maybe if you focused less on my ass and more on your backhand you could beat me.

Goodnight, Hollander.

-

March 2018

 

By the time the team lands in Montreal, he feels actually a little nervous to see Shane. He’s over the guy and the bite mark. It was mostly his brother that had pissed him off anyway. His brother who had called him twice already today. Ilya would end up wiring him money, he knew, because he always ended up wiring him money but he didn’t want to think about it right now. What he wanted to think about was what the fuck it would be like to sit on Hollander’s couch and be friends after this app game had come into their lives.

 

Shane wouldn’t want to play in Montreal. Too dangerous. Shane was too recognizable. But would he want to talk about the other hook ups? Would it be ok for Ilya to admit he had gotten off himself after every one? Would talking about it feel like it had at All Stars? Would they have to fuck about it?

 

Ilya lets those questions fuel him instead of tearing him apart. This late in the season, both teams are out for blood and it is fucking fun to watch determined, pissed off Hollander after his snap shot sends a puck right past their goalie. The fact that Hollander scores just moments later off a backhand and gives him a very pointed look only makes it better. 

 

Boston wins by the skin of their teeth and it makes Ilya more confident about seeing Shane even in their nebulous state. Gloating and shit talking he can do.

 

After the locker room, the press, the shuttle back to the hotel, Ilya finally makes it into a cab on the way to Hollander. He pulls out his phone to text Shane.

 

Lily: 

Leaving hotel now. Be there soon.

 

He has 6 fucking missed calls from his brother. Ilya sighs.. He’ll get it over with he supposes so he can have the night free of distractions to hang with Hollander. He won’t actually be able to wire anything until the morning but the promise will at least get Alexei off his back.

 

He presses Alexei’s contact and it only rings once before:

 

“Fucking finally. I’ve been calling you all goddamn day.”

 

“I know. Just tell me how much-“

 

Alexei cuts him off, “He’s dead, Ilya.”

 

Ilya’s heart pounds furiously in his chest. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“Dad’s dead.”

 

He sounds so freakishly normal, Ilya thinks. His own throat feels so tight when he says, “When? How?”

 

“Yesterday morning. We sent him to the hospital. His lips were turning blue. He died there.”

 

“Blue? What do you mean blue?” He feels insanely like it’s Russian that’s his second language. He’s not understanding any of this.

 

“Pneumonia, you idiot. It’s how a lot of them go.”

 

“You didn’t tell me he had fucking pneumonia.”

 

“You don’t answer your fucking phone!”

 

Ilya puts his head in his free hand. “Were you there? Were you with him?”

 

“He was alone.”

 

That punches the air out of him. His father is a bastard- was, he guesses. Was, past tense. A bastard. But dying alone in a hospital room…was he scared? Had he even understood?

 

Alexei is ranting at him now. All the things Ilya will have to arrange and pay for. Threats about getting his sorry ass there as fast as possible. Ilya’s not really listening. 

 

The cab pulls up to the back parking lot of Hollander’s condo. Ilya gets out with the phone still attached to his ear. 

 

“I have to go,” Ilya says as Alexei continues on and on. “I have to go,” he says again when he doesn’t stop. “I’ll be there. I’ll send my flight info. I need to go.” He hangs up, abruptly cutting off a string of colorful expletives from his brother.

 

The silence rings in his ears. His brain is not working right. He’s just standing there. He needs to go home. So that means he needs to go back to the hotel. So he needs the cab. Again. That just drove away. 

 

He fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette. Only one, a little bunched up and lint-y but it will do. He takes one long inhale and as his finger taps the end to break off the ash, it drops into the snow. 

 

“Blyat,” he curses and crouches so fucking undignified right next to the pile of snow. He pulls out the soggy thing and presses it to his lips. It’s too late. It’s soaked through. Ilya knows that but he tries to light it again, pull at it a little more. “Fuck,” he says in English this time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck” a little louder each time until the last one is a real yell. He stands up and kicks Hollander’s door. Then a word occurs to him for what he is that he only knows in Russian. He types it into Google to get the English translation: orphan.

 

At that moment, Hollander slams open the back door. Ilya has to jump back a little to avoid being hit.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He spits, “Get in here!”

 

Ilya looks at Hollander holding open the door and obeys. Hollander closes the door behind them and immediately stomps angrily up the steps, throwing an angry monologue over his shoulder. “Have you lost your mind? Screaming and pounding on the door? So all my neighbors can hear? So someone can see us? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

Ilya lets him get it out, lets him lecture Ilya on discretion and good judgment. Lets him be angry. Ilya is angry too, somewhere. 

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Shane is saying now in a different tone when they’re standing in the entryway. “You’re not fighting back.”

 

“Oh,” Ilya says apologetically. “My dad just died.” And embarrassingly two hot tears roll out of each of his eyes.

 

Shane’s face drops so fast it’s almost comical. “What?” And then he’s on Ilya, hugging him hard. “Oh my god you let me yell at you. I’m so sorry. Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

 

Ilya’s not sure if he’s sorry for the yelling or his dad being dead. He doesn’t ask. He clings to Hollander. 

 

Shane pulls back a little and wipes the tears off Ilya’s cheek with a sleeve pulled over his hand. “You just found out?”

 

Ilya nods. His mouth feels too gummy to speak.

 

Shane is looking at him with so much concern it’s almost overwhelming. His hands are holding Ilya’s face. “What can I do?” He asks, “how can I help?”

 

Ilya shrugs and gives a little humorless smile. “I don’t think you can. I need to go back to Russia right away.”

 

Shane is searching his face. It’s disarming. Ilya wants to look away but Shane is still holding him firmly, fingers splayed around his ears. “Okay,” he says nodding to himself, “let’s get you a flight then.”

 

Shane takes him by the hand and leads him to the couch. It feels like they’re walking underwater. Shane presses his shoulders gently down so he’ll sit. Ilya’s brain is not right and he knows it because it’s like the world is buffering and the scene is skipping ahead just slightly without him noticing. A glass of water appears in his hand. His coat is off. Shane’s laptop is suddenly open on the coffee table in front of them.

 

“No flights left tonight, obviously,” Shane is saying. “Some tomorrow morning. I can- I’ll just pick the one that gets you there soonest ok?”

 

Ilya nods. He sips the water. Dying from pneumonia- did that feel like drowning?

 

“I just,” Shane starts and pushes the laptop to face Ilya more, “I just need your email here. If you can type it. I don’t actually know it.”

 

Ilya types it in the little box, double checks it because his fingers feel strange and distant from his body. Almost 8 months since he’d seen his father. Had his father thought of him at all in that time? Had he been capable of it?

 

“Ok,” Shane has the laptop back. “The flight confirmation should be in your email now. Do you want to just check it?”

 

Ilya looks at him blankly.

 

“On your phone,” Shane says gently, “Make sure the email went through.”

 

Ilya pulls out his phone and Shane peeks over his shoulder at the notification. “Ok good. I just booked one way. I figured you’d want to decide later how long you stay.”

 

“You booked the flight?” Ilya is catching up.

 

“Yes,” Shane says and he’s checking something else on the laptop.

 

“You need my credit card,” Ilya says and reaches for his wallet.

 

Shane touches his arm, “No it’s ok.”

 

Ilya blinks at him.

 

“I made a list,” Shane continues, “some things we need to do before you get on the plane. We’ll just take them one by one.”

 

“Ok,” Ilya agrees. 

 

“First, you need to call your coach and let him know. Do you think you can…do you feel ok to do that?”

 

“Ok,” Ilya looks down at the phone still in his hand. He takes a second to think about the English words, then taps his coach’s contact.

 

Ilya talks to him with his eyes closed. He’s not exactly sure why. Holding the tears in or easier to concentrate or he’s just suddenly exhausted. Shane keeps a hand on his back the whole time.

 

Coach is nice. He says the right things. Tells him to take his time, be in touch. He ends the call with, “We’re all here for you, son.” And Ilya tries not to think too much about that phrasing.

 

Shane’s hand on his back starts to rub in soothing circles. Ilya opens his eyes. They look at each other for a long moment.

 

Then Shane says quietly, “Can I take you to the airport tomorrow? So you don’t have to do a car service or something? You could stay here.”

 

Ilya stares at him. Then touches Shane’s cheek lightly with the back of his knuckles, right where the freckles are. He nods, “I want to stay.”

 

Shane nods too. “We have to get your stuff then. Your passport.”

 

“Oh,” Ilya says. He’s still looking at the freckles. The spot where his hand had just been.

 

“Who were you rooming with? At the hotel?”

 

“Marleau,” Ilya says and the thought of seeing him right now makes Ilya’s insides clench.

 

“Maybe you could text him? Ask him to bring your stuff to the front desk?”

 

Ilya sighs, picks the phone back up. “What do I say?” Ilya asks pathetically.

 

“I can- if you want I can type it and you just change it however.”

 

Ilya hands over the phone. The message Shane types out is short, clear, professional. Nothing like how Ilya would actually text Marleau. Ilya doesn’t give a shit, hits send.

 

“He’s probably with a girl,” Ilya realizes after they sit in silence for a few minutes. 

 

“Right,” Shane says, “well he has to come up for air eventually.”

 

Ilya’s lips quirk at the seriousness in Shane’s tone but he’s too tired to full on laugh. Shane gives back a small smile, reaches to hold his hand. 

 

Ilya stares at their clasped hands. Everything is getting muddled in his brain. Shane. His dead dad. His dead mom. Going back to Russia with his horrible brother and facing it all. Russia the one place that Ilya had ever turned Shane away. It was such a long flight. He’d never see his dad again.

 

His phone chimes and Ilya looks down. 

 

“Marleau?” Shane asks hopefully.

 

An instagram message from Svetlana. “Oh shit,” Ilya says out loud. “I have to call Svetlana.”

 

Something strange passes over Shane’s eyes but Ilya has no way to understand it right now. He touches her contact on his phone and closes his eyes again. He would need her at the funeral if he was ever going to get through this.

 

“He’s dead,” Ilya says simply when she picks up. And it’s something about saying it in Russian for the first time that chokes him up. Shane has a hand on his neck immediately. Svetlana doesn’t ask a lot of questions. “I’ll come with you,” she says over and over again, “Of course I’ll come.”

 

“I need you,” he says back again and again, “I need you there.”

 

“I’m coming to your house now,” she says. 

 

His brain stutters. “No, I'm in Montreal. We played a game,” as if it just occurred to him too.

 

“Oh, then I’ll meet you in Moscow. Tell me your flight details. Maybe I can get one that connects in the same place, arrive together.”

 

“My flight details,” Ilya repeats looking at Shane who is looking back blankly. Ilya remembers Shane doesn’t speak Russian. “My flight details,” he repeats in English. 

 

Shane whispers something. At the same time, Svetlana in his ear is saying, “Who are you talking to? Are you talking to me in English?”

 

Ilya shakes his head at Shane. Shane points at his phone, “your email,” he says a bit louder but Svetlana in his ear is asking for him, “Ilya who is that? Where did you go?”

 

Ilya pulls the phone away from his ear, overstimulated. “Can you-“ he asks, holding the phone towards Shane. 

 

Shane’s eyes go wide but he does take it. “Uh, hello?” He says.

 

Ilya can’t hear what Svetlana is saying, just the sound of her voice. 

 

“This is Shane.” Then a beat where Svetlana must ask “Shane who?” And Shane stares at Ilya as he says, “Uh, Hollander. Shane Hollander.”

 

Ilya realizes the mistake too late. Svetlana will have so many questions. Something he’ll have to deal with later. He puts his head in his hands and zones it all out as Shane presumably gives Svetlana the information. He wonders absurdly if Alexei was lying, maybe this was all some weird ruse to get more money.  He can’t really have two dead parents.  He’s only 26.

 

Shane interrupts his thoughts with a hand in his hair and puts the phone in Ilya’s lap. “She said she’ll text you her flight info.  And she loves you.”

 

Ilya nods, doesn’t open his eyes. Shane is running fingers through Ilya’s hair now. He’s guided Ilya somehow to lay his head on his chest. Ilya blinks his eyes open when the phone chimes. Svetlana with her flight info.

 

“Still no Marleau?” Shane asks.

 

“No.”

 

“Hmm,” Shane’s fingers slow in his hair, “Maybe I should just go get your stuff. If Marleau’s out anyway. It’s getting late. I want you to try to sleep.”

 

“I can go,” Ilya says with a sigh.

 

“Why don’t you just come for the car ride,” Shane suggests,” so you’re not alone here. Unless you want to be.”

 

He really doesn’t and he shakes his head to let Shane know. Shane nods his understanding and holds Ilya’s coat out for him. He must go to fetch his own, maybe his keys. He’s back guiding Ilya with a hand to his wrist out the front door. Ilya’s never even seen the front entrance. They’re getting in Shane’s car. Some weird practical SUV. And normally Ilya would be so fucking delighted by these things and instead he’s sad because he’s there but his brain is with his dead dad and he’s missing it.

 

Shane puts on weird lilting French music and Ilya closes his eyes, tries not to let it scramble his brain. When they get to the hotel, Shane puts a ball cap on low over his eyes like he’s a fucking burglar. He asks Ilya for his room card and number and Ilya is too tired to make fun of the hat so he doesn’t. 

 

It feels like a long time Shane is gone. He maybe dozes off in the way where his thoughts get caught on nonsensical loops.  He’s thinking about how limp his mom’s hand was. The first thing he’d noticed when he found her. He’d never see his dad’s dead body like that. At the funeral, yes, but all prettied up and fake. No blue lips. He wouldn’t really know. It takes a moment to remember what's going on when Shane opens the back door and places a suitcase inside.

 

He returns to the front seat and says, “Your passport is in the front zipper. I checked.” Then, “Good thing you never unpack I guess.”

 

Ilya gives a small smile because Shane is looking. Shane puts the car in gear and drives. After a minute he says, “I guess I should mention Marleau was there.”

 

“Oh?” Ilya says because he can tell there’s more.

 

“He and the girl were pretty much done so that’s good.”

 

Ilya does give his first genuine laugh. “You walked in on Marleau.”

 

Shane takes his eyes off the road to look at him for a second. “I mean, I didn’t see anything. It was dark.”

 

“Oh my god,” Ilya says and shakes his head.

 

“He was nice actually when I told him. Helped me make sure I had all your stuff. But…yeah he might have some questions about why I was there.”

 

“You said you told him. About my dad, right?”

 

“No, I mean,” Shane clarifies, “questions about why I was there getting your stuff. Shane Hollander. Your biggest rival.”

 

“Oh,” Ilya says, “I don’t care.” And Shane doesn’t  push it.

 

When they get back to the condo, Shane carries Ilya’s suitcase up the winding staircase to Shane’s room. He gestures to the en suite bathroom and says, “Why don’t you get ready for bed?”

 

Ilya brushes his teeth and tries not to look in the mirror. It’s jarring to see himself for some reason, this weird genetic mashup of two dead people. He strips down to boxers because that’s what he always sleeps in.

 

When he steps out of the bathroom, Shane is waiting with a neatly folded pile of clothes with shoes on top. “Here,” he says, handing it over, “Put it in your suitcase.”

 

“What is it?” Ilya asks but does as he’s told.

 

“Black shirt, black pants, and some shoes. For the funeral. I think we’re about the same size.”

 

“I can buy that stuff when I get there.”

 

“This way you don’t have to,” Shane says shrugging and walks past to take his own turn in the bathroom.

 

Ilya gets under the covers and sits awkwardly at the head of Shane’s bed. He’s aware that this is probably the only circumstance under which Shane would invite him back into his bed. If he even was. Maybe Shane had only meant to come to this room for the clothes. But Ilya wants to be here. The thought of being sent to some unused guest room to sleep alone is unbearably lonely. 

 

Shane comes out also just in boxers and turns off the light. He climbs into the bed next to Ilya and mirrors his pose sitting up, “I set an alarm so we’ll have plenty of time to make your flight. Just try to sleep.” He pats Ilya’s leg tentatively, then lays down flat on his back. Ilya lays down next to him. Shane intertwines their fingers just slightly, almost not there. Ilya stays awake, blinking in the darkness, a weird mix of lust and grief sloshing in his stomach. He stays very still and thinks, I’ll never fall asleep.

 

And then he must fall asleep because he wakes up sometime later to Shane’s arm around his waist and Shane breathing heavily into the skin just underneath Ilya’s armpit. He watches Shane’s chest rise and fall in the darkness, thanking god, the universe, something for every breath. 

 

When he wakes up again, it’s still dark but Shane is nudging him gently, saying it’s time to get up. He’s confused for a moment, blinking at the red numbers of Shane’s alarm clock. “Is my dad still dead?” He mutters stupidly. Shane turns on a bedside lamp so Ilya can see he’s looking at him with the saddest face in the world when he answers, “yes” and pushes a strand of hair behind Ilya’s ear.

 

It doesn’t take long to get dressed and ready. Shane makes them double check the passport, Ilya’s wallet, the boarding pass on his phone. He places a cup of something green in Ilya’s hand. “A smoothie,” he mutters, “just so you have something in your stomach.” When had Shane even made this? Ilya doesn’t ask. He’s too tired to make a joke about the sludgy greens.

 

In the car on the way to the airport, the dread starts to set in. He has to go back, of course he does. You don’t miss your own father’s funeral. Shane drives stupidly slow and responsible. It puts Ilya on edge. He wants to grab the wheel.

 

When they finally make it to international departures, Ilya puts his half drunk smoothie in the cup holder and looks at Shane seriously. “Thank you. For everything.”

 

Shane’s brow furrows and his deep brown eyes go wet. “Of course.”

 

They look at each other. It feels hard to say goodbye.

 

Then Ilya reaches a hand behind Shane’s head and pulls him in. The kiss is quick- just a press of closed mouths, 2 maybe 3 seconds, and a small smack as they part. 

 

Ilya lowers his hand, sits back. Shane’s face is all concern. “Text me when you get there? So I know you made it ok?” 

 

Ilya nods, forces himself to open the door and climb out. He lets himself meet Shane’s eyes one more time as he pulls the suitcase from the backseat. The intensity of Shane’s gaze almost hurts but it feels like an anchor. One single tear rolls down Shane’s cheek and Ilya really has to turn away then but it costs a lot. He wheels his suitcase towards the airport entrance, steeling himself against icy dread. By the time he reaches the doors and lets himself turn back around to look, Shane has the wheel jammed hard to the left, already pulling away. 

Chapter End Notes

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Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Last time on Heated Rivalry:
Shot of Ilya's phone. Screenshots from Jane of two profiles from the hookup app and underneath the text: "which one?"
Shot of llya in bed with a woman, picks up his phone as soon as it vibrates. Photo from Jane- it's a photo of Shane's stomach covered in cum. Ilya turns to the woman: "Want to go again?"
Shot of Ilya outside a bar arguing with his brother. Hangs up on him and there is a message from Jane: a photo of Shane's back and hip with a bite mark.
Shot of Ilya fucking a woman in her car, staring at a bite mark he left on her shoulder.
Shot of Ilya in a cab, on the phone with his brother. Voiceover of Alexei as Ilya's face falls: "He's dead."
Shot of Ilya in Shane's condo as Shane is holding him: "I'm so sorry, Ilya, I'm so sorry."
Shot of Ilya talking on the phone, we hear Svetlana's voice indistinct. Ilya flustered, hands the phone to Shane: "Can you-?"
Shot of Ilya in Shane's car as Shane returns with a ballcap on. "I got your stuff"- then cut to "Marleau was nice but he might have some questions about why I was there."
Shot of Ilya and Shane in bed, stiffly lying next to one another with fingers just slightly intertwined, transition to Ilya waking up in the middle of the night staring at sleeping Shane who has an arm around Ilya.
Shot of Ilya and Shane at the airport in Shane's car. Voiceover of Ilya: "Thank you for everything" and Shane's "Of course" as they share a brief kiss."
Shot of Ilya looking back at Shane's retreating car as he reaches the airport doors.

March 2018- Moscow

The funeral is as bad as he expects.  His stepmother, breaking into random dramatic tears and muttering about how she will have to move in with her nephew every time she is within earshot of Ilya.  His father’s old police friends, looking down their noses at him, “So you’re the hockey son…”  Alexei’s wife, shushing his niece and pulling her hands away from the food in between monologuing to him about responsibility to family and not to forget them; then suddenly with comic timing asking if he’s seen Alexei.  

 

Ilya is numb.  The only thing that registers is the feel of the too small shoes on his feet. The ones Shane had lent him. The ones that almost fit but are rubbing a callous into his left ankle. He’s head to toe in clothing Shane has lent him. He wishes they smelled like him but all he gets is the incense burning on the mantel place. 

 

Svetlana, hovering nearby, touches his elbow, guides him away from the din. “You want to leave?” she asks quietly.  He nods.  

 

They find Alexei on the way out, unintentionally.  He’s staring at the smattering of family photos hanging near the entrance.  “Selfish bitch just left us with him, huh?” he says by way of acknowledgment.  And Ilya would have punched him but it takes too long to register he’s talking about their mother and by then he’s already gone. Ilya contemplates for a moment the kind of hurt that Alexei’s statement implies but his stomach turns trying to see the world through his brother’s eyes and he shakes the thoughts away.

 

Svetlana takes him back to his apartment.  He kisses her as soon as they’re in the door.  “Ilya,” she says softly and presses him away.

 

“Please,” he says, pressing their foreheads together.  She never fucks him in Russia.  And when he really thinks about it they haven’t fucked in months.  Maybe a year.  But she hears what he’s saying without saying it, what he needs to feel and she lets him.

 

It goes fast but he stops to fold Shane’s clothes. It makes him a little hysterical so he kisses Svetlana again, hard, before he can cry or giggle or scream.

 

Once he’s inside of her, he doesn’t have to think.  And it is so good.  So good to be only this.  A cock inside pulsing.  Mindless.

 

Afterwards, he lights up a cigarette and she doesn’t complain.  He looks at his phone for the first time in hours.  One notification from Shane.

 

Jane:

Hey. U doing ok?

 

Ilya puts it down quickly.  He doesn’t want to think about Shane.  He’s always thinking about Shane.  But he wants to keep Shane and this place so so separate, an unbridgeable chasm.  

 

-

He flies back to Boston after less than a week.  He sits next to Svetlana on the plane and she holds his hand when he stares out of the window in silence for too long.

 

-

When he’s at his house, sniffing a package of cheese, his only hope for food left in his house that hasn’t gone bad, he does finally text Shane, short, just to say he’s back.  He knows Shane will be at practice.  He knows he won’t hear from him for a long time.  His house is too quiet.  

 

Three hours later, he must have dozed off in his bed in the middle of a pile of laundry.  His phone is ringing.  He’s so used to it he thinks it must be his dad before the world reconstitutes itself in his brain.  But actually it’s Shane.

 

“Hello?” he asks clearing his throat.

 

“Hi,” Shane’s embarrassed eager little voice, “Is this a good time?”

 

“For what?” Ilya rubs his eyes.

 

“Just checking on you.”

 

“You can text. I know you know how to do this.”  Ilya sits up.  

 

“If I texted, you would just say you’re fine.  If I hear your voice, I might actually know how you are.”

 

Ilya’s lip quirks but he doesn’t smile, “And?  So how am I?”

 

“You sound like shit,” Shane sighs.

 

“I just woke up,” Ilya defends himself.

 

“Why did you come back so soon?”

 

“Don’t want you to catch up to me in the scoring race.”

 

He doesn’t take the bait.  “You should have taken more time.”

 

Ilya rummages a hand around in his bedside drawer for a cigarette.  “I didn’t want to.  I want to make the playoffs.”

 

“Rozanov,” Shane warns.

 

“I’m serious.  I want another cup,”

 

“That’s never going to happen.  Not as long as I’m on the ice.”  Shane finally plays.

 

“Oh were you out the year I got the cup before you?”

 

“Just a fluke.  I was still getting the team together.”

 

Quiet while Ilya flicks the lighter.

 

“Don’t smoke,” Shane says quietly.

 

“Mind your business,” Ilya shoots back.

 

“You are my business unfortunately.”

 

A shiver runs up Ilya’s spine and he takes a long drag of the cigarette.

 

“Are you, though?” Shane asks after a pause long enough that Ilya would have wondered if they’d been disconnected if he hadn’t been able to hear Shane breathing softly down the line. “Are you ok?”

 

Ilya sighs.  “I don’t know.”

 

“Ok,” Shane says.  Then, “I’ll keep checking on you.  You don’t have to answer but I’m going to keep calling.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“I have to go,” Shane says then, “we’re actually just on break but…we’ll talk soon, ok?”

 

“Sure, Hollander.”

 

Then they say goodbye and his house is quiet again.  Ilya sits on his bed staring at the wall for a long time after.

 

-

In the locker room the next day, the guys are kind but uncomfortable around him, muttering condolences and then moving on as fast as possible. Ilya’s glad for it. He’s psyching himself up to be the Rozanov he needs to be on the ice. The Rozanov who wasn’t looking at his father’s dead body in an open casket 4 days ago.

 

Marleau claps a hand on his back, “Sorry about your dad, man.”

 

Ilya grunts, continues putting on his pads. He realizes Marleau is still looking at him. “What?” He growls.

 

“So you and Hollander,” he starts.

 

Ilya glares. “There’s nothing to say about me and Hollander.”

 

Marleau shrugs a little, pulls his jersey over his head. “No, I mean it was nice he came and got your stuff.  Weird but nice.” 

 

Ilya busies himself with his gear.

 

“He’s a little uptight,” Marleau continues, casual.

 

“Mmm,” Ilya says, noncommittal. He’s not making eye contact.

 

“The night he came in, I had this girl on my bed. Best fucking tits you’ve ever seen. And he’s like stammering, looking anywhere else. It was kind of funny.”

 

“Hilarious,” Ilya drawls.

 

“Yeah,” Marleau says and picks up his helmet. His voice gets a little quieter. “It’s just I swear before you went out that night you said you were going out to get laid. And then there’s Hollander in our room.”

 

Ilya swallows. “You remember wrong.”

 

Marleau considers him a minute, then puts the helmet he’s been holding on his head. “Yeah, must have.” Then before he walks off: “Anyway, good to have you back, man.”

 

Ilya stares into his locker for a moment. He resists the urge to pull out his phone. 

 

“Listen up motherfuckers,” he turns to the locker room shouting. “I want to fucking win tonight.”

 

April 2018

 

The season goes on. Ilya is playing good, not great. True to his word, Shane does call everyday.  And Ilya picks up everyday.  Or calls back if he can’t.  Ilya starts calling Shane too, just sometimes.  Not more than Shane calls him.

 

It’s getting maybe a little too natural, a little too automatic though.  He’ll find himself just dialing Shane against his will.  His fingers seem to find the contact on their own.

 

Ilya is still fucking empty inside about his dead dad. Dead mom. Moronic brother who is mean and panicking in his voicemail. But Shane lets him shit talk, call him boring, annoying, whatever he’s eating ‘bird food.’ Shane murmurs sleepily about obscure hockey stats and lets Ilya laugh at him with the phone tucked up to his pillow. And once, when Shane was in a hotel room in DC, he let Ilya convince him to turn the tv on to the same channel so they could watch the end of the same bad rom com together. Shane isn’t healing him exactly but the moments with his voice in Ilya’s ear are the only time Ilya really feels anything off the ice.

-

May 2018- Boston

The Raiders do make the playoffs because Ilya is a good fucking captain no matter what’s going on in his personal life.They get knocked out early because he’a not a fucking miracle worker. 

 

Svetlana comes over two days later and lays a head on his shoulder.  “We have to talk,” she says.  Ilya groans.

 

“Don’t start,” she warns, “I was very good.  I waited until after the funeral and after the season.”  She pulls away from his shoulder to look at him, reprimanding.

 

“What?” he asks.  

 

She takes a deep breath.  “Shane,” she says, “rhymes with Jane doesn’t it?”

 

Ilya is not exactly surprised that she’s pieced it together. He handed Shane his phone and made them talk to each other after all.  But he’d sort of hoped maybe she’d let it slide since his dad had died and all.

 

“Svetlana,” he says with an edge in his voice.

 

“We’re talking about it,” she says definitively.

 

He sighs dramatically.  “It’s not a big deal.”

 

Svetlana’s eyes narrow.  “Am I your best friend?”

 

“Svetlana-”

 

“Am I your best friend?” she insists.

 

“Yes,” he sighs again.

 

“Then why do you never talk to me about men?”

 

“It wasn’t just my secret-”

 

“Not just about Hollander.  You never talk to me about men.”

 

“Talk about what?  You know.”  Ilya crosses his hands over his chest.

 

“But not because you’ve told me.  You sneak off with Sasha.  You do whatever you’re doing with Shane Hollander apparently.  Which we’ll get back to. Probably others but I wouldn’t know.  Why?”

 

“Because it’s-” Ilya starts, “There’s nothing to say.”

 

“Ilya,” Svetlana is looking at him with the disdain only someone who has known him since he had braces can get away with.  

 

He runs a hand through his hair.  He wants to run.  “What do you want to know?”

 

“I want to know why we’ve never talked about it.  You don’t trust me?  You think I will judge you?”

 

“It’s just not a big deal.  I-”  he pauses and almost doesn’t say it but then, “I fuck men, yes, sometimes I fuck men.  I fuck women too.  More than I fuck men.”

 

“So you are,” she switches to English for the word, “Bisexual.”

 

Ilya blinks.  He’s genuinely never thought about it.  “I- I don’t know.  I guess.  Probably.  I don’t, like, have a word for it.”

 

“It just means you like both.”

 

“I know what it means,” he barks.

 

Svetlana glares at him.  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

 

“Sorry,” Ilya sighs, the fight draining out of him.

 

“I’m not one of your hockey teammates, ok? I don’t care if you fuck men. If anything, it makes you more interesting.”

 

Ilya’s eyebrows raise at that. “More interesting?”

 

“Yes. Gives us something else to talk about besides hockey.”

 

Ilya scoffs, “You’re the one who always wants to talk about hockey!”

 

“Yes, I mean, I love you Ilya but you’re a jock. What else am I supposed to talk to you about? Dostoyevsky?”

 

“Fuck you. You sell sports cars and spend half your life in clubs. Like you’re some intellectual.” He shakes his head. 

 

Svetlana laughs and puts her head back on his arm. “Well now we can talk about boys too.”

 

Ilya unclenches a little, pats her hair. 

 

“Also i’m very offended you and Sasha never invited me to join,” she says with a wave of her finger and a coquettish little bat of her eyelashes.

 

Ilya laughs, then it occurs to him suddenly, “You and Sasha never…”

 

“No,” she admits. “Not a stupid enough jock for me I guess.” She pokes Ilya in the ribs and he smacks her hand away playfully.

 

“So…” she prompts after a moment of comfortable silence.

 

“So what?”

 

“Shane Hollander.”

 

Ilya rolls his eyes.  “Nothing is going on with Shane Hollander anymore.”

 

“Anymore…” she repeats.

 

“We- yes we were,” he starts, “Fucking for awhile.  But we stopped that.  We’re just friends now.”

 

“Why did you stop fucking?”

 

Ilya shrugs.  “It wasn’t a good idea. Very…stupid and irresponsible.”

 

Svetlana sits up and gapes at him. “You stopped doing something because it was stupid and irresponsible?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya nods.

 

Svetlana levels him with the most exasperated look he’s ever seen. “So he stopped it.”

 

“No!” Ilya protests, “it was mutual. He was the one who wanted to be friends though. Practically begged. Very needy. I was ready to be done with him entirely. But I took pity so…”

 

Svetlana nods. “Ah, ok, so basically you were in love with him and he told you it would never work and you’ve accepted friendship as some kind of consolation prize.”

 

Ilya glares. “Fuck you.”

 

Svetlana laughs as he shoves her a little. She touches his arm then and levels him with a serious look. “Did he break your heart though?”

 

Ilya’s mouth works a moment without much intelligible coming out. “My heart? There’s, 

I mean-“

 

“I can have him killed,” Svetlana offers. “My dad probably knows people.”

 

Ilya rolls his eyes at her. “No Bratva calls necessary. He didn’t break my heart. There was nothing to break.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Nothing,” he rubs his face. “It just means more than sex was never possible anyway so it doesn’t matter. It’s better to be friends. Cleaner.”

 

She studies his face. “You know, your father was an asshole to you. I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead but he was truly fucking horrible. Even as Russian parents go.” She gives him a wry smile when he turns to her a little surprised. “And I always worried how much you seemed to believe what he said to you.”

 

“What does that have to do with Hollander?”

 

“I don’t think Shane Hollander is a good idea for you at all. I’m sorry to say it. But I have a feeling your hockey career had nothing to do with why you stopped sleeping with him.”

 

“I don’t know what the fuck that means.”

 

“It means I saw your dumb lovesick little face everytime ‘Jane’ texted you. And fuck you very much by the way for all the times you literally didn’t wait for me to finish a sentence before picking up your phone to see what he sent.” She points an accusatory finger in his chest and he swats it away. 

 

She continues: “But I think your dad’s voice is always in your head somewhere making you feel like a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve happiness. And you have to fix that so when someone who isn’t a totally irresponsible choice comes along, you can actually be ready for them.”

 

Ilya blinks at her. “You think that’s why I didn’t make it work with Hollander or why I’ve never made it work with you?”

 

She smiles slowly. “No- with me that voice in your head is actually right. I am too good for you.”

 

Ilya growls and wraps an arm around her neck. He pulls her head down to tousle her hair roughly with his knuckles. She screams through laughter, wriggling out of his grasp and shoves him. She scuttles to safety on the opposite side of the couch and kicks his shin. “Are you fucking crazy? You know not to touch my hair.”

 

“Looks better,” he says, sticking a tongue out. She rolls her eyes and does her best to pat down the hair.

 

When they’ve had a chance to catch their breath, she nudges him with her toes. “One more thing about Hollander,” she says.

 

He throws his head over the armrest dramatically and groans.

 

“Shut up,” she laughs. Then: “Was the sex so good though?”

 

He grins at her. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

Svetlana sighs dreamily, “It had to be. Those hands.”

 

“Mmm yes the hands were nice but the mouth…” he raises his eyebrows.

 

Svetlana’s eyes go wide. “Fuck Sasha. That’s the threesome I really want you to invite me to.”

 

-

The next day, Ilya holds the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he packs.

 

“Will it be weird,” Shane asks, “to be there for the first time without being able to see your dad?”

 

“Is not the first time. I was just there for his funeral.”

 

“No, I know but like a normal visit where he won’t be there.”

 

Ilya considers. “Not weird. Weirder it will be my last time.”

 

“Your last time?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya shoves his laptop in a backpack, “I am there to settle my father’s…I don’t know the word. Like accounts and legal things. And then I’m not going back.”

 

“Oh,” Shane says quietly. “You won’t- there’s nothing you’ll miss from there?”

 

“No,” Ilya says honestly, then reconsiders, “just my mom. Her memory lives there but it’s not enough reason to keep going back.”

 

“Ilya-” Shane starts.

 

Ilya cuts him off, doesn’t want to hear what he was going to say. “What will you do this summer? No big training camp?”

 

Shane lets him change the subject. “Uh, Hunter invited me to one, yeah. I might go.”

 

Ilya scoffs.

 

“You can’t react like that every time I say his name.”

 

“How can you be friends with him? Is like charity thing? Spend time with senior citizens?”

 

“Shut up. He’s a good guy.”

 

“He just wants to fuck you.”

 

Shane lets out a startled noise. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You are such a child.”

 

“Just wait until you are at the camp.” He impersonates Hunter: “Your form’s not right there, Hollander. Let me just come up from behind and-“

 

“You have an overactive imagination.”

 

“Oh yes?”

 

“Yes, actually that’s some shit you would pull.”

 

“I never had to be so obvious. You were easy.”

 

Shane laughs, “You started jerking off at me in a shower!”

 

Ilya laughs too, “Was very subtle. Suave.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Mmm,” Ilya says disbelievingly. “It worked, didn’t it?” He sits on his suitcase to help it zip.

 

Shane clears his throat. “Will you be in Moscow the whole break then?”

 

“Not sure. I want to be there as short as possible but I don’t know how long all these things take. A week, maybe two? I will just come back to Boston when I can.”

 

“Will you be- I mean, do some of your teammates stick around during the summer?”

 

“Mmm, some, not my favorite ones. But I will survive. I can always find some trouble to get into.”

 

“I believe it,” Shane says.A pause, then: “It’s just, like- I mean, nevermind you might just be in Russia the whole time anyway.”

 

“Nevermind what?” 

 

“Well, I was just going to say if you were lonely or something, we could-“ he stops, doesn’t finish the sentence.

 

“We could what?” Ilya prompts. He’s stopped wandering around the house. He’s standing stock still.

 

“I mean, we could visit each other.” A pause. “If you wanted.”

 

“You want to come stay at my house in Boston?”

 

“Well I was thinking more like you coming to my cottage in Ottawa. It’s really private.”

 

“But you will be coming from training camp with Hunter in New York?”

 

“Yeah if I go. But I could, you know, get back to Ottawa pretty quickly.”

 

“But Boston would be on the way between New York and Ottawa, yes?”

 

“I mean, I guess geographically yes.”

 

“Geographically yes? There is some other way where Boston is not on the way in between New York and Ottawa?”

 

Shane scoffs, “Fuck off.”

 

“So if you look at a map, it makes more sense for you to come here.”

 

“I mean, yes geographically that makes more sense. But, like, we couldn’t go anywhere or do anything. I mean, I couldn’t be seen there obviously.”

 

“Ok so we are trapped in my beautiful 2000 sq ft architectural marvel and we play board games all week. You love this. That’s your dream. You can bore me to death with the word game you always play with your parents.”

 

“I know you know it’s called Scrabble. You’ve brought it up, like, five times.

 

“Yes, Scrabble. I will learn this very boring game for you. And I will feed you amazing American food that you have to eat because it’s the off season. And you can work out in my home gym that is obviously better than yours because my muscles are so much bigger.”

 

“You’re not that much bigger. Muscle composition isn’t all about equipment anyway. There’s a large genetic compon-”

 

Ilya cuts him off, “Oh my god, Hollander, and we can have Dunkin! It is so much better than Tim Horton’s. I will show you.”

 

“Nothing you’re describing sounds even remotely fun.”

 

“It will be fun because I am there.”

 

“I don’t know Rozanov. It’s really-“

 

“Hollander, I didn’t want to say this but my father just died.”

 

“Wait you’re saying that because- you’re saying I have to come because your dad just died?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You can’t- you can’t use that to-“

 

“I can. I will be using it a lot too. ‘Hollander, you have to do tequila shots with me because my dad just died. Hollander, you have to watch Fast and the Furious 3 with me because my dad died.’ So prepare yourself.”

 

Shane laughs disbelieving. “You are such a freak. I’m not doing any of that.”

 

“I know. I know. You will sit on my couch all week reading some hockey biography and eating lentils. But you’d do that in Ottawa anyway so come do it in Boston with me. On the way back, geographically, from Hunter’s nursing home. Ok?”

 

Shane lets out a long sigh, “Ok. Text me about the dates.”

 

Ilya tries not to sound too eager when he asks, “Really?” 

 

“Really.”

 

Ilya is grinning at his bedroom wall. Shane in his house for a whole week maybe. It’s so stupid. So unbelievably stupid. But he’s giddy when he says, “I will text you about the dates. I will think of many more things I can do to entertain you while you are holed up in my home.”

 

“I’m scared. Truly,” Shane says but Ilya thinks he can hear the smile in his voice.

 

“Goodbye, Hollander.”

 

“Safe flight, Rozanov.”

Chapter End Notes

Anyone catch the When Harry Met Sally reference in there?

Come play with me on Tumblr :)

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

I think I'm tired of the last time on heated rivalry thing...so sorry! Recap is always just they're so dumb and so in love but I like to hurt them about it a little.

Hopefully the fact that this chapter is NSFW makes up for it??

Summer 2018- Moscow

Ilya goes back to Moscow for the last time. He is a machine. He packs up everything in his apartment. He goes to the lawyer, the bank. Every question they ask him, his answer is whatever will get it done the fastest.

He doesn’t try to see anyone- not guys he used to play hockey with, not cousins, not old hookups, no one. He doesn’t go to clubs. He is here to get it done.

He allows himself one hour at the end of the first week to drive to the mausoleum and see his mother. He lets his forehead rest on the cool marble door. It’s just her body still here, he reminds himself over and over. Whatever else she is is still with him. He touches his cross, leaves the flowers. Back to it.

On his ninth day there, he is packing up his father’s house. His step mother has already taken anything of value, most of the furniture. But there are photos, some small mementos Ilya saves as he clears the house, gets it ready to sell. Alexei shows up.

“Were you going to tell me you were back?” He says, standing against a wall watching Ilya pack away a teapot.

“No,” Ilya answers honestly and doesn’t look at him.

“We need to talk about-“

“You can have my share of the money,” Ilya says, cutting him off. “When the house sells. Whatever doesn’t go to Polina. You can have my apartment too. Use it for whatever, sell it, I don’t care. I’m signing everything over to you. But after that I’m done.”

“Okay,” Alexei says flatly.

Ilya moves on to the pots and pans. Alexei just stands there, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Are you going to help?” Ilya asks without turning around, directing it down at his hands.

Alexei grabs a box, wordlessly and haphazardly shoves some kitchen utensils in. “Where did it go so wrong between us?” He asks after a few moments of silence.

Ilya looks up bewildered then barks out a humorless laugh. “Oh you are nervous. You know your coke allowance is getting cut off so you want to play nice.”

Alexei slams down the pitcher he’s holding. “Fuck you, Ilya. You always looked down your nose at me, huh? Big hockey star. But who was here? Who took care of our father? Who was fucking left with this mess while you got to fuck off to America and party?”

“You did plenty of your own partying.”

“God forbid I should blow off some steam?” He inches closer to Ilya, just shy of getting in his face. “But I will have no regrets about the kind of son I was. Can you say that?”

Ilya meets his eyes.. “At the funeral, do you remember what you said about our mother?”

Alexei shrugs.

“I remember,” Ilya continues, “you said she was a selfish bitch for leaving us with dad. You remember that now?”

Alexei shifts from one leg to the other but doesn’t speak.

“But you left too didn’t you? After she died. You left me with him.”

“I was 17, Ilya,” he says, cards a hand through his hair.

“And I was 12. You didn’t give a shit about me then. Don’t pretend you do now.”

“What did you want me to do?” Alexei yells, “you think I could just take you with me? You think I could fucking raise you?”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” Ilya bites back. “I’m saying you did your time with him and I did mine. So don’t act like I owe you.”

Ilya turns to leave the kitchen and Alexei’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder. “Ilya,” he says quietly, “Mom would not have wanted it to be this way. We’re brothers.”

Ilya turns to face him and can’t help the sneer on his face. “I’m not your brother. I’m your bank account. And I’m done. Bank is closed.”

Ilya walks out of the house entirely, circles the block with a cigarette. He feels fucking bad. Some stupid little kid part of him wants to believe Alexei is actually interested in being his family suddenly. Maybe he’s the real asshole. He rubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t have time for this shit. Four more days until he is back in Boston.

When he gets back to the house, Alexei is blessedly gone. He hadn’t even finished packing one box.

-
On the plane ride back to the US, he keeps expecting to feel something more. Moscow had been his home. The first place he ever played hockey. The last place he ever saw his mother. Surely it should be harder to leave behind forever than this.

-
Finally back home in Boston, Ilya lets himself sleep off the jet lag but he’s woken up by his phone buzzing about a hundred times over the course of five minutes. He looks blearily at his phone. All Shane.

Jane
[image]
My flight details for tomorrow

I’ll let you know if it’s delayed or anything

Probably I should just meet you in a parking lot

Maybe if you have a car with tinted windows that would be best

Or I can get a taxi and have them drop me off a couple blocks away

Maybe that’s a better idea. I can just come up with a backstory in case the driver recognizes me.

Can you send me the names of a couple of popular trainers in the area i can say I’m meeting with in case the driver asks?

Ilya laughs. Shane is actually insane. He’s preparing for an imaginary inquisition. If Ilya waits another hour to answer him, he’ll probably talk himself out of the whole trip.

They didn’t talk while Ilya was in Moscow, just a few brief texts. And he wonders for the first time if Shane has been nervously spiraling the whole time.

He presses Shane’s contact. It rings four times and then:

“Hey,” Shane answers and his voice sounds quiet, muffled. “I only have a second. I’m with some of the guys from the training camp.”

“You are being very bad company then, texting me so much.”

“Shut up. I just wanted to figure out logistics.”

“I will pick you up, Hollander. In very discrete car. Don’t worry. Text me your terminal and I will meet you in parking garage, ok?”

Shane sighs. “You don’t think a taxi would be-“

“I will pick you up,” Ilya repeats.

“Ok,” Shane says.

“No need to be nervous, Hollander, ok? We will have fun.”

“Ok,” Shane repeats. A pause then some ruffling as Shane maybe moves the phone closer. “Hey, we can talk about it more tomorrow but are you ok? After being back home- was it ok?”

Ilya blinks, a funny feeling pooling in his stomach. “I’m ok, yes.” Then he’s about to say goodbye and hang up but instead he hears himself say, “I am excited to see you tomorrow.” And a little stab of adrenaline runs through him.

Shane doesn’t answer right away but then he says very clearly and quietly, “Me too.”

For some reason Ilya moves the receiver end of the phone back a little, like he doesn’t want Shane to be able to hear his smile.

“I have to go,” Shane says then, “see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Ilya says back.

-
When Shane approaches the car, his face is exactly as Ilya pictured, all scrunched up and annoyed. He lowers the passenger side window. “Ride for Shane Hollander,” he says with his most shit eating grin.

Shane visibly tenses. “Shut the fuck up. Do not say my name.” He puts his luggage in the backseat and plops down with a hard little thump in the passenger seat, pulls his baseball cap further down his forehead. “You said you were bringing a discrete car,” he grumbles as he buckles his seatbelt.

“It is the most discrete car I have!” Ilya objects as he revs the engine.

“It’s bright orange,” Shane says through clenched teeth.

Ilya whips his arm around Shane’s headrest to back up. “Yes but my other Porsche has fire decals. And this one has tinted windows. Like you asked.”

Shane’s only reply is a long suffering sigh as he looks out the window. Ilya is so happy it feels like the sun coming in through the windows is actually beaming out of his chest.

-
“I can carry my own bags,” Shane protests when Ilya picks them up off the backseat.

Ilya ignores him, opening the front door. “Welcome to your home away from home, Mr. Hollander,” he says gesturing for Shane to come in.

“I can carry my own bags,” Shane repeats as he meets him at the door.

“You don’t know where you’re going,” Ilya says with a smirk.

“I’ve been here before,” Shane reminds him and his lips are quirked a little too. They’re probably standing a little closer than they need to.

“You’ve only seen my bedroom and the couch,” Ilya corrects, voice low, “Oh and I think I fucked you in the kitchen once.”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up. “Behave, Rozanov,” he says and shoulders past him inside. The place where their shoulders made contact burns electric for a moment and Ilya imagines himself dropping to his knees, begging just to kiss Shane’s ankle bone. It’s going to be a very long week.

-
“There’s two guest rooms,” Ilya says once they’re at his house and he’s carried Shane’s bags up the stairs despite his protests, “so you can choose.” He gestures to two open doors in the hallway and Shane peeks in each. Ilya casually stops in front of the door to the biggest bedroom right across. “And then of course there’s mine. You are welcome to sleep in here if you want.”

Shane shakes his head, “You don’t have to give up your bed for me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Ilya says with a cocked eyebrow.

Shane’s gaze snaps up to meet his. “Rozanov,” he says low, like a warning.

Ilya backs up just a little to lean against the wall. “Like a sleepover. We could put pillows straight down the middle.”

Shane laughs. “Why are you so fucking weird?” He asks to no one and grabs his bag from the hallway, carrying it into the guest bedroom. It’s the one closest to Ilya’s bedroom, he notices.

-
Over the first three days of Shane’s visit, they touch exactly nine times: twice their hips brush against each other as Ilya teaches him to make borscht at his kitchen counter, three times their knees knock under the table when Shane is bent over Ilya’s phone watching a clip of Santiago announcing his retirement after the next season, and once Ilya lets his fingers linger a little as he hands Shane a ginger ale. On Tuesday, Shane brushes by him in Ilya’s home gym on the way to get a towel and later puts a warm, comforting hand on the back of Ilya’s neck after he finds an old photo print of Ilya’s mother in his junk drawer. And on Wednesday, Shane falls asleep on the couch while they watch a movie and Ilya sinks down low and close next to him, moving Shane’s head gently to rest on his shoulder just until the credits roll. It isn't enough. Ilya watches Shane’s face, looks in his eyes for some tell, some answering hunger beyond brief flirtation and he sees nothing there but basic affection. Friendship. It makes him feel insane.

It’s probably why on the fourth day when Shane is looking intently at something on his phone across the couch, Ilya stretches a leg out and pokes him with his toes. “Let’s play our game.”

Shane doesn’t look up from the phone. “What game?”

“Gay hookup sex app game,” Ilya says casually and Shane does look then.

“I don’t feel like going out,” Shane says, a little petulantly, Ilya thinks.

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya says, pressing a little harder into Shane’s thigh with his toes. “We can pick somone really hot. Will be fun.”

Shane scoots a little farther from Ilya’s foot and picks his phone back up. “Why don’t we send you out this time?”

“Me?” Ilya asks stupidly.

Shane is so casual, still not looking at him. “Yeah.”

“Hmm and you will pick for me?”

Shane looks up, little coquettish smile. “That’s the game right?”

Ilya smiles back. Then he’s standing. “Ok I need to go take dick pic.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane says, covering his eyes with his hand like Ilya’s about to whip it out right there. It makes Ilya smile wider.

Later when he’s downloaded the app and uploaded the pictures, Shane is still on the couch pretending that whatever is on his phone is more interesting than this. Ilya tosses his phone so it lands on Shane’s stomach.

“Ow,” Shane says but he sits up and puts his own phone away finally.

He scrolls a little, swiping left left then right. “Do you have like, a preference or anything?”

“About what?” Ilya asks.

Shane is studiously still swiping with a little concentrated frown on his face. “I don’t know like what they look like, what they wanna do. Anything.”

“Mmm no you have to decide what you want them to do.”

Shane looks at him. “That’s not- I’m not gonna-“

“I did for you,” Ilya says with his chin a little raised.

“I mean you picked the guys but you didn’t- I mean not exactly.”

“I want you to,” Ilya says simply.

Shane holds his gaze for a moment. Then turning back to the phone quietly, “Ok.”

Ilya turns on the tv so he can stop watching Shane work. He looks over every now and again to see Shane concentrating like he’s dissecting a hockey play. It’s funny because Shane is literally looking at dicks. He holds in his laugh.

Finally, when Ilya has switched through the channels so much that he has settled on golf of all boring fucking things, Shane speaks. “I’ve got the guy” and hands him his phone.

Ilya looks at pictures of his cock, his ass, his abs- all standard stock. “Ok,” Ilya says easily, “and what do you want me to do?”

Ilya watches Shane’s Adam’s Apple bob once. Then he says, “Make him suck you off on his hands and knees, cum down his throat, then jerk him off.”

Ilya smirks, “Not even a blowjob in return? That’s bad manners.”

Shane shrugs, turning to the tv like the matter is settled, “That’s what I want.”

Ilya watches him one more minute feign casual, eyes unmoving from the tv. Then he gets up to get ready.

When he comes back down in a tight shirt more unbuttoned than done, he does not miss the way Shane eyes him up and down. “See you soon, Hollander,” he says in his most sultry voice.

And Shane recovers enough to say, “Have fun” before Ilya is out the door.

-
Once he’s at the guy’s house there is very little preamble. He shows Ilya to his room and they’re kissing after a brief exchange of names (fake on Ilya’s part). The guy is hot enough. Broad shoulders Ilya can cling to and a responsive dick making a sweet little wet spot in his underwear just from where Ilya is palming it. But as Ilya bends his neck back to give the guy better access to kiss along his jaw, Ilya is thinking of Shane waiting for him back home.

Ilya pulls the guy's dick out, runs his palm over the head, and imagines Shane on the couch trying to ignore his hard on. Ilya pulls off the guy’s shirt and presses gentle teeth to his nipple and imagines Shane squirming, skimming the bulge in his pants, and huffing out a frustrated breath before he stomps off to the guest bed. Ilya presses the guy’s shoulders until his knees are on the ground and imagines Shane worked up and horny, jerking his dick hard as his feet get tangled in the sheets.

“Crawl to me,” Ilya says in a hoarse voice and he takes a few steps back. The man obliges looking up at Ilya with dark, watery eyes and obediently takes Ilya’s offered cock into his mouth when he reaches him. Ilya holds him by the hair but closes his eyes and wonders if Shane is right now thinking about the last time he did this to Ilya. No one has ever in the history of his whole stupid life wanted his dick like Shane.

The guy is moaning below him but it’s Shane he’s hearing. The guy is clenching tight fingers into the back of his thighs but it’s Shane he’s feeling. As the guy picks up speed, the Shane in his mind arches off the bed, bites his lip to stop from saying Ilya’s name.

He makes the mistake of looking down and the not-Shane at his feet has spit all over his chin, tear tracks at the side of his eyes. Ilya clenches his eyes shut again and tries to re-center on Shane in his guest bed. It’s not quite doing it. His mind rapid fires through dozens of images of Shane over the years- fucked out face below him, mouth against Ilya’s as he rides him, eager teenage Shane dropping to his knees and sloppy with it, panting into the pillows with Ilya’s fingers in him, sitting on his lap and throwing his head back. They all slip away and he starts to panic that he will never cum until a memory unbidden surfaces through the haze: Shane in a tuxedo, watery eyed, head loose and pliant in Ilya’s hand. “Wow, genetic,” he says quietly, ostensibly making fun but smiling like Ilya has hung the fucking sun. And Ilya feels it same as he did then, a painful clench in his clavicle. But he stays with it, stays with it, stays with that Shane until his balls seize up and he comes straight into the awaiting mouth of the real live man below him.

Ilya lets himself feel real fear for only a minute while he catches his breath. And then he does return the flavor and blow the guy back because it feels too rude no matter what Shane had asked him.

-
When he returns home, Shane is in his kitchen actually cooking. “You were hungry?” Ilya asks sneaking up and hugging him from behind.

Shane who maybe really hadn’t heard him come in over the sizzle of the pan, jumps and then reaches back to hit him in the ribs. “You’re an asshole.”

Ilya leans against the counter and pops a piece of cut up bell pepper into his mouth. “Why are you cooking?” He tries again.

Shane shrugs a little and a little pink rises to his cheeks, Ilya notices. “I thought you’d be gone a little longer and I’d be done. You’re supposed to feed people when they’re grieving so I…I just thought I’d make you some stuff you can freeze and eat during pre-season or whatever.”

Ilya blinks at him. “My father died almost four months ago.”

“No, I know,” Shane says and reaches to turn off a burner, “But I didn’t get to do it then.”

Ilya stares at him.

“It’s not a big deal,” Shane says quietly, “The grocery delivery was easy. Just wanted to be nice.” He’s shuffling away.

Ilya grabs his arm. “It is nice,” he says and he can’t tell what his face is doing. He’s working really hard not to lean forward and kiss Shane.

Shane is looking down at the spot where Ilya’s hand is touching him. Then he looks up suddenly and asks, “So how was it?”

“How was what?” Ilya asks stupidly because he knows what Shane is referring to distantly but his brain is caught on Shane’s tenderness.

Shane pulls away and moves some chicken around in a pan. “Getting your dick sucked,” he clarifies.

“Ah,” Ilya answers and hops up on the counter to give his mind a second to clear. “Was good. He had a nice mouth. He even crawled to me so that was hot.”

Shane makes a noncommittal noise like Ilya’s telling him about the weather.

Ilya pokes him a little with a foot. “Remember in Vegas, the MLH awards the year I won the cup?” He can see Shane tense but something in him has to keep going. “You came to my hotel room and crawled to me on the bed?”

“I remember,” Shane says to the cast iron pans.

“That was hotter,” Ilya says and stares at the side of Shane's face as he dutifully does not look over.

“You didn’t kiss me,” Shane says and takes in a deep breath.

Ilya feels his brow furrow. “I didn’t kiss you enough? That night?”

“You didn’t kiss me at all,” Shane clarifies, still standing very still.

Ilya touches his cheek then until Shane turns to meet his eye. “What a fucking idiot,” Ilya says and Shane draws in a stuttering breath. That’s the moment Ilya will make it right, leans in to-

Shane has already pulled away, starting to organize the containers on the counter and portion out food. “It was a long time ago,” he says quietly and Ilya sits back to make the leaning in a little less obvious.

He hops down off the counter and silently starts placing tops on each container as Shane finishes filling them. Shane labels them one by one meticulously as Ilya does the dishes. They don’t speak. When the last container is finally placed in the freezer, Shane turns to Ilya and says, “I’m pretty tired. Might go to bed.”

“Sure,” Ilya says nodding, “Me too.”

Shane blinks. “Does your sleepover offer still stand?”

Ilya has to swallow to get his throat working. “Yes,” is all he can work out.

“Ok,” Shane says nodding to himself. Then with just a hint of a scrunch to his nose: “Maybe shower first.”

Ilya actually laughs at that. “Ok,” he says, “yes, ok.”

-
They really do put pillows all down the middle of the bed and Shane turns his back to Ilya after a few minutes saying, “I can feel your hot breath on my face.”

Ilya protests that he’s just brushed his teeth but lets it go. He clutches one of the barrier pillows to his chest and smiles into the darkness.

-
In the morning, their ankles are tangled together over a pillow and Ilya stays very still, feeling giddy and hard about it. Shane wakes up 6 minutes later and ruins it immediately by announcing they’re going to work out before breakfast.

-
After the workout, because Ilya has beat his 5k time on the treadmill, Shane agrees to leave the house for Dunkin Donuts. He sits in the backseat with a baseball cap on like Ilya is his fucking chauffeur.

“What do you want?” Ilya asks in the drive through line.

“Just regular coffee.”

“Regular coffee?” Ilya repeats and Shane nods.

“Ok,” Ilya concedes, “But you must also get Boston Cream donut because you are in Boston.”

Shane makes a disgruntled face but says, “Fine.”

Once Ilya’s placed the order and driven around to pay and receive it, he hands a cup back to Shane. He watches in the rear view mirror as Shane blows a little and takes a sip. He makes a disgusted face. “I think you gave me your drink,” he says, trying to hand it back up.

“No,” Ilya says quickly, “you asked for regular coffee. This is what I get you.”

“It’s not the right color. I think there’s cream and sugar in here.”

“Yes this is what regular means at Dunkin. Cream and sugar is default.”

“That’s disgusting,” Shane groans, “This is why the United States-“

“Is a beautiful, beautiful country. I know,” Ilya interjects. “I have been waiting weeks to pull that prank on you. Here is your boring black coffee,” Ilya hands him another drink.

Shane glares at him through the rear view mirror. “You’re an asshole”, he mutters and Ilya pulls out of the lot smiling.

-
At home, Ilya makes him take at least two bites of the Boston cream donut. Shane smacks his hand away when Ilya reaches to push some cream stuck on Shane’s upper lip back into his mouth.

-
The worst thing about Shane in his house is he looks like he belongs there. Svetlana had said Shane was a bad idea. And that meant something coming from her. She liked bad ideas, had once set up a line of coke on a woman’s chest for him after he’d lost badly at the Prospects. Had left him and Sasha alone in a bathroom together like a consolation prize after the Olympics. If she thought it was bad, it was really bad.

But Ilya has to bite back his smile when Shane chooses the same chair at the kitchen counter every morning or steals the chaise lounge part of the couch to read his hockey book with glasses on or lays in his bed late at night and laughs softly at Ilya’s story about getting trapped in his first Boston roundabout. It feels impossible for something this good to be so wrong for him.

“What are you thinking about?” Shane asks on the second to last day when Ilya is staring at his open laptop and daydreaming about how to casually reach over the pillow barrier of their bed tonight and touch Shane’s bare skin without freaking him out.

Ilya blinks at his screen and says what’s there instead of the truth, “A list of attorneys my agent sent me.”

“Attorneys?” Shane repeats with his brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Ilya nods, closing the laptop. “They’re fining me for being too hot. Can you believe it?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fine don’t tell me.”

“No seriously,” Ilya presses. “I’m really worried. Obviously they have a case,” he gestures to himself. “Was hoping maybe you would lend me some clothes for the court date actually. Since they are so ugly might help, you know?”

Shane shakes his head. “Fucking asshole.”

Ilya smiles, pleased with himself. “It’s immigration attorneys,” he says and gets up for a coke.

“Immigration? Is everything ok?” Shane asks and he’s sitting up straighter immediately.

“Yes, yes,” Ilya waves a hand. “Is to help me become American resident or citizen or something. So I don’t have to go back.”

“You’re serious about this?” Shane asks, studying him. “You’re really not going back to Russia?”

“Right,” Ilya says and takes a sip of his coke to hopefully end the conversation.

Shane persists, “in case you- because that way you can come out?”

Ilya feels himself tense a little. “Maybe,” he says, “or maybe I do something else stupid enough to get me kicked out. Accidentally fuck the GM’s wife. Get injured and have to retire. I don’t know. Just insurance so they can’t make me go back even when league is done with me.”

“Ok,” Shane says, “That’s good then. Although I’m sorry it has to be like that.”

Ilya shrugs. “Is good to get some distance from that place, the family who’s left. I’m not sorry.”

Shane opens his mouth then seems to think better of it, just nods. Ilya is grateful to dodge the grilling.
-

On Shane’s last full day in Boston, Ilya is feeling reckless. He’s touching Shane more- an arm slung around his neck in the kitchen, sidling up to him on the couch so they’re attached arm to hip, rustling his hair in the downstairs gym when he’s trying to concentrate on his squats. He’s also talking too much, a mile a minute, constantly, stupid stories that Shane can’t possibly care about- the time he and Marly prank called St Simon’s mom, the time a supposed fan confused him with another Russian player and Ilya pretended to be the other guy for five full minutes. He’s following Shane around from room to room barely stopping to breathe and Shane almost has to remind Ilya not to follow him into the bathroom.

He’s frantic about the passing time. When will he ever get Shane completely to himself, undivided attention like this ever again?

So he does something stupider than all the stupid things he’s already done this week and says over dinner. “Let’s play the app game one more time before you leave.”

“I don’t know,” Shane starts and Ilya should leave it right there.

But instead he says, “We could go together this time.” And Shane nearly chokes on his food.

“No,” Shane says flatly when he’s swallowed it down.

“No, listen,” Ilya presses, “It can be friendly. Marley and I used to do it all the time.”

Shane looks genuinely shocked. “You’ve had sex with Marleau?”

“No, no,” Ilya reassures, “Guys do it all the time. Is like you pick up someone together and you both have sex with her in the same room but not exactly at the same time.”

“How is that not a threesome?” Shane blinks at him like he’s really lost it this time.

“Because you don’t touch your friend. You don’t even really look at your friend. You’re just fucking someone else together for fun.”

“Straight men do not do that,” Shane says disbelievingly.

“I’m serious. Like consensual gangbang but smaller,” Ilya offers helpfully. “Marly and I used to do it all the time.”

“All the time?” Shane repeats.

“Well once or twice. When I first moved here,” Ilya admits. “Might have been kind of a rookie hazing thing. I don’t know. But was fun seriously.”

“And you want to-“

“With a man,” Ilya interrupts, “obviously with a man for you and me. Could be the guy from earlier this week. He was hot.”

“And we would each take turns fucking him?” Shane asks very slowly.

“Yes,” Ilya nods enthusiastically, glad Shane is getting the idea.

“But I don’t really like,” Shane goes beet red and says the next part more quietly, “I’m not really into being the fuck-er as you know.”

“No, no. Is fine,” Ilya reassures. “You can do whatever you want with your turn. I can ask if he is verse. It can work just the same.”

“But we would,” Shane is gesturing between them, “have to see each other naked and aroused and stuff.”

Ilya laughs a little hysterically. “Hollander we have seen this a hundred times! That cannot be the thing that stops you, yes?”

Shane is rubbing his eyes. Ilya knows this is such a long shot. Honestly one of his stupidest ideas but-

“So what are the ground rules?” Shane asks and Ilya is shocked to see his determined little face like maybe Ilya has really hooked him.

Ilya shrugs, trying for casual. “We don’t touch, obviously.”

“We don’t kiss,” Shane adds.

“Right,” Ilya nods.

“And we take turns?” Shane supplies.

“If you want,” Ilya says, “I am ok if it is a little more,” he grasps for the word, “fluid.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like maybe he wants to suck your dick while I am fucking him from behind. Is that ok with you?”

Shane goes a little pink. “I mean, I guess. As long as there’s some physical distance between us it’s ok if he’s,” Shane’s turn to grasp for a word, “engaging both of us at the same time.”

“Ok,” Ilya says, then schooling his voice not to sound eager. “So I will message him, yes?”

Shane sighs and runs a hand on his neck. “You really think this is a thing friends can do? It won’t be weird.”

“It was never weird with Marly,” Ilya says honestly but some part of him feels guilty so he adds. “We stop anytime, ok? Anything you don’t like, you feel weird, no questions asked, we leave.”

Shane holds his gaze for a moment, then nods. Ilya has his phone out the next second.

The guy is more than willing. He admits to leaning bottom but apparently he had a good enough time with Ilya he agrees to it. Ilya does not share this with Shane. It might be better anyway- he can boss them both around.

When it’s almost time to go, Shane is visibly very nervous. “Maybe we should bring condoms,” he blurts out when he should be putting on his shoes.

“I am sure he has condoms,” Ilya says with a raised eyebrow.

“But just in case,” Shane says, shifting over and over again from one foot to the other. “Lube too.”

Ilya almost makes fun of him but instead he puts a hand on his shoulder and says softly, “Ok, I will get.”

When they get there, Ilya does not bother with introductions. He says simply, “We touch you. You touch us. But you don’t ask us to touch each other, ok?” Then the guy nods, a little furrow in his brow, and Ilya steps forward and kisses him. The kiss is good, deep, wet, hot, made hotter by the fact that Ilya knows Shane is watching.

When he surfaces for air, Shane is standing back, hands in his pockets, big brown eyes unreadable. Ilya nudges the guy towards Shane by the back of his neck. “Kiss him,” he says low and gruff.

He watches Shane startle a little, hesitate, and then the guy's hands are on Shane’s waist. Shane’s hands are in his hair. And it’s just Ilya, audience of one, watching their tongues slide against each other. He watches Shane arch a little, soft hungry moan into the guy’s mouth. Ilya swallows hard and leans back against the wall. He cups himself through his pants.

He watches the guy grab Shane’s ass, pull their crotches close. He watches Shane’s legs part just enough so he almost, almost has a leg hooked around the guy’s calf. He leans his head back for a breath and the guy is on his neck, sucking, causing Shane to grab at his shoulders and gasp.

Ilya wants to watch. He means to sit back and just watch but somehow he is walking towards them, coming to wrap his arms around the guy from behind and bite at the place where his neck meets his shoulder. He snakes a hand into the guy’s pants and squeezes, winning him a little gasp that lands in Shane’s mouth. Shane and the guy’s groins are still so close, almost pressed together, that when Ilya runs his palm over the guy’s length through his underwear, the back of Ilya’s hand briefly, mistakenly makes contact with Shane’s hardness. It’s through so many layers that it doesn’t matter but Ilya lets out a sharp exhale anyway and closes his eyes against the image of Shane grabbing at the guy’s shirt pulling him back in for a kiss.

Ilya unzips the guy’s pants and pushes them down off of his hips. He and Shane break apart so the guy can properly step out of his pants. Shane is panting, eyes half closed, when Ilya rucks up the guy’s shirt, and over his head. The guy throws his head back onto Ilya’s shoulder when Ilya starts playing with his nipples. And then with a loud thud Shane is on his knees, the guy’s cock in his mouth as he moans low and grabs at the guy’s hips.

Ilya kisses at the guy’s neck, keeps pinching and rolling his nipples but his eyes are on Shane. He watches him lick a stripe up the base, run his tongue into the slit, then hungrily take the cock all the way into his mouth, cheeks hollowing. Ilya ruts against the guy’s ass, bites his ear. Shane looks up through hooded eyes and the guy is not looking, head still thrown back so Ilya is the only one who sees it. His mouth falls open against the guy’s ear and he has to run his nails along the guy’s stomach to stop from touching Shane’s cheek.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna-” the guy starts and Ilya pulls him bodily away from Shane who is sitting fully clothed, hands on knees, cheeks pink, looking absolutely lost once his mouth is empty. “Not yet,” Ilya growls and bends to take off the guy’s underwear. “Take his clothes off,” Ilya mutters and undresses himself too as he watches Shane stand and submit to being unclothed, as the guy presses gentle kisses down Shane’s body. Ilya has to grab the base of his own cock when he sees a large wet spot on Shane’s underwear, right before the guy pulls them down and Shane’s dick bobs free, a visible drop hanging from the head.

“Suck him off,” Ilya says, pressing at the guy’s shoulders until he’s on his knees in front of Shane. Shane’s eyes meet Ilya’s for just a moment as he wraps his fingers in the guy’s hair and then his head is thrown back, eyes closed. Ilya sinks down too, positioning the guy so his legs are farther apart. Ilya spreads his cheeks and starts to eat him out. The guy moans, loud and muffled around Shane’s dick and Shane gasps up above. Ilya feels his dick kick and twitch.

He pulls away briefly to grab the lube. He bites the guy’s ass, “I will fuck you now,” he says and the guy, mouth still full of Shane gets out a low, “Mmmhmm.” Ilya makes out with his hole in earnest, licks, thrusts, spreads the cheeks wider. Shane above him is moaning loud, pulling hard at the guy’s hair and slamming a fist into the wall behind him. Ilya sits up, places two hands on the guy’s head and pulls him away urgently. “Turn him around and prep him too,” he says. He sucks on two of the guy’s fingers briefly, then squirts a generous portion of lube on them too. He glances quickly at Shane whose mouth is hanging open watching. “Turn him around,” Ilya prompts again. Then he’s squirting lube on the guy’s hole and pressing a finger in.

At the same time, the guy lets out a low groan and Shane above them says, “Fuck,” face pushed into the wall, legs spread as the guy just rubs at his hole. Ilya can’t help but watch the prep. Shane is so good at it, takes him hardly any work to get two fingers in. He’s writhing with it by the time the guy sticks a third finger in. Ilya tries to be patient and gentle with the guy who needs more work than that. He fucks his fingers in, bites his neck, and watches Shane keen.

When he can’t stand it anymore, Ilya puts a condom on the guy first, then himself. He stands the guy up behind Shane’s back and lines the guy’s dick up to Shane’s hole. “Don’t move once you’re in,” he says low in the guy’s ear. He helps gently press the guy’s hips forward to enter Shane and Shane’s hands are scrabbling for something to hold onto, forehead pressed into the wall as he gasps. He gives Shane a moment but can’t wait long as he lines his own dick up to the guy’s hole and pushes in. Once he’s bottomed out, he takes a deep steadying breath. “You stay very still,” he says to the guy. “I will fuck into you from behind and he will fuck himself onto you from the front.”

“What?” Shane starts to say stupidly but then Ilya is moving and it’s the most natural thing in the world for Shane to press back. It’s not exactly like he’s fucking Shane. He’s very aware of the groaning body in between them. He’s very aware not to touch Shane’s hips so close to his fingertips. But when he closes his eyes and hears the slapping of skin and Shane’s high pitched breaths, it’s almost…almost…

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna-” the guy starts and Ilya doubles his efforts, pinning a hand against the wall right near Shane’s head. And they have a rhythm on the guy, together. Ilya can feel Shane’s ministrations through the body between them. He groans into the guy’s ear and then the guy is doubling over, head on Shane’s shoulder and Ilya slows, fucking him gently through the afterwaves.

He gives the guy a few moments. Kisses his shoulders and neck as he comes down, smiles just a little into his shoulder blade when he hears a small impatient keen from Shane, still trapped against the wall. Ilya pulls out, chucks the condom, guides the guy’s hips to gently pull out of Shane. “Finger him,” he says in the guy’s ear and the guy nods a little dreamily, getting to his knees, spreading more lube on his fingers and entering Shange again. Shane is a little crazed with it, bucking his hips back, sounds somewhere between a whine and a moan.

Ilya steps around maybe a little too close to Shane but not touching, He puts his dick on the guy’s lips and he opens immediately sucking Ilya in. Ilya presses a steadying hand to the wall just inches from Shane’s. It doesn’t take long. When Shane grabs his own dick and Ilya sees a string of drool fall from his open mouth out of the corner of his eye, he comes hard, urgently holding the guy’s face and gritting out, “Don’t swallow.”

When he’s spilled all he can, the guy opens his mouth to show Ilya his own jizz on his tongue. Ilya traces his bottom lip with a thumb quickly and says, “Spit it in his hole.” The guy pulls his fingers out of Shane who presses his ass back mournfully to try to follow them. Ilya watches his own cum leak out of the guy’s mouth and run down Shane’s crack. “Press it in,” he says, choked, and guides the guy’s fingers back to Shane. Shane throws his head back as Ilya watches his own cum enter him and spill out again and again. Shane falls over the edge just a moment later with his mouth pressed to the wall, cutting off a long guttural, “Fuck.”

-
In the car ride on the way home, they don’t say a word to each other. Ilya can’t look at him, even out of the corner of his eye.

-
“I’m going to shower,” Shane says, the first to break the silence when they get back to Ilya’s house. “Sure,” Ilya answers, agreeable and then when Shane has gone upstairs finds he has no idea what to do with himself.

He wipes down the kitchen counter, checks all the lights, pushes in the chairs, and when he can’t stall anymore, goes upstairs to rinse himself off quickly. Afterwards, he knocks on the guest bedroom where Shane hasn’t slept in three days.

“Yeah?” Shane calls and Ilya opens the door to find him packing.

“Your last night,” Ilya says carefully, “We never played Scrabble.”

“That’s ok,” Shane says without looking at him, “I’m pretty tired.”

“Ok,” Ilya says and assumes he’s being dismissed for the night. But instead Shane puts down his folded shirt and walks right past Ilya, asking, “You ready for bed?”

Ilya nods stupidly, though Shane’s not looking at him and follows him into his own bedroom. Shane takes off his tshirt, folds it to lay neatly on the nightstand and gets into Ilya’s bed. Ilya hits the lights and throws his own tshirt off into the corner of his room and lays down next to Shane. Shane’s back is to him, the pillow border intact between them, and no one says anything for long weighty minutes.

Ilya reaches an arm out across Shane’s waist, pulls him just a little closer until his face is pressed into the warm, smooth skin of his back. “Don’t freak out,” he pleads into Shane’s shoulder blade.

Shane puts a hand on the arm Ilya has over him and says quietly, almost inaudibly, “Ok.”
-
In the morning, Shane is facing him, eyes closed and breath heavy. Ilya stares at him and lets just the tops of his fingertips brush the hollow above Shane’s clavicle.

-
When they’re in the car, headed to the airport, Shane looks out the window and clears his throat. “I’ll be pretty busy the next couple of weeks,” he says. “I need to spend some time with my parents in Ottawa and then the pre-season stuff is always crazy.”

Ilya’s gut clenches. “Sure,” is all he says.

“So if we don’t talk as much,” Shane continues unnecessarily, “That’s why.”

“Right,” Ilya says, playing along with the lie and it feels like an anvil has taken residence in his chest.

When they get to the parking lot, where Shane will leave, Ilya grabs his arm. “Thank you for coming,” is all he can manage and he tries to look, search in Shane’s eyes for something other than what he knows is there.

“It was fun,” Shane says, stilted. They stare at each other for another miserable minute and then Shane is at the backseat pulling his luggage out, then standing next to Ilya’s window barely looking at him saying goodbye. Ilya can’t say it back, just nods and watches Shane walk away long after there’s no possible way he can see him anymore.
-

When Ilya gets back home, he wanders around his house, looks at all the small signs that Shane had been here just an hour before. He winds up back at his kitchen, opening the freezer to the half a dozen tupperwares with Shane’s chicken scratch scrawl. He stares at them with burning eyes and then embarrassingly bursts into tears.

Chapter End Notes

siri look up- is it a good idea to figure out your complex feelings for your situationship through a not quite threesome?

come play with me on tumblr :)

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Quick CW for brief description of a serious, life threatening injury. Should I also give a warning for boy/girl sex?

Summer 2018- Boston

 

Ilya sits in his underwear on his couch for three days and drinks vodka from a sticky Raiders branded tumbler. Shane had sent one single message six hours after he’d left.

 

Jane:

Made it home

 

Lily:

Hope you had good flight 

 

And Shane had left him on read as expected.

 

It’s Svetlana who finds him first, letting herself in at what must be a late hour given the darkness outside. “I’m back,” she says with her arms raised like she’s presenting herself as a prize. She lets them fall when she looks Ilya up and down. “What the fuck happened to you?”

 

His throat is gruff and sticky from disuse when he says, “Shane Hollander stayed in my house for a whole week and now he won’t speak to me.” He hands her the phone already opened to the text thread with Jane. “Don’t scroll up,” he says as his only instruction.

 

“Why?” She asks, “I will see sexting?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya nods knowing full well it’s something much more disgusting than that. Just days and days of how are you, can you call, this made me think of you.

 

She reads the short text exchange, uses her thumb to look at the time stamps, hands the phone back to him. “Maybe it’s because you didn’t ask a question. It’s a statement so doesn’t require a response back.”

 

Ilya scowls. “Don’t insult me, Svetlana.”

 

“Ok it’s bad,” she says sadly and plops down next to him. He puts his face in her neck and sighs wetly. 

 

The only light comes from the television, displaying a paused youtube clip titled “Good Luck Goalies! 26 Minutes of Unstoppable Shots.”  Luckily, it’s just passed the part with Shane’s one handed left hand backhand goal against Washington from 2016.  Now that would be fucking embarassing, Ilya thinks to himself wryly.

 

“What did you do?” Svetlana asks quietly while she rubs his hair.

 

He has half a mind to be insulted, bark back, why do you think it was me. But it was him. Of course it was. So instead he just shakes his head miserably.

 

She sighs and says finally, “I think I’d better get the good weed,” before getting up to rummage in the drawer where she knows he keeps it. 

-

 

Ilya has his fingers inside Svetlana, curling as she runs a hand up and down his dick. He’s maybe too high to really concentrate enough to cum but it feels good.

 

“Fuck,” he sighs into her neck. “Should we do this for real?”

 

“You want your-“ her voice breaks off in a high pitched breathy little hiccup as he adds a third finger and fucks in hard. She tries again, “you want your dick in me?”

 

He likes the wet sounds her pussy is making as she clutches to his arm. “No,” he murmurs, “I mean you and me. Should we finally try it for real?”

 

She leans her head back. “Put your mouth on me,” she says instead of answering. He lifts up the side of her shirt, pulls the cup of her bra down, and sucks one of her nipples into his mouth which earns him a gasp. “That’s not what I meant,” she says and presses his head down. He pulls her underwear down to her knees, still fucking with his fingers and licks a flat, firm tongue over her clit. “Fuck, Ilya,” she says grabbing at his hair.

 

It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of it when he’s high like this. Like the mechanical hand to mouth motions of going in on a bag of chips when he has the munchies. He’s licking and fucking and licking and fucking and when she comes, thighs squeezing the sides of his head until his ears are ringing, he just keeps going until she’s arching and yelling and coming again.

 

She pushes his head away with two hands and resolutely closes her legs. “Damn,” she says, catching her breath. 

 

She slides a hand into her own wetness, shuddering a little and smears it on Ilya’s dick. She jerks him hard and fast without sitting up. The pleasure is there but it’s like it’s dispersed too widely through his body. He can’t get it to pinpoint and concentrate into his balls, his dick. Then the image is there before he can stop it. Shane’s hole filled with his cum, dripping out, wet, pushing it back in, Shane thrashing, wrecked, messy hole, Ilya’s cum, inside him, owning him, dirty little cum slut letting it back in, running down his thighs. fuck.

 

Ilya spills onto Svetlana’s hand, shudders once, twice, and immediately feels sick. He’d been torturing himself for days with that image, wondering if it had been the single moment when he’d gone too far. If Shane had felt violated and disgusted, cleaned Ilya off of himself in the shower and decided then and there to run away. 

 

Svetlana smears Ilya’s cum onto his stomach to clean off her hand and gives a big sigh. “That was hot,” she says with a satiated smile. He lays back onto the pillows and instead of asking again if they should be together for real, asks, “Should we roll another joint?”

 

-

 

Marleau confronts him at the back to season barbecue that’s usually held at Ilya’s house. But this year, well…

 

“You haven’t answered the group chat in forever.  No posts on Instagram.  I called you like five times.  Connors wanted to make bets about how you died.” 

 

Ilya takes a sip of his drink. “Still very much alive, unfortunately,” he mutters. 

 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Marleau asks, swinging an arm around his neck. 

 

“Nothing,” Ilya says and hits him hard in the stomach so he has to double over with a little oof. “Just tired of having to captain this fucking band of monkeys.”

 

Marleau grins and gets into a stance like he’s gonna box him. “Happy to take that C from you anytime, man.” And Ilya easily ducks the halfhearted swing. 

 

Connors claps him on the shoulder. “What are you two cocksuckers fighting about?” He asks. And Marleau does get a smack in when Ilya turns his head.

 

“This fucker thinks he could make a better captain,” Ilya gets out and then he’s running, chasing Marleau around the yard. The other guys laugh and chirp while Ilya grabs him and tries to wrestle him to the ground. Carmichael’s wife complains about the fighting scaring the kids so they call a truce on the physical stuff and decide to settle it with a contest of who can chug a beer the fastest. It’s stupid but when he takes the last bubbly gulp and rings out a victorious belch, all the guys are chanting “Cap cap cap cap,” and it’s the least crappy he’s felt all week.

 

Later when he’s two sheets to the fucking wind and barely sitting up straight, Brennan sits downs next to him and asks how his summer went.

 

“It wasn’t fun,” Ilya mumbles, “I fell in love.” 

 

Maybe he says it in Russian because Brennan just looks at him baffled and says, “I’m gonna call you a cab.”

-

 

The pre-season stuff starts in earnest and that’s always better, the routine, the pack animal mentality of always being around his team.  He starts to leave his phone in his bag even during warm ups and breaks.  He doesn’t need to look to know there is no message from Shane.

 

-

 

Svetlana sits at his kitchen counter and scrolls on her phone as she says, “I have someone for you.”

 

Ilya leans against his fridge very casual, does not tense up. “Who?” He asks.

 

“She is a model. Well, aspiring model. For now, she mostly does car show stuff. That’s how I met her. Kelci with a C.” Svetlana flips her phone around to show Ilya a beautiful woman with several hundred photos, almost all staring into the distance with wind blown hair in elegant low cut dresses.

 

Ilya nods. “You think I need a hook up to get over this summer?”

 

Svetlana considers. “I mean, have you fucked anyone since Shane-“

 

“We didn’t fuck,” Ilya interjects quickly.

 

“Ilya,” she says, planting her phone down hard on the counter, “That’s so much sadder. You see how that’s sadder, right?”

 

“Fuck you,” he says and kind of means it. He’s not going to explain it to her. The ways the sex between them wasn’t them having sex but was. The way he had maybe been testing Shane all along but it was somehow Ilya who had failed. It was hard to explain because maybe it didn’t actually make any fucking sense at all.

 

“There’s a car expo thing, big party after,” Svetlana says after she’s given him a minute to pout. “Just come meet her.”

 

“Fine,” Ilya sighs like it’s ever been a hardship to meet beautiful, available women.

 

-

Four days later he’s in some fancy event space deep in downtown Boston where you have to fucking valet even if you’re a diehard like Ilya who always circles the block, can make a parking spot out of anything usually. Svetlana is Svetlana so he’s on his own for several long minutes pretending to care about the placards under some photographs of the city from the 60s while she shmoozes half a dozen people. 

 

He sees her at the makeshift catering bar a few feet away, long dark hair in braids pulled away from her face and a red dress that plunges in the back. She’s more beautiful than her photos, which is both a compliment and maybe a clue as to why she’s still only modeling at car shows. Svetlana had wanted to introduce them, he’s sure, but there’s no reason not to get this over with.

 

He flattens his hair reflexively and saunters over. “Kelci with a C?” he asks leaning slightly into her field of vision.

 

She looks at him politely but a little unimpressed. “Yes?”

 

“Ilya Rozanov,” he says, extending his hand. “My friend Svetlana Vetrova,” he gestures to wherever she is in the crowd of people now, “wanted us to meet.”

 

“Oh yeah,” she says and takes the offered hand, but quickly drops it. “Listen, maybe the message didn’t get back to you but I told SvetlanaI’m not really interested.”

 

“Oh,” Ilya says, backing away a bit.  Fucking Svetlana.

 

“It’s nothing personal,” she adds quickly, “I just don’t think me and a hockey player would be a good fit.”

 

Ilya quirks an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

 

“I mean, aren’t you all kind of asshole jocks?” Her eyebrow raises just slightly to match his.

 

He laughs. “I mean, yes. But I am asshole jock who has skill to back it up. So is not really being an asshole. Just telling the truth.”

 

“Oh so you’re good?” She asks, small smile playing at her lips.

 

“Obviously you are not a hockey fan,” he says low, leaning into her space a little. “If you have to ask.”

 

“I’m not,” she says and her smile grows wider. 

 

Then she looks around suddenly, back at his face. “Ok fuck it. I like Svetlana and we’re in public and it’s well lit so you probably can’t murder me…I’m trans. Not really out at work but people in my real life know. So,” she sighs a little, “that’s why I don’t think it will be a good fit.” She starts to walk away.

 

Ilya steps ever so slightly in her path. “Maybe I can share something with you now?” He asks.

 

She rolls her eyes but gives him a hand gesture like, go ahead.  

 

“I am bisexual. Also not out at work but people in my real life, like Svetlana,” he emphasizes, “they know. So trans is not a problem for me. The opposite,” he says and maybe it comes out a little low and suggestive.

 

“Oh,” she says and looks him up and down, “Bisexual,” she repeats.

 

“It means I-“ he starts.

 

And she laughs, putting a hand on his chest, “I’m very aware what it means.”

 

When she smiles it makes her eyes light up, he notices and he keeps noticing it all night. 

 

-

The first date he takes Kelci on is sushi even though sushi is never enough food for him. But it’s a place near his house that looks kind of impressive. She’s easy to talk to even if she doesn’t know shit about hockey. Mostly she tells funny stories about modeling shoots, car expos, and her brief failed attempt to really live in New York. He tells her about Moscow and the ways Boston reminds him of it, where he likes to travel on roadies. 

 

She asks to see his place as soon as the waiter’s brought the check. And Ilya who has several open tabs on his phone currently about how to have good sex with a trans woman is only a little nervous.

 

When he lays her down in his bed, he starts by kissing her body everywhere. And kind of he just never stops. Even when he’s inside of her, his mouth is everywhere- her neck, her breasts, her mouth, her cheeks. He thinks about Shane exactly once, afterward, when he’s holding her, still kissing. She laughs and calls him “lover boy”, pushes him away. Shane would never call me that, he thinks, and doesn’t know why it would matter anyway.

-

 

September 2018- Boston

Summer turns into fall and pre-season is in full swing. It’s a hard moment to start a new relationship. He’s busy. Also he’s never been in a relationship so he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

 

He’s also not one hundred percent sure this is a relationship. Which is maybe perfect for right now. She parties and sees every social interaction as a potential modeling gig. She leaves him for long minutes in boring nightclubs, once leaves with someone else. But she doesn’t care genuinely when gossip rags mistakenly call Svetlana his girlfriend or he’s later from a hockey game than he expects. She stays over sometimes, makes them pancakes in the morning, or asks him to go on a hike. Sometimes they fuck and she goes home.

 

She starts tagging him in social media posts.  He finds out from his app and not from her.  When he asks about it, she is nonchalant, “You have more followers than me.  It helps my exposure.”  And it’s not exactly the world’s most romantic answer but at least it’s someone who wants to be seen with him.

 

-

 

Ilya is not nervous. He will be seeing Shane Hollander for the first time in the flesh in over a month but he is not nervous. He’s going to play well today, beat Montreal’s ass, and then ask Kelci to come over to fuck. It’s an easy plan, clear. No reason to be nervous.

 

He only looks at Shane twice when the teams are skating, stretching, warming up. He resolutely does not glance over at the Montreal bench during the game. If Shane is playing just a little more muted than usual, Ilya doesn’t let himself think about that. And when finally, inevitably, he meets Shane at center ice for their first face off of the season, his voice does not shake when he says, “Don’t worry, Hollander. Montreal fans are not mad at you for tonight, just a little disappointed.”

 

Shane does not look up at him when he says, “Why don’t you save the sweet talk for your girlfriend, Rozanov?”

 

A small jolt of pleasure rushes through him. Shane wins the face off. 

 

October 2018- Boston

The pre-season stuff rolls into real season stuff and he’s even busier than before.  He and Kelci text sometimes.  Mostly they are ships passing in the night, him waking up early for practice or travel.  Her staying out late at car shows and the bar where she works bottle service.  But they keep hooking up whenever they can.  The sex is hot and adventerous but Kelci still blushes just a little when she asks if she can top for the first time and Ilya who has never honestly tried it beyond fingers, says ok. If Ilya has a brief newfound appreciation for Shane who came hands free from this his very first time, he lets that thought float quickly away instead of fueling his pleasure.  After, she asks genuinely if it was ok and the truth is he likes it because she likes it. It’s a good sometimes thing they add to their repertoire.

 

On a rare evening free for them both, she comes over to try to learn hockey. He had stupidly not paid much attention to who was playing today, had really just planned to make out with her through most of it. He thinks that was her plan too given that she shows up braless in an extremely sheer top.

 

The announcers are doing their usual bullshit conjecture on the season over shots of the players warming up. And Ilya stops short as he’s explaining the positions on each team, as he watches Scott Hunter skate smoothly over to Shane who is stretching on hands and knees. He can’t hear what they’re saying of course. The shot is too far away to really even lip read but Ilya can tell Hunter is smiling down at him in this easy, fond way and Shane is not looking around, twitchy the way he does the few rare times Ilya has approached him on the ice. He watches intently, as Hunter gives Shane a little tap with his stick and then skates off. His ears are ringing and his fists are curled. 

 

“Why do they do that thing where it looks like they’re humping the ice?” Kelci asks and Ilya lets a not totally genuine laugh roll out of him and says, “Good stretch for playing on ice. Also good stretch for other things. Want me to show you?” She giggles when he attaches his lips to her neck.

 

November 2018- New York

 

Ilya slams Scott Hunter hard into the boards. He falls just as the whistle blows. “What the fuck?” Hunter spits out, scrabbling up quickly to get in his face. Ilya just flashes him a shit eating grin and waggles his eyebrows. Skates off to the penalty box and is glad for it, even if Coach will ream him out later. 

 

-

After the game, he meets Kelci back at the hotel and she is so excited she is almost bouncing. “Get dressed,” she says, eyeing him up and down in his game day suit. He’s tired actually, a little hurt where he had banged into Hunter but he’s a good boyfriend. He likes being a sort of boyfriend and he’ll do this right.

 

The party’s at some weird Frankensteined old house in a specific neighborhood in Brooklyn that Ilya cannot pronounce. There’s someone at the door checking names. Kelci pulls his shirt down a little to make sure his nipples show out of the sheer part. He smiles at her, bends down to whisper in her ear, “You look hot.” 

 

For Ilya, the party is boring as shit. Themed cocktails and no beer. Bland but beautiful people doing industry talk about a world he is not a part of. But he dutifully smiles with an arm at the small of Kelci’s back and fetches her a drink when she asks. 

 

When he gets back with a sparkling glass, she is hunched over in a loveseat, talking low and animatedly with some guy with a handlebar mustache. There’s no room for Ilya unless he perches on the armrest so he leans against a wall, steals a sip of her drink and waits. He must feel the eyes on him before he registers it because he turns to his left and there looking at him a little puzzled is Rose fucking Landry.

 

Ilya stares back for a moment and she actually pulls up an awkward hand and waves. Ilya panics. For about a month in 2016, he had been singularly obsessed with her, checking every social media page about her every day, often multiple times a day to see if there were new photos of her with Shane. He felt like he knew her, a lot more than he should, but they hadn’t actually met, right? Why would she be waving at him now?

 

He watches her excuse herself from whoever she is talking to and walk easily over to him. “Ilya Rozanov,” she says, “I’m Rose Landry.”

 

“Yes, I know who you are, Rose Landry.”

 

She smiles for a moment then schools her face, mock serious. “Well, I just came over to say don’t try to talk to me because I hate you.”

 

Ilya arches an eyebrow, “You hate me?”

 

“Yes,” she nods gravely, “I’m a Metros fan so…”

 

“Ah so you like teams that suck.”

 

“They do not suck.”

 

Ilya shrugs. “Never seemed that good to me.”

 

She levels him with a steely glare. “You better take that back. Shane Hollander happens to be my best friend.”

 

Ilya scowls a little. “You are not his best friend.”

 

“Oh I’m not?” she arches an eyebrow.

 

“No,” he shakes his head to emphasize the point, “His mother is. Everyone knows this.”

 

She lets out a quick involuntary laugh then smacks him a little. “Do not try to make me laugh at my best friend.”

 

A very evil little thought occurs to him and he leans in just a little into Rose’s space and says, “Tell me, Rose Landry, how did Shane Hollander fumble someone as beautiful as you.”

 

Rose’s smile drops immediately. “Have a good night, Rozanov,” she says and walks away without waiting for a response.

 

Kelci sidles up to him. “Oh my god. You know Rose Landry?”

 

Ilya bristles. “Not really, no. She is just hockey fan.”

 

“Damn,” Kelci sighs.  Then: “Do you think it would be so uncool if I asked for a photo?”

 

Ilya turns and kisses her cheek so he doesn’t have to answer.

 

-

It’s late and Ilya is fucking tired. He’s been drinking steadily through the night waiting for Kelci to be done with this insufferable crowd. Ilya knows how to be the life of the party, had been for about 40 minutes with Kelci proudly laughing on his arm. But the conversation topic had changed to some upcoming fashion week and Ilya had felt himself deflate, get bored and internal. He’d been scrolling on his phone in a corner ever since. Unfortunately, the damn thing is currently dead and he had maybe maybe dozed off because he startles just a little when someone sits down next to him.  

 

“So are you planning to stay here all night or…?”  Rose fucking Landry again.

 

He looks around.  The crowd has considerably thinned out.  He actually doesn’t see Kelci.

 

“I just have to find my-” he starts but his head spins a little when he tries to stand up.

 

Rose puts a hand on his arm, steadying him a little.  “The girl you came with left awhile ago with Simon St. Clair.”

 

Ilya doesn’t know who that is but a small wave of humiliation turns over in his stomach.  “Oh,” is all he says, “My phone is dead.”

 

Rose is just looking at him and he guesses maybe he’s supposed to get up, go home.  He can maybe wander the streets until he finds a cab, can’t exactly remember the name of the hotel.

 

“Do you need help?” Rose asks quietly, real concern in her eyes.

 

Ilya laughs a little, does stand then.  “Why would you help me?”

 

She sighs, “Because no matter how much Shane hates you, he’d want me to make sure you get home ok.”

 

Ilya blinks. “Shane hates me?”

 

Rose’s brow furrows.  “Yeah, you’re rivals.  How drunk are you?”

 

Ilya shakes his head but doesn’t answer.  He has to get out of here.

 

“Can I call you a cab?” she asks.

 

Ilya puts his head in his hands.  “The hotel-” he starts, “The address is in my phone.”

 

Rose sighs, then links her arm through his.  “Ok I have a car waiting outside. You can come to my hotel and charge your phone.  Then we’ll get you back.  Think you can walk?”

 

-

They get to Rose’s penthouse suite and she directs him to sit on the couch, plugs in a charger and hands it to him.  He sits quietly while his phone gets enough power to boot up.  Rose emerges from somewhere having shucked off her dress in favor of sweats and a tshirt.

 

“Need water?” she asks. 

 

Ilya shakes his head but she’s bringing him a glass anyway.  “It wasn’t really a question,” she says plunking it down on the coffee table in front of him.

 

He drinks and considers her as she scrolls her own phone, plays with her hair.

 

For some reason he doesn’t quite understand he asks, “Why didn’t it work out with you and Hollander?”

 

Her eyes shoot up from her phone.  She’s a good actress so a split second later she’s shrugging very casual.  “We just weren’t a good match.  Better friends.”

 

Ilya snorts.  

 

“What?” she asks with a little frown.

 

And Ilya must really be drunk because then he’s saying.  “I know he’s gay.”

 

Rose’s eyes go wide.  “I…” she starts and doesn’t finish.

 

Ilya waves a hand at her.  “Is ok.  I am bi.  We keep each other’s secret.”

 

If it’s possible Rose looks even more shocked.  “Bi?  Like bisexual?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya nods.  “It means-”

 

“No I know what it means,” she laughs without humor.  “And you and Shane have talked about this?”

 

“A little,” he says and it’s not exactly a lie.

 

“Wow,” she lets out a little sigh, blinks a few times rapidly in succession.

 

“Were you sad?” Ilya asks, “When he told you?”

 

She does smile just a little at that.  “I don’t- I’m not sure what I can and can’t say here.  But he didn’t exactly tell me.”

 

Ilya’s heart pounds.  “Oh shit,” he says out loud, “you didn’t know.”  He’d just outed Shane.

 

“No,” she says quickly, “I knew.  I definitely know.  I just- I guessed.”  She smiles a little wider, “ I mean, I kind of told him.”

 

Ilya lets out a booming, involuntary laugh.  “What the fuck?”

 

She looks horrified.  “Do not say anything to him!  Jesus, I should not have said that.  Fuck.”  She covers her mouth with her hand.

 

Ilya laughs a little more.  “No, no is ok.  Of course you had to tell him.  I love that.”

 

She rolls her eyes and sighs a little.  “You’re not going to make fun of him about this, right?”

 

“No,” Ilya says honestly,  “But you did not answer my question.  Were you sad?  When you figured it out?”

 

She bites her lip, seems to consider a moment.  “Shane is the best and I would have loved to be with him for real.  But mostly I just want to be in his life forever.  So friends is ok with me.  A really close second.”

 

Ilya’s breath catches a little.  “You are smarter than me, Rose Landry.”  

 

Her brow furrows.  “What does that mean?”

 

Ilya closes his eyes for just a second, opens them again.  “I think my phone is charged enough now.  I will call a cab.”

 

-

By the time he’s back at practice in Boston the next day, the news has broken.

 

“You fucking dog,” Connors calls to him as he enters the gym.

 

“How does he do it?” Marleau croons.

 

“What are you talking about?” Ilya barks, a little grumpy from his hangover and sits down on the stationary bike.

 

“A fucking model wasn’t enough,” Connors continues.

 

“No, no,” Marleau chimes in, “Our man had to have Rose fucking Landry too.”

 

Ilya’s blood runs cold.  Marleau’s already walking towards him with the phone, saying, “I wish I could see Hollander’s face.”

 

And there on the front page of some celebrity gossip site are photos of Ilya and Rose walking into her hotel together.  

 

“Fuck,” Ilya says out loud and shoves the phone back to Marleau.  

 

He’s out in the hallway with his own phone and pressing the contact for Jane before he can even think about it.

 

Shane answers right away.  “What is it, Rozanov?”

 

“I didn’t sleep with her,” he rushes out, “We were at the same party.  I just needed a charger.”

 

“I don’t- I don’t care.  You should do whatever you want.”

 

“Hollander,” he says but the line’s already dead.

 

-

It doesn’t occur to Ilya until after practice that Kelci might have seen it too.  When he calls her to talk about it, there’s not much to say.  Neither of them can exactly be mad.  They’d both left with someone else.  The relationship kind of fizzles after that.

December 2018- Montreal

 

Ilya is not letting himself be miserable. Just because he is playing Shane tonight and will have to play him again in three weeks at All Stars is no reason to have a fucking meltdown. He’s almost made it through the whole first half of the season not speaking to Shane. And it’s fine. Life goes on. It gets a little easier.

 

He doesn’t chirp Shane during their face off. He stays quiet, focused, ignores the way Shane chews on his mouthguard, waits for the puck to drop. It’s a brutal game. The puck seems to get stuck everywhere. No one can really make progress.

 

Marleau and Pike are on it, grappling with the puck as they’re about to get trapped in a corner. Ilya and Shane are close behind. It’s gonna be a fucking pile on soon. Pike lunges forward for it, lifts his back foot. And if Ilya hadn’t been right next to Shane- or maybe that wasn’t it- maybe it was the fucking alchemy they had together on the ice. Ilya always knew where he was, half the time knew exactly what he was thinking. So maybe that’s why he’s the first to notice when Shane stops. Wrong. 

 

Ilya looks at him. Shane’s eyes confused, touching his neck. And there is blood everywhere, fucking spurting out  to the rhythm of his racing heartbeat.

 

Ilya doesn’t breathe, doesn’t think, doesn’t know where his stick goes but he’s on him in an instant. Before anyone else knows, before the whistle even blows he thinks, he has Shane up against the boards, forearm pressed to his neck. 

 

“Where is the medic? Where is the fucking medic?” He’s yelling while Marleau stands stock still and Pike has gone completely white. 

 

He feels Shane crumple a little, knees maybe giving way. “Hollander,” he says, desperate and presses harder. His eyes are too wide. Like a scared animal. Dying. “Hollander,” he says again just one more time before the medical team is there pushing him away. They’re rushing Shane away, yelling quick directions at each other. 

 

The stadium is absolutely silent as they pull Shane away towards the tunnel. His blood is all over the ice in sickly zig zag lines and Ilya stares. No one has moved and the refs are uncharacteristically gentle as they herd all the players back to their benches. The nearest one puts a hand on Ilya’s chest and he doesn’t help, just lets the guy push him limply towards his team.

 

“Rozanov,” Coach touches his shoulder and Ilya nearly jumps. “Your jersey. You gotta change it. The cameras.” Ilya feels like he’s a rookie again. Can’t comprehend English. The cameras? The cameras are still on? Ilya looks down. He’s covered in blood. Shane’s blood, stark and wet against the white of the fabric.

 

Ilya somehow actually has to get back to the visiting locker room. He sits heavily on the bench as one of the equipment coordinators hands him a new compression shirt, a new jersey. Part of him doesn’t want to take off his soiled, wet shit. The blood is proof that Shane’s body was alive, at least while he was holding it.

 

By the time he’s back on the bench with the team, the zamboni’s been out. Ice is good as new. And if it wasn’t for the horrified faces of thousands of completely silent strangers in the stands it would almost be like it didn’t happen.

 

Ilya feels fucking numb. He lets himself consider for one fucking moment that Shane is currently in this stadium actually dying. That maybe as Ilya’s stupid heart continues to rapid fire in his chest, Shane’s is slowing down. Ilya cannot exist in a world without Shane Hollander. He has to bury his face in his hands to stop from throwing up. Marleau puts a hand on his back and doesn’t say a fucking word.

 

The coaches and assistant coaches and anyone else in a fucking suit are fluttering around, harsh whispers behind clip boards, rushing off with phones in hand. Ilya wants to fucking go home. He wants to sleep for eight years and wake up and realize this was a dream. He wants his forearm still on Shane stemming the blood. He wishes now he’d lied to Shane, said something like, “You will be ok.” 

 

He looks over for just a moment at the Metros’ bench. A couple of guys hunched over Pike who is silently crying. He doesn’t want to feel bad for Hayden Pike right now. Fucking idiot who sliced his best friend’s throat right open. He hates him. He doesn’t care if it’s fair. 

 

The announcement finally comes. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are relieved to inform you that Shane Hollander is currently in stable condition and being transported to the hospital.” The crowd actually claps, breaks out into cheers. Ilya takes one shuddering breath, closes his eyes hard against the tears while Marleau actually fucking hugs him.

 

The most insane part is they make them finish the game. Everyone looks fucking haunted. The game play is slow, sloppy and for the first time in his life, Ilya could not not care fucking less if he wins this game. 

 

As soon as they’re done and back in the locker room, Ilya says to Marleau, “You have to do press.” Marleau to his credit nods without protest. “And cover for me with Coach,” Ilya says, stripping off only the pads and jersey so he’s still in the black compression gear, already grabbing his bag.

 

“Rozanov,” Marleau starts but Ilya just shakes his head and he’s leaving the locker room, leaving the whole fucking building, not looking up once no matter who calls to him. He’s in a cab three minutes later and at the doors of Montreal General Hospital 15 minutes later. 

 

Of course they won’t actually give him any information about Shane. Probably the check in person at the emergency room even knows who he is because Montreal is nothing but a crazy, rabid hockey town. “I am here with MLH,” he keeps insisting over and over, “Is official visit. I need to-“

 

And he must have made enough of a fuss that someone went to check because suddenly Yuna Hollander is coming through the doors, looking fucking shocked as she says, “Ilya Rozanov?”

 

He’s so relieved he could fucking cry. “Is he ok?” he blurts out, hoping his voice is coming out even somewhat even. 

 

He watches Yuna look him up and down. Probably he looks a bit insane, sweaty, hair disheveled, might even still be some of her son’s blood on his skin. “Please,” he says then, “Just tell me if he’s ok.”

 

Yuna’s eyes flash something unreadable to him then she sighs and motions for him to follow her through the locked doors. She leads them into a little alcove in one of the winding hallways before she finally turns and says, “He just got out of surgery. They were able to close the artery but they need to keep him for observation.” 

 

Ilya’s shoulders slump. “And he is- he will make-“ struggles with the phrase for a second, “full recovery? Come back to hockey?”

 

Yuna’s eyes water just a little he notices when she says, “That’s why they need to observe him. There are…possible long term complications. But they are very optimistic.”

 

Quiet a moment between them. “And it’s Shane,” she adds with a small smile. He knows what she means- stupid, determined Shane. They could tell him he’d never walk again and he’d be doing bag skates in a week. Or at least that’s how the legend of him goes.

 

Ilya tries to smile back just a little but can’t quite get it to reach his mouth. “Can I see him?” He asks quietly to the ground.

 

“He’s really out of it,” she says, just the hint of shaking her head no. “Right out of surgery. I don’t think it’s a good time for visitors.”

 

Something in him bubbles up. The way what they are to each other has been a secret for so many years. Even to each other sometimes. The way no one, not even his mother could possibly understand how ridiculous it would be for Ilya to not see him right now, even after six months of near silence. “Please,” is all he can say, “I will not stay long.”

 

And he can feel the way Yuna is studying him. It might be normal for a rival captain to visit in the hospital after a serious injury but not like this. Not the way Ilya is doing it. She must be so fucking confused but for some reason, she says, “Ok, five minutes” and leads Ilya to the nearest elevator. When they are inside and Ilya is watching the floors tick past in digital numbers, he almost startles when she says, "They said the way you put pressure on the wound right away- it maybe saved his life. So thank you for that.” Ilya has no idea what to say, just nods small and tight. 

 

When they get to the little hospital room, Yuna is immediately introducing him to Shane’s father, David, sitting in a chair next to Shane’s sleeping form in the hospital bed. He sees them exchange a look over his shoulder but David rises and allows Ilya to take the couple of steps to Shane’s bedside. 

 

“Hello, Hollander,” he says softly, staring down. He watches Shane’s eyes blink open slowly, take Ilya in, then a goofy grin splits across his mouth. “Ilya,” he says in a loud and bright way that Ilya has never in his life heard come out of Shane’s mouth. 

 

Then Shane motions to him to come closer, closer until Ilya’s ear is just a few inches from his mouth and whispers so loudly it’s like a child in a play, “My parents are here so…” and doesn’t finish the sentence.

 

Ilya straightens up, glances quickly at Yuna and David who look genuinely perplexed by this scene. “Yes,” Ilya says, neutral, “I can see that.”

 

“Good,” Shane murmurs, eyes closing again. Ilya has the strongest urge to run his thumb so so lightly over the freckles under his left eye. It’s like Shane feels the touch anyway, even though he doesn’t do it, doesn’t even come close to touching at all and his eyes snap open. 

 

“You look so sad,” Shane says, poking at Ilya’s cheek with one slurry finger, lets his hand drop.

 

“Sad about you,” Ilya admits. “I was very worried.”

 

“Oh,” Shane says, shakes his head as much as he can muster. “It’s ok, Ilya. I’m ok.” His voice trails off just a little and his eyes blink slowly closed and Ilya does let the edge of just one finger brush for less than a second against Shane’s limp arm over the covers. 

 

“I’m glad, Shane,” he says so quietly because Shane is back fully asleep he thinks. He takes just another second to watch that steady fall of his chest and feels his own shoulders slump in relief or exhaustion or sadness or who knows what the fuck. 

 

Then he turns to Shane’s parents, thanks them, and leaves. He has to close his eyes in the elevator back down to the emergency room entrance when he thinks about how meaningful that was to him and how Shane will probably never even remember it happened.

 

-

It takes almost two weeks but a call from Jane finally comes in. He’s been tracking Shane’s recovery online everyday, multiple times a day from the official Metros statements to the totally unverified fan theories on forums. So even though he is about to go on the ice to play against Carolina, he answers it, he has to.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Oh,” Shane’s voice sounds caught off guard. “I didn’t think you’d answer. I was just going to leave a message.

 

“You want me to hang up so you can not really talk to me and say what you need to say to my voicemail?” 

 

“No I-“ Shane protests, “I just meant I was surprised. You have a game so I-“

 

“What do you want?” Ilya cuts him off because he really does need to leave the locker room and Shane is- Shane is so- fuck him.

 

“My mom said you came to visit me in the hospital and I just wanted to say thank you.”

 

“It’s fine. Was no problem. Opposing captains do this all the time.”

 

“Ok,” Shane says like he’s a little put out by the response.

 

“Something else you wanted?” Ilya asks because fuck if he’s not going to act pissed just because Shane almost died. 

 

“I mean-“ Shane starts, “No it’s- fuck. Forget it, Rozanov. Just go play your fucking game.” And the line goes dead. 

 

Ilya grinds his teeth for a minute, considers calling back. But in the end he just puts on his helmet and heads out with the last few stragglers from his team.

-

At break, he checks his phone and is so fucking shocked to see a recorded voice memo texted to him from Jane that he doesn’t hear Marleau at his side until he’s getting poked in the ribs.

 

“What the fuck do you want?”

 

“I said,” Marleau repeats apparently, “what the fuck did you think of my pass, huh? Thing of beauty, no?”

 

“Yes congratulations on doing your fucking job,” Ilya snaps and walks into the showers to listen to the message.

 

Shane’s voice is low and furious when Ilya presses play: “You’re such a predictable fucking player. Half your strategy is using the d-man as a screen so you can curl in with a wrister. But if anyone just keeps their fucking sticks in the shooting lane, you have nothing, huh?” And that’s the whole thing.

 

Ilya plays it again. Shane Hollander is fucking insane.

 

Ilya pulls up his own voice memo app, stretches his neck while he thinks a little and within a few seconds is spitting into his phone: “You have no fucking defense strategy. You think you can  coast because you’re a little bit good at face offs but you don’t know how to pick someone to cover. Hockey fucking 101. I’ve never seen someone get stuck fucking puck watching so much in my life.”

 

Ilya is a little out of breath when he finishes and walks back to the stalls to join his team. 

 

-

They continue like that for 2 days. When they run out of ways to insult each other’s hockey, they move on briefly to hairstyles, then clothing, each other’s houses. 

 

Ilya is currently recording: “-Maybe if I had so little personality or ability to think for myself, I would also have to hire a designer to get me fucking pillows-“

 

Shane is responding:  “-Maybe if I knew so little about real estate I would also buy some neo-modern brutalist hellscape in an over saturated buyer’s market-“

 

“-Maybe if I was so fucking boring, I would literally ask people about their house builds while they are very clearly trying to fuck me-“

 

“Maybe if I cared so little about anyone else or the fucking environment I would keep my air conditioning running at tundra levels in the summer until my guests could always feel their nipples out-“

 

And that’s what fucking does it. Two days of rage culminates in Ilya doubled over with laughter rewinding again and again to hear Shane shrill and furious, yelling out ‘nipples.’

 

Once he’s taken a few deep breaths and collected himself, he presses Jane’s contact on his phone. It takes five rings but Shane does answer.

 

“What the fuck do you want?”

 

“Nipples, Hollander, really? How can anyone say nipples this angry?” And he’s laughing just a little still. 

 

Shane huffs but he doesn’t hang up.

 

“I would have turned down fucking A/C,” Ilya adds, “Jesus Christ. You didn’t say anything.”

 

Shane sighs. “It’s not really the A/C I’m mad about.”

 

“Yes Hollander,” Ilya sighs, “I know this. Just like I’m not really mad about your dorky haircut.”

 

“Although you really should rethink your air conditioning temperature,” Shane starts, ignoring him, “I mean there are clear environmental guidelines about this kind of thing. I’m sure you could find the recommended range in Fahrenheit.”

 

“Hollander,” Ilya says.

 

“Fuck,” he hears Shane mutter, then he shuts up completely.

 

“Where are you?”

 

“My parents’ place. I’m gonna- I’m moving over to my cottage in a couple days though when the wound care stuff gets less intense. They’re driving me crazy.”

 

“I will come see you at the cottage.”

 

“What? It’s- you’re about to go to All Stars.”

 

“I will skip it.”

 

“You can’t do that. You’re going to be suspended when the season starts back up.”

 

“Is one game Hollander. Guys do it all the time.”

 

“I don’t,” Shane protests.

 

“No, we all know perfect golden boy Shane Hollander would never skip. But I will. I am fucking tired and I want vacation instead of fucking charity game for MLH to make more money off of me.”

 

“But I can’t, I mean, I can’t drive yet. It’s like two hours out from the airport. I couldn’t pick you up.”

 

“Then I will drive myself,”’Ilya says easy as anything, “I like driving. Like road-trip.”

 

In the end, Shane protests some more, comes up with at least three more excuses including that they’re kind of not really speaking to each other right now. But he texts Ilya the address as soon as they hang up.

Chapter End Notes

This injury has really happened to two different hockey players. And the fucking NHL really made the teams keep playing. Lots of clear PTSD for the players after this, pretty sad to read about.

On a nicer note, thank you for so many lovely comments on the last chapter. Please always feel free to come play with me on tumblr too :)

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Quick CW for some discussion around non-consent, also a little more discussion of serious injury

January 2019- Boston

Ilya gets the text when he’s packing.  The night before he’s supposed to leave for Shane’s cottage.  

 

Jane:

I think you should know I have a boyfriend before you come here 

 

Ilya stares at the text, drops the shirt he’s folding to hold his phone in two hands.  His brow furrows. He turns the phone off, then turns it back on again. Rereads the text for the eleventh time. Types something back.

 

Lily:

So break up with him

 

The response is almost immediate.

 

Jane:

No

You break up with your girlfriend

 

Lily:

I already did 

 

Incoming call from Jane after that.

 

“Hello?” Ilya answers, nice and casual.

 

“Are you serious?” Shane asks immediately instead of any normal greeting.

 

“About which part?” Ilya tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder so his hands are free to continue packing.

 

“You broke up with- what’s her name? Kelci?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No you didn’t,” Shane huffs.

 

“Ok no,” Ilya admits, “It was mutual.”

 

“Mutual,” Shane repeats, then: “Why? Why did you let that happen?”

 

“We were not- what is the word?” he pauses in his packing to move his hand around in the air, like he’s really thinking about it, “Compatible.”

 

A pause on Shane’s end, then: “Oh fuck off.”

 

Ilya laughs. “So you will break up with fake boyfriend now?”

 

“No,” Shane says immediately, “and he’s not fake!”

 

“Sure, Hollander,” Ilya swallows his smile so he doesn’t start laughing again, “I will see you tomorrow.”

 

Ilya hears a long sigh on the other end of the line. “See you tomorrow,” Shane grumbles.

 

-

 

January 2019- Lanaudière 

 

When Ilya finally reaches the cottage, Shane is standing at the front door by the time he gets out of the car. Ilya walks up the couple of stairs to the front porch and immediately, gently touches the bandage at the side of Shane’s neck. 

 

“Hi,” Shane says, breath coming out a little smoky in the cold.

 

“Hi,” Ilya says back and holds his gaze another second before pulling his hand away.

 

“What is fake boyfriend’s name?” Ilya asks, shouldering his way past Shane inside.

 

“Andrew,” Shane answers, closing the door and coming to stand by Ilya with his arms crossed.

 

“Ah so he’s not hot,” Ilya responds cheerfully, toeing off his shoes.

 

“What? Of course he is. What does that mean?”

 

“Andrew is boring name. No one hot has it,” Ilya answers simply, drops his jacket on top of his suitcase in the entryway.

 

Shane shrugs, “Well you think I’m boring so…”

 

Ilya steps close so they’re almost toe to toe. “Your personality is boring, yes. But you,” he pauses to look Shane up and down, “are hot. Is different.” 

 

He watches Shane swallow, then Ilya abruptly steps away to start looking around the place. “That doesn’t make any sense,” Shane calls to his retreating back. 

 

-

Shane has made a chili apparently. He presents a heaping bowl to Ilya already sat at the table.

 

“You should not be cooking,” Ilya says, already spooning a mouthful in.

 

Shane makes a little shrug, covers his full mouth when he says, “I don’t think dumping some beans and meat in a pot is considered strenuous physical activity.”

 

Ilya hums a little, unconvinced. “You should be resting. You are rich. You can order in.”

 

“You’ve been talking to my mom?” Shane asks with a wry smile.

 

“Smart lady,” Ilya waggles his eyebrows a little. “So what does she think of fake boyfriend?”

 

Shane rolls his eyes. “He’s not fake,” he protests. 

 

“Ok, ok,” Ilya makes a conciliatory gesture with his hands, “What does your mom think of very real definitely not fake boyfriend Andrew?”

 

Shane shifts a little in his chair. “I mean, she doesn’t exactly know about him.”

 

“No?”

 

“No,” Shane shakes his head, looking into his bowl instead of at Ilya. “My parents don’t really know I’m…”

 

Ilya raises his eyebrows when Shane trails off. “In a relationship?” Ilya guesses.

 

“Gay,” Shane clarifies.

 

“Ah, they would not be good about it?”

 

“No,” Shane’s knee has started bouncing. “I mean, I’m sure they would. I’m just…telling people slowly.”

 

Ilya blinks. “So you are telling people?”

 

“I mean,” Shane starts, scratching at his ear, “Not a lot of people. A couple of people.”

 

“Who?” Ilya asks, “Me and Rose Landry?”

 

“And Scott Hunter,” Shane says meekly.

 

Ilya scowls, starts to make a joke when Shane mumbles, “And Hayden Pike.”

 

“You told Pike?” Ilya laughs incredulously, “The man who tried to murder you on the ice?”

 

“That’s not funny,” Shane says but he is smiling just a little. “He feels terrible. He keeps calling to apologize.”

 

Ilya scoffs. “He should.”

 

“Anyway, I told him before that,” Shane says, chewing on the inside of his cheek a little. “He’s actually the one who introduced me to Andrew.”

 

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Now I know he’s not hot. No way Pike has good taste in men.”

 

“Would you shut up? Obviously I think he’s hot. He’s my boyfriend.”

 

Ilya stifles the urge to roll his eyes. “So why would you tell Hayden Pike before your parents?”

 

Shane sighs a little. “He’s my best friend.” Then for some reason adds, “On the team. Plus I got a little tired of him trying to set me up with all his wife’s yoga instructors.”

 

Ilya laughs. “Then fake boyfriend Andrew is not a yoga instructor.”

 

Shane gives him a withering look. “No, physiotherapist. Hayden went to him for a shoulder injury.”

 

“And let me guess,” Ilya leans in conspiratorially, “he was the only gay guy Pike knew.”

 

Shane does laugh at that, “Worse,” he says, “Asian and gay. I really wanted not to like him just to prove a point but…”

 

Ilya’s smile turns a little sour and he rubs his nose to hide it. 

 

“What about you?” Shane asks after a moment of silence, “How did you meet your ex-girlfriend?”

 

“Svetlana,” Ilya starts, “She is my friend from Russia. Her father is-“

 

“A famous Russian goalie. Yeah, I know,” Shane says, a little steely, “You’ve told me about her before.”

 

“Ah,” Ilya answers and takes a sip of his coke.

 

“So,” Shane prompts.

 

“So nothing,” Ilya shrugs, “She met Kelci through work, introduced me, we dated for a few months, and now we don’t.”

 

Shane nods his head, goes somewhere else for a minute by the looks of it. Then turns to Ilya suddenly and says, “I always figured you’d just end up with Svetlana. Kind of surprised she set you up with someone else.”

 

Ilya considers it, takes another sip of his drink. “Svetlana is a very good friend. But we are not- I’ve never loved her like that.”

 

“Why not?” Shane asks quietly, “She’d be perfect for you.”

 

“Apparently you can’t choose who you fall in love with,” Ilya says, voice a little soft. And their eye contact feels a little too loaded so he makes an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and says, “Who knew?”

 

“Hmm,” Shane says, more like a little puff of air than a real word. Neither of them says anything else about that.

 

“So,” Ilya says, rubbing his hands together, “We should fight now, yes?”

 

“What?” Shane asks with an incredulous laugh. 

 

“We didn’t talk for six months. We are mad at each other. So we need to get it out,” Ilya explains.

 

“Why would you be mad at me?” Shane narrows his eyes. “You’re the one who-“

 

“Uh uh,” Ilya says, holding up a finger. “I will do dishes first. Then we move to couch and then we fight, ok?”

 

“Fine,” Shane huffs and watches Ilya clear the table.

 

-

When they’re finally settled on the couch, Ilya takes a moment to look out the wall to wall glass windows surrounding them. It’s so dark the only thing he can see is their reflection, sitting as far apart as possible. 

 

“So you start, Hollander,” Ilya prompts, “Why are you mad?”

 

“I mean, you tricked me into having sex with you.”

 

“I tricked you,” Ilya repeats and his stomach drops.

 

“You said we’d just be, like, taking turns with the same guy and it was…” Shane struggles for a minute, "Definitely not that.” He pauses just a moment then rounds on Ilya a little more fiercely, “Did you ever actually even do that with Marleau or that was just a lie for my benefit?”

 

“It was true,” Ilya says grimly, “But no, it was not like what happened with us.”

 

“Did you plan it?” Shane asks, accusing, “Like you came up with this weird convoluted plan so you could still have sex with me even though you knew I didn’t want to?”

 

Ilya feels like shit, like a fucking Dallas Kent bottom dweller. “That’s what you think? You felt…violated?”

 

“I mean,” Shane starts and deflates, “I just wish I’d said no from the start. I knew it was a bad idea.”

 

“I wish you had too,” Ilya says honestly. 

 

Shane sighs. “So did you plan it?,” he asks again. “Was it all just you kind of laughing at me because I’m not as cool as you and Svetlana and fucking Marleau apparently. I won’t just lighten up and have casual sex with my friends.”

 

“No,” Ilya says and he feels fucking ashamed. “It was never that. I just-“ he takes a deep breath. “I missed you, the sex we used to have, I don’t know. And I hoped maybe if I pushed the boundaries a little you would-“. Ilya throws his head back to talk to the ceiling, “maybe we’d- I don’t know- kiss while he was giving us handjobs or you’d grab my hand when you were about to cum. But I didn’t mean for it to- it got out of hand. The end part especially when I asked him to-“ he makes a vague gesture, can’t quite say it, “my cum in you. I regretted that. I’m sorry.” 

 

He does look at Shane then. His eyes look a little wet. “I knew the app stuff was probably pushing the boundaries a little too far. I should have,” Shane swallows, continues, “I should have cut it off before Boston.”

 

“Why didn’t you?” Ilya asks, “The whole game- it was so unlike you.”

 

Shane thinks about it for a minute, brow furrowed. He’s not looking at Ilya when he finally says, “I never had any gay sexual experiences but you.” His cheeks go a little pink, “And I guess it felt a little safer to try it when I could still share it with you.”

 

Ilya nods. He’s a little touched. He also feels a little sick. “I’m sorry I kept pressuring you about sex with me when you didn’t want to. All the flirting and stuff even before you came to my house,” he says. Pathetic. 

 

Shane nods. “Thank you.” Then for some reason adds: “It wasn’t exactly about not wanting to. I missed that with you too. But I’m trying not to- or I was, I was trying not to want even more.”

 

Ilya swallows around the heart in his throat. Shane has just revealed that Ilya tricked him into sex so it’s not the right time to say- not even the right time to think about-

 

“What were you mad about?” Shane asks, shifting his feet under him on the couch.

 

“Oh,” Ilya says, coming back to the conversation. “Maybe it’s too small now compared to what I did.”

 

“No I’d like to hear it,” Shane says, encouraging.

 

“You stopped talking to me,” Ilya says simply, “Whenever you freak out, you run away.”

 

Shane looks a little baffled. “I just needed time.”

 

“I know,” Ilya shrugs, “But six months is a long time.” He takes in a deep breath. “I know you think because I am cocky asshole that I have no feelings but…I don’t know. I fucked up so maybe I don’t get to say this to you.”

 

Shane blinks. “Go ahead.”

 

“Happened also after I made you tuna melts. Remember? A couple of years ago? You ran then too.”

 

Shane nods just a little.

 

“And it makes me feel like, if I fuck up, if I freak you out, you will shut me out.” Ilya looks down, adjusts the cross on his necklace. This part is embarrassing. “I don’t have that many people, Hollander. I have team. I have Svetlana. I have you. When you disappear, I feel it.”

 

“Oh,” Shane says softly.

 

A moment where no one says anything. Ilya listens to the insects chirping into the night. He can only bare to look at Shane’s face through the corner of his eye.

 

“It was hard for me too,” Shane finally says, “When we weren’t talking. I should have- I should have come to you sooner so we could work it out.”

 

Ilya shakes his head, then his arms a little. “Ok, Hollander, we are done fighting now, yes?”

 

Shane smiles. “I think so.”

 

Ilya wiggles a foot, leans back into the couch. “You feel better?”

 

“Better,” Shane nods, “You?”

 

“Like shit,” Ilya says honestly, “But also better.”

 

Shane lets out a shaky little laugh. “I think we can do better this time.”

 

“Yes, ok,” Ilya nods.

 

They smile at each other for a second. And even though Ilya feels like the worst kind of person, he tries to believe that maybe he and Shane can be ok.

 

“It’s late,” Shane says, smacking his knee a little and moving to stand. “Let me show you the guest rooms.”

 

And Ilya on his best fucking behavior doesn’t let himself even feel disappointed for a second that he won’t be sleeping in Shane’s room. 

-

 

Ilya blinks awake, heart racing a little. He thinks it was a crash of some kind that woke him up. He listens for a minute, hears shuffling from upstairs somewhere. Blearily, he makes his way up the split level stairs and sees almost immediately Shane in the kitchen bent over the sink.

 

“Shane?” He calls into the darkness and Shane whips around. He’s holding his left hand in his right. Bleeding.

 

“Oh fuck,” Ilya comes over and turns on the tap, shoves Shane’s fingers in. Shane hisses. Ilya’s eyes, adjusted to the dark of the kitchen, see shards of glass on the bottom of the sink. 

 

Shane is shaky, sweating, avoiding Ilya’s eyes. He turns off the tap, grabs some paper towel and wraps it haphazardly around Shane’s fingers. “Hold this here,” he says, then, “Where are your band aids?”

 

“Bathroom,” Shane says, clearing his throat to get the sound out. It doesn’t take Ilya long to find them and he’s back, quickly wrapping Shane’s fingers firmly but gently.

 

When he’s done, he doesn’t drop Shane’s hand. “What happened?” He asks, barely louder than a whisper.

 

Shane shakes his head. “Just needed water,” he says, “I dropped the glass.” He pulls his hand away. 

 

“Hollander,” he says, trying to catch his eye.

 

Shane lets out a shaky breath, drops into a squat with his head in his hands. 

 

“Shane,” he tries again, stepping into Shane’s space.

 

Shane grabs his calves and plants his face in Ilya’s knees. “I’m ok,” he says, not sounding at all like it, “Just freaking out.”

 

Ilya puts hands on Shane’s upper back and rubs gentle circles there until he feels Shane’s breathing even out. Then he sits on the floor, hands on Shane’s shoulders. “What’s going on?” He asks.

 

Face to face, Ilya can see Shane open one eye, keep the other one screwed up tight. He almost wants to laugh but nothing about this is actually very funny.

 

Shane lets his ass fall to the ground so he’s sitting too, takes a couple of long deep breaths. “I’ve been having dreams,” he whispers.

 

“Dreams,” Ilya repeats gently when Shane doesn’t continue.

 

“It’s stupid,” Shane says with a humorless smile. “Just a giant skate coming at me. Cuts across,” he motions to his neck, “I wake up feeling like I can’t breathe. I came out here for some water but I guess my hands were a little unsteady. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

 

Ilya shakes his head, squeezes Shane’s shoulders. “It’s stupid,” Shane repeats, “I think just cutting my hand- the blood. It made me freak out. I’m ok now.”

 

Ilya puts a hand on Shane's cheek, directing his face up to look at Ilya.  Shane’s big brown eyes look very wet when he says, “I don’t know if I can get back on the ice. They want me back in Montreal to start training again in two weeks and I don’t know if I can do it.”

 

“Then don’t,” Ilya breathes, “Take more time.”

 

Shane shakes his head, “I have a job. I have a team.”

 

“Shane,” Ilya says, both hands on his face now.

 

Shane closes his eyes, goes a little limp against his palms. Then suddenly his eyes are open again and he’s wearing a crooked little smile. “You just want me to stay out so you actually have a shot at the cup this year.”

 

Ilya doesn’t take the bait. “Shane,” he says again, shaking his face a little. 

 

“I’ve never not wanted to play hockey,” Shane breathes and Ilya can see the tears in his eyelashes glinting in the dark.

 

“Was scary,” Ilya says, low and quiet, “Scariest moment of my life and it was not even my injury.”

 

Shane’s eyes snap to his. “What if I can’t ever go back? What if I’m too fucked up in the head now?”

 

“Shane,” Ilya says firmly, “It just happened. You are getting too far ahead.”

 

“I am?” Shane asks. He sounds like a kid.

 

“Yes,” Ilya says, “You do one step at a time, ok? Step now is to rest. Heal. Stop cooking very bland chili.”

 

“I had hot sauce,” Shane says miserably, “why didn’t you-“

 

“Was a joke, Hollander,” he says quickly, cutting him off. “Ok smaller first step- you need to sleep. You will tell team doctor about the dreams and maybe they can give you sleeping pill or something.”

 

“I hate pills,” Shane grumbles.

 

“Hollander,” Ilya says low, a little warning, “I will tell your mother on you. Don’t think I won’t.”

 

Shane looks scandalized. “You don’t even know my mother.”

 

Ilya drops the hands from his face, smooths his hands over Shane’s arms. “We are good friends now. We met in your hospital.”

 

“Fuck,” Shane says and leans his head into Ilya’s shoulder. 

 

Ilya allows it for a minute, then two, rubs some more comforting circles along Shane’s back. When Shane’s weight starts to lean into him a little more heavily, he gently pulls back. “Come on,” he says, jostling Shane a little as he stands them both up.

 

“Where are we going?” Shane asks stupidly, eyes sparkling in the dark. 

 

“To bed,” Ilya says definitively, reaching out a hand, and Shane only hesitates a moment before taking it. 

-

 

In Shane’s bed, Ilya arranges them, his front to Shane’s back, one of Ilya’s hands curled gently over Shane’s neck. “This way,” he explains, “if the skate comes for you, it will cut off my fingers instead.”

 

“Jesus,” Shane says, shuddering a little, but he presses his hand to where Ilya’s elbow rests just below his chest and doesn’t move away. 

 

“This ok?” Ilya asks into the dark, remembering their earlier conversation.

 

Shane nods his head, yawns a little. “Will you talk to me? Until I fall asleep?”

 

“About what?” Ilya asks quietly.

 

“Anything,” Shane breathes. 

 

“Hmm,” Ilya thinks a minute, takes in the feeling of Shane warm against him. “When I was little my mother would take me and my brother to the zoo a lot. Moscow has very famous zoo. Lots of nice animals. My favorite were- mmm I don’t know the name in English. Like big white bear. Likes swimming and cold.”

 

“Polar bear?” Shane mumbles a little dreamily.

 

“Yes probably,” Ilya settles into the crook of Shane’s neck, drops his voice quieter, “I liked the polar bears. They were very cute. Always swimming and napping. Swimming and napping. They cuddle together when they nap, you know? And they like to play fight. Very rowdy. Like hockey players. And always I would ask to visit them. “Please, please, mama, just one more time, the polar bears.” My brother- he always wanted the tigers, the monkeys, other faster animals. But I just wanted my big bear friends. I would cry until we got to go visit them. I never wanted to leave. That’s why my mother would call me mishka. Means little bear. Very common thing to call little kids in Russia but with me there was a reason too. So when I am 18, you will never guess, I am drafted to Boston Raiders and I am feeling very excited but nervous about new city. I don’t speak language very well. Only been to United States a couple of times. And I am looking up online information about my new team and it says one of the names they considered before choosing Raiders was Boston Bears. So I think to myself this is a little message from my mother. She is telling me new city, new life- it will be ok.”

 

Ilya stops talking, peeks over to see Shane’s eyes closed, listens for a minute to Shane’s steady inhale and exhale of breaths. He lays his head back in the warm crook of Shane’s neck and lets himself pretend, only as he’s falling asleep.

 

-

 

It’s still a little dark when Ilya blinks awake, the winter sun just starting to come through the windows.  Shane is staring at him.  Ilya covers Shane’s eyes with one hand, says, “Go back to sleep.”  Shane huffs a little when Ilya pulls him into his chest but Ilya places his mouth on Shane’s forehead, not quite kissing, and he goes still enough for Ilya, at least, to fall back asleep.

 

-

When they do get up, it’s late and Shane is complaining, like they have somewhere to be.  “You are still recovering,” Ilya says forcefully.  

 

Shane pouts. “I feel fucking useless.”

 

“No,” Ilya says and pads to the entryway where he’s left his bag, spends a minute moving some things around and pulls out a little baggie with one perfectly rolled joint.  He holds it up to Shane, “You just need to learn to relax.”

 

“Oh my god,” Shane says, immediately scandalized, “You traveled across the border with that?”

 

Ilya shrugs.  “I am legal permanent resident of United States now.  What are they going to do?”

 

“That’s not-” Shane starts, “I mean, congratulations, but that’s not how that works at all.”

 

Ilya puts on a Cheshire cat grin.  “Thank you,” he says, ignoring the reprimand.  “Now do I need to teach you how to properly smoke?”

 

“What if they drug test us?” Shane says, eyes wide.

 

“They don’t care about weed, Hollander,” he says laughing, “Guys on my team smoke all the time.  You just can’t get caught for steroids.”

 

Shane looks from the baggie to Ilya and back again as three times over before he sighs and says, “Fine, but we are not smoking it inside.”

 

-

It’s fucking freezing outside and Ilya can see his breath as if he’s already puffing out smoke though no one has taken a hit yet. Ilya huddles close to Shane, just for some body heat.

 

Ilya makes a show of holding the joint up to Shane’s mouth, “Take a big inhale and then hold it.  Is ok if you cough.  Everyone does their first time.”

 

“It’s not my first time,” Shane mutters, plucking the joint from Ilya’s fingers and holding out a hand for the lighter.

 

“Hollander,” Ilya says delighted, “When?”

 

Shane shrugs a little.  “My high school girlfriend had a graduation party.  She asked me to.  I got really high and just ended up reciting hockey facts and pacing the yard.”

 

Ilya barks out a laugh, “Of course you did.”  And they’re smiling at each other now, close and fond, until Shane rolls his eyes and breaks the moment.

 

Shane flicks the lighter, once, twice.  Ilya holds a hand, cupping the flame as Shane takes a drag.  He does cough, quite a bit and Ilya pounds on his back until it subsides.

 

“Ugh,” Shane says, throat tight.

 

Ilya takes his own drag, holds it in and tries to do some smoke rings.  Shane is watching intently.

 

Ilya looks him up and down, feels the weird light heady feeling start to come over his eyes.  “Tell me about high school girlfriend,” he says and Shane’s eyes snap up a little dreamily.

 

“What do you want to know?" he asks.

 

Ilya passes him back the joint and lighter.  “Only one more for you I think,” he says and Shane scowls.

 

Ilya laughs, puts an arm around Shane’s shoulders to pull their body heat closer.  “What was her name?” he asks.

 

Shane holds the smoke in for even less time, coughs just a little, clears his throat and says, “Jessica.”

 

“Jessica,” Ilya repeats and Shane’s grin goes a little lopsided while he watches Ilya hold the joint between his thumb and forefinger, bring it to his mouth.  He exhales a long plume of smoke and says, “You loved her?”

 

Shane laughs bright and sparkling in the cold, crisp air.  “I mean, I’m gay,” he says, a little slurry.

 

“Did she break up with you or you broke up with her?”  Ilya takes one more hit, watches Shane watch his mouth.

 

Shane swallows.  “I broke up with her,” his tone goes up at the end like a question but he continues, “Told her I needed to focus on hockey.”

 

Ilya laughs then, squeezes Shane’s shoulder.  “She was heartbroken,” he says, pinches Shane a little.

 

Shane smacks his hand away.  “No,” he shakes his head a little too vigorously.  “I think she saw it coming.”  Shane stretches a leg in front of him, watches Ilya tap the ash, put out the joint.  “But I shouldn’t have waited until the night before I moved.  It went on for hours.  I was so exhausted the next day.”  Shane lets out a little hiccuped laugh.

 

Ilya scrunches his forehead.  It occurs to him suddenly, “You broke up with her the night before you moved to Montreal?” he asks.

 

Shane nods.  “You wanna go in?” he asks, gesturing to the sliding glass door.

 

Ilya grabs his hand.  “But you and I fucked the first time in Toronto before you moved to Montreal.”

 

Shane’s eyes go wide.  

 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, evil and low, “You cheated.”

 

“I didn’t,” Shane protests.

 

“You did,” Ilya says and he can’t hold in the bubbling laughter, “You made me homewrecker.”

 

“No, no, no,” Shane insists, “It wasn’t like that.  I knew I was going to break up with her.’

 

“You are cheater,” Ilya says, pressing a finger into his chest, grin spreading across his face.

 

“Fuck,” Shane says, burying his head in his hands.

 

“No,” Ilya croons, pulls his hands away from his face.  “Is ok, Hollander.  Is hot.  You wanted me so bad.”

 

Shane shoves him hard, groans.  Ilya grabs him from behind and laughs into his neck as Shane stumbles back inside.

 

-

They end up on the kitchen floor for some reason.  Ilya has a playlist going on his phone.  Tiny Dancer comes on.

 

“My father loved Elton John,” Ilya says, his voice sounding too loud after they haven’t talked for awhile.

 

Shane laughs. “But Elton John is so gay,” he says, does a fluttery hand gesture.

 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, smiling up at the ceiling, “But everyone in Russia loves Elton John.”

 

“That can’t be true,” Shane says, grabbing his hand to shake it a little when Ilya doesn’t respond right away.

 

“It is,” Ilya says and tangles their fingers together a little more.

 

Oh how it feels so real

Lying here with no one near

Only you and you can hear me

When I say softly, slowly

 

Ilya feels the music crescendo in his chest.  Rides the wave of the overflowing tenderness he feels inside, squeezes Shane’s hand.  Turns to him to say it, can’t keep it in when-

 

The front door opens.  “Shane, honey?”  Yuna Hollander’s voice.

 

Shane’s eyes go wide.  “Hide,” he hisses and Ilya watches him for just a second scramble to turn off the music and stand up before Ilya rolls behind the kitchen counter.

 

“Mom,” Ilya hears Shane say, “Dad.  What are you-”

 

“You haven’t answered our texts, bud.”  David’s voice.  “We just came to check on you.”

 

“I told you I was doing a silent meditation thing.”  Shane’s voice sounds a little panicked.  Ilya wonders if they can tell he’s high.

 

“We know, we know,” Yuna says, walking closer into the kitchen now.  “But you just had major surgery and you’re all on your own.”

 

“It’s a mother’s prerogative to worry,” David adds.

 

“Oh like you weren’t,” Yuna says.  David laughs.

 

“Well, I’m ok now as you can see-” Shane starts.

 

“Oh, by the way,” Yuna cuts him off, putting something in the fridge.  “Whose car is in the driveway?”

 

“It’s um,” Shane stutters, then starts again, “I have, um-”  It’s silent for a moment and then Shane sighs, “Ilya Rozanov is here.”

 

“Ilya Rozanov?” his mom repeats and Ilya’s heart is pounding in his chest.

 

“Yeah,” he hears Shane say, deflated, “He’s hiding behind the kitchen counter.”

 

And there’s no other option but for Ilya to stand up, lift an awkward hand in greeting and say, “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Hollander,” like a fucking teenager.

 

They all stare at each other for maybe an entire minute of loaded silence. Yuna is the first one to break it. “Um, why the hell is Ilya Rozanov here?”

 

“Yuna,” David chides a little.

 

Shane looks at Ilya, back at his parents, eyes wide.

 

“Just visiting, Ilya says, nodding and Shane nods too, repeats, “Just visiting.”

 

“Because…?” Yuna starts, looking from one to the other.

 

Ilya realizes now they’d never actually put on shirts when they’d gotten out of bed, just thrown jackets on over their bare chests when they’d gone outside and promptly removed them when coming back in. It did maybe look a little suspicious.

 

“We’re friends,” Ilya supplies helpfully, which is true. 

 

“Right,” Shane says immediately, nodding vigorously.

 

“Ok,” David says slowly, “You two are long time rivals but you’re actually friends.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya says nodding and Shane nods too, repeats, “Yes.”

 

“And that’s why,” David again speaking weirdly slowly, “Rozanov came to visit you in the hospital right after your injury? Because you’re friends.”

 

“We are friends,” Shane affirms and Ilya chimes in with, “Yes, friends.”

 

“And how long have you been so friendly?” Yuna asks, arms crossed over her body, still terrifyingly examining them with her eyes.

 

Shane turns to Ilya looking absolutely horrified, eyes cartoonishly wide. Ilya swallows. “Not too long,” he says, “Just a few years.”

 

“A few years?” Yuna’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. 

 

“Maybe less?” Ilya offers, looking back panicked now at Shane. Shane shakes his head at him.

 

“What the hell is going on?” Yuna demands. 

 

“Um,” Ilya starts.

 

“I’m high,” Shane blurts out, “And I’m gay.”

 

David and Yuna’s mouths drops open at the same time. Ilya has to stifle a laugh behind his hand.

 

“Oh God,” Shane says and puts his forehead down on the counter. Ilya’s urge to laugh immediately stops and he steps toward Shane to put a hand on his back. “I’m gay too,” he says.

 

Yuna blinks rapidly, shuts her mouth. David starts, “Well that’s-“

 

Shane lifts his head from the counter. “No you’re not.”

 

Ilya looks at him, back at his parents. “Well, yes that’s true. I’m not. But I am bisexual.”

 

“Bisexual,” Yuna repeats.

 

“Yes, it means-“

 

“We know what it means.” David cuts him off. “I think we’re just a little surprised here.”

 

“Oh god,” Shane says miserably, putting his head back on the counter. 

 

“Ok, hold on,” Yuna says, literally holding two hands up to stop everything. “So just let me get this straight. You are high right now in the middle of the season and you are dating your arch rival.”

 

“No,” Shane shoots up, repeats it four more times. “I mean, yes, I am high. Sorry. But I am not dating Rozanov.”

 

Ilya tries not to feel too offended at how adamant the denial is. “Is true,” Ilya agrees, “we are both queer-“

 

“You use that word?” Shane interrupts.

 

“I don’t know,” Ilya shrugs. 

 

“Kip said we can but it feels kind of-“

 

“Sorry,” Yuna says, “Let’s stay on track. So you are both into men, let’s say, but you are not dating?”

 

“Yes,” Shane says, turning back to his mom.

 

“Right,” Ilya agrees, “Shane has secret boyfriend back home so we are just friends.”

 

“Ilya!” Shane looks murderous.

 

“Fuck,” Ilya says, covering his mouth too late.

 

“You know what?” David suddenly says and puts an arm around his wife. “I think we’re all just gonna take a breather and maybe revisit this conversation when half of us are not high.”

 

“Sorry,” Shane says, burying his face in his hands.

 

“We’re not upset about the gay thing, Shane,” his dad says quickly, “we do need to talk a bit about the marijuana.”

 

“And all the secrets,” his mom adds. Then when David elbows her a little, “But yes we’re- we love you. Gay is fine. We just want you to be happy. And sober.”

 

Shane manages to nod. 

 

“Sorry Mr. and Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya calls to them belatedly after they’ve turned to leave.

 

“Okay,” David says over his shoulder. And then they’re gone.

 

“Oh fuck,” Shane says, leaning his head back with the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. Ilya looks him up and down once and bursts out laughing. 

 

Shane turns to him, “It’s not funny!” He snaps but his mouth is quirked up just a little bit.

 

“Shane, that was insane,” Ilya says and the laughter won’t stop now. 

 

“Fuck,” Shane says and lets a grin bloom across his face. “That’s how I came out to them. That will always be how I came out to them.”

 

Ilya takes a few deep breaths, wipes tears from the corners of his eyes, “Me too,” he says and lets out one more guffaw.

 

He hugs Shane, one quick strong squeeze and Shane sighs with a dopey smile still on his face. “Come on,” Ilya says, pulling him toward the pantry, “I will teach you about munchies.”

-

 

Later, when they’ve napped on the couch and woken up pretty much not high anymore, Shane groans.  “Was that real?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya says, reaching out to squeeze Shane’s calf.

 

“I’m never smoking again,” he says, head buried in the cushion.

 

“Sorry,” Ilya says and his heart races a little as he starts to think maybe this is another fuck up.  Maybe this is another thing that will freak Shane out now that he can think more clearly.

 

“It’s ok,” Shane says with a sigh and heaves himself up from the couch.  “I guess I had to tell them sometime.”  Ilya watches as Shane walks away, gets Ilya a coke and himself a ginger ale.

 

“You shouldn’t have told them about Andrew though,” Shane says, handing him the drink.

 

“Won’t they be happy?” Ilya asks, only a little sheepish, “Nice boring boy for their nice boring boy.”

 

“He’s not boring,” Shane says, almost perfunctorily.

 

“You don’t call him,” Ilya says instead of pushing it.

 

“What?” Shane asks, choking a little as his drink goes down the wrong way.

 

“I have been here two days and you have not called.”  Ilya shrugs.

 

“He’s not really, like, a phone person,” Shane says, shifting in his spot.

 

“Doesn’t like to text either?” Ilya raises an eyebrow.

 

“No, we text,” Shane says and runs a hand through his hair.

 

“You haven’t been on your phone much since I got here,” Ilya says, casual.

 

“Because I’m trying to be a good host,” Shane protests.  “We stay in touch, ok?  You don’t have to worry about me and Andrew.”

 

“Not worried,” Ilya says, takes another sip, “Just noticing.”  

 

“Well stop,” Shane says, “It’s not really your business.”  And then he’s turning on the tv even though the All Stars coverage won’t start for another 20 minutes at least.

-

 

They have a good time watching the dumb All stars stuff.  They make some players compete to see who can get the most ping pong balls out of a box without using their hands.  Shane scoffs and rants about “degradation of the sport” and “skills competition should mean something”.  Ilya smiles and is not even a little sorry to be here with Shane instead.

 

-

Later when the All Stars stuff is over, when Shane is yawning and stretching on the couch, Ilya says, “You need sleep.”

 

Shane nods, says, “We should probably do separate beds.”

 

Ilya swallows, says, “Sure.” 

 

In the guest bedroom downstairs, he listens as Shane pads around, doing his nighttime routine.  He stays up listening, long after the noises have stopped.

 

-

When Ilya makes his way upstairs the next morning, Shane’s bedroom door is open but he is not in bed.  He hears a low, “Fuck,” from the en suite bathroom, lets himself in and peeks at Shane through the open door.

 

Shane is looking in the mirror, slowly peeling off his bandage to reveal the red scar on his neck.  He whips around when he sees Ilya in the mirror.

 

“Hi,” he says, going a little pink.

 

“Hi,” Ilya says back.

 

“I’m just cleaning it and putting on a new bandage,” Shane says quietly, like he’s been caught. 

 

“You need help?” Ilya asks and he can’t stip himself. He’s coming over to put a hand on Shane’s chin, tipping his head back just a little to see the cut better.

 

Shane takes a small, sharp inhale of breath.  Instead of answering he says, “I think it’ll make a cool scar.”

 

“No,” Ilya says, still staring at the red lines on his neck, “Not cool at all.  I will always hate it.”

 

Shane lowers his head a little to meet Ilya’s eyes, studies him a minute.  He pulls Ilya’s hand away from his face but holds it loosely between them instead of dropping it.  “I never said thank you for-”

 

Ilya cuts him off with a shake of his head.  “No,” he says softly, “You don’t have to- I don’t want you to-”

 

“I think you saved my life,” Shane breathes and his eyes go a little soft, a little desperate.

 

Ilya looks down at his feet.  His throat feels a little thick all of a sudden.  “You needed help.  I helped.  So…”

 

Shane squeezes his hand. “Are you ok?” he asks and Ilya does look up then but can’t quite say anything yet.  “I got so wrapped up with my own stuff the other night.  But you said it was scary for you too.”

 

Ilya sniffs.  “I don’t like to,” he clears his throat and tries again, “I don’t like thinking about it.”

 

“Ilya,” Shane says and touches his cheek then.

 

Ilya shakes his head but doesn’t move away.  “Took them 20 minutes,” he says, “To make announcement you were ok.  Then they told us to keep playing.”

 

“Oh,” is all Shane says but it comes out so sad, a little pained.  And then their foreheads are pressed together, Shane’s hand still on his cheek.  And their mouths are so close, their breaths are mingling.  And if Ilya wasn’t trying so hard to be good, to not do anything else that might make Shane feel taken advantage of again, he might might lean forward and-

 

“I should finish cleaning this,” Shane says and steps away first. 

 

-

On their last night together, they watch the All Stars game.  Ilya is relentlessly chirping Hayden Pike who went in Shane’s place.  Shane in retaliation is meticulously pointing out every technical flaw in Marleau’s play.  Ilya shoves him with his foot and Shane laughs bright and real, grabbing at his ankle.  Ilya never wants it to end.

 

-

When it’s time for bed, Ilya stalls, even though Shane is slumping down in his spot on the couch, eyes heavy.

 

“When will you talk to your parents?” he asks.

 

Shane turns to him.  “Probably tomorrow right after you leave.  Get it over with.”

 

“You will be ok?”

 

Shane gives a little smile.  “I think they’ll lecture me about drugs.  But it’s kind of a relief to get the gay stuff out in the open.  Even if it feels really fucking weird.”

 

Ilya smiles back. “You can call me after.  If you want.  Tell me how it goes.  I will just be driving anyway.”

 

“Ok,” Shane says, “Yeah, maybe.”

 

Ilya doesn’t press it.  But he does for some reason ask, “We are friends again, yes?”

 

Shane blinks at him.  “Yeah.  I think so.”

 

“I want to be-” Ilya thinks about the word for a second, “Open about it.  I don’t want to sneak around like we used to.”

 

“What?  Why would we-”

 

Ilya cuts him off.  “Lots of guys in the same draft class are friends.  We’ve done commercials together, events together, everyone watched me try to stop your bleeding on the ice.  It wouldn’t be weird.  Would be weirder if we weren’t friends after all that.”

 

Shane’s brow furrows.  He lets out a long sigh.  “What would that- I mean, what would that mean?”

 

“Just,” Ilya casts around like he might find the answer in the air, “We can talk on the ice sometimes.  Be seen together in public maybe. Can admit we are hanging out if someone asks.”

 

Shane takes a deep breath.  “That’s…important to you?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya says automatically and he can’t exactly explain why.  Something about Shane coming out more and him imagining somewhere in his mind that they might have done that together.  It’s only half formed but he wants it.

 

“Ok,” Shane says, rubbing his hands over his thighs.  “But nothing dramatic, right?  No like big announcements, just casual.  We kind of let it happen over time.”

 

“Sure,” Ilya says, easily and tries not to grin too broadly. “I will work on the social media post, ok?  Maybe your mom wants to tell the sponsors.”

 

“Fuck you,” Shane says with a little laugh that turns into a yawn.

 

“Go to sleep now, Hollander,” Ilya says, patting Shane’s thigh twice.

 

And for some reason Shane looks at him for a long quiet moment before getting up from the couch and saying, “Ok.”  Then they both walk off to their separate beds.

 

-

In the morning, they linger in the entryway a little bit.  Shane is nervously asking him if he has everything, running through a list- toiletries, charger, car keys.

 

“I have everything,” Ilya says, patting his side, which makes Shane finally shut up.

 

Ilya shrugs on his coat while Shane watches. They look at each other.

 

Shane takes one step forward, then two, and then his arms are wrapped around Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya places his hands on Shane’s back, rests his chin on Shane’s shoulder.

 

“I missed you,” Shane says, muffled in Ilya’s clavicle.

 

“When we slept apart?” Ilya asks stupidly.

 

“No,” Shane says, squeezing Ilya a little tighter, “When we weren't friends anymore.”

 

“Ah,” Ilya breathes, “Me too.”

 

Ilya closes his eyes and lets himself feel the sturdy, warm heft of Shane in his arms.  Friends, Rose had said to him, It’s a really close second.

 

Ilya is the first one to pull away. “I should go,” he says, stepping into his shoes, picking up his suitcase. “Say hello to imaginary boyfriend Andrew for me.”

 

“Fuck you,” Shane says with a surprised laugh.  

 

“Bye,” Ilya says.

 

“Bye,” Shane responds.

 

And then Ilya is out the door, into his car, looks up just before pulling out of the driveway to see Shane, arms around himself, hunched against the cold, watching him from the doorway.  Ilya lifts a hand goodbye and Shane reciprocates. Ilya takes a deep breath, reverses out of the driveway fast, and doesn’t look back again.

Chapter End Notes

All you sweet bb angels in the comments like i just know they're gonna finally get together now that they're at the cottage. and me mean domming you like i told you, i told you in chapter 1 there would be edging. hope it's still fun...i promise you will get to come eventually ;)

Come play on Tumblr!

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

still in a fugue state after hudcon met gala apocalypse...anyone else?

January 2019

 

Shane doesn’t call that day on Ilya’s long drive back home to Boston.  Svetlana doesn’t pick up either.  So it’s their faults really when Ilya has too much time to think.  He’s barely crossed the border back into the US when it hits him: he fucking hates Andrew.

 

He bites his nails and shifts in his seat.  He tries some radio stations.  Listens to a goddamn hockey podcast.  Cannot for the life of him get the burning in his belly to stop.

 

He pulls over at some rural rest stop in Vermont.  He has a cigarette while he stands outside his car, head against his arm resting on the roof.  He looks at Shane’s social media first.  He knows it will be a dead end.  Shane never posts anything but sponsorship content.  And even if he did, he would never ever post anything even remotely resembling a boyfriend.  Andrew is probably not even in his list of followers, he’s that fucking paranoid.  But Ilya checks anyway, huffs with frustration and blows out a plume of smoke.  There’s too many people- he can’t fucking tell.

 

He remembers Shane said Hayden hooked them up.  Hayden’s socials are certainly more active but why would he post something about his physio.  He has too many followers too.  Less than Shane obviously.  But still impossible to tell if the real Andrew is in there somewhere.

 

He taps on Hayden’s wife.  No obvious photos of hot Asian men- except one photo of the Metros team all gathered at Hayden’s house watching a game. Shane’s wearing that stupid blue sweatshirt that’s so oversized it makes him look like a kid.  The same sweatshirt he had worn the first time Ilya ever came over to his place.  The one Ilya had peeled off of him before laying him down on the bed and fucking him for the first time in his whole life.  Ilya adjusts himself in his pants a little, sniffs.  

 

Jackie has less followers so it’s easier to parse through but not everyone even uses their real names on these things.  He huffs, frustrated, walks inside to take a piss.

 

He doesn’t put the phone down for a second.  Dick in one hand at the urinal the other is typing stupid shit into google.  Andrew physiotherapist Montreal, Andrew sports physiotherapy Montreal, Shane Hollander Andrew, Hayden Pike physical therapy, Pike physiotherapy Montreal

 

And that’s when he has the break through.  Jackie Pike reviews things.  She has dozens and dozens of google reviews.  And one year ago she had reviewed Accent Sport Physio Group, saying they had worked on her husband and done wonders- 5 stars.  

 

Excitement bubbles in his stomach as he taps on the practice’s website.  Then Our Providers and there, third down from the top, smiling in a polo shirt is Andrew Liu.  It’s hard to tell much- just a generic professional headshot, cropped from the chest up but Ilya feels fucking feral with it.  He reads the bio, googles him, googles some more, finds his private social media, finds old posts he’s made on facebook of all places looking for housing in Montreal, asking about pet sitters.  He taps and taps and taps, consumes and consumes and consumes until he knows Andrew went to McGill, was on the rowing team, got into physiotherapy because of a knee injury he got on that very team, what year he graduated, that he’s approximately 32 years old, has a cat named Ginger, was in the audience for a Kyle Minogue concert at a music festival in 2014, and believes you can only treat muscle strain by working on the adjacent muscle systems. 

 

He’s about to tap on the social media of a woman he’s pretty sure is Andrew’s best friend when someone gasps next to him.  He looks up and a burly guy with a bored looking teenager is stopped in front of him.  “Are you Ilya Rozanov?” he asks excitedly.

 

“No,” Ilya says and quickly gets back in his car and drives off.

 

-

He thinks about it the whole rest of the ride.  Of course he does.  He knows what Andrew looks like now.  He’d seen a couple of full body shots on image searches.  He’s muscular.  Not like Ilya.  Not even like Shane.  But he’s in good shape, has good posture.  He has a friendly, easy smile and he looks relaxed in everything Ilya has seen.  He has a passing thought that that is probably good for Shane who’s always so tightly wound.  Then grimaces, hates that thought.

 

So Shane has a boyfriend, so what?  Such a juvenile word.  Boyfriend.  Who had said it first?  Had Andrew asked him?  Worked up to it, all nervous.  I really like you, will you be my boyfriend?  And Shane would have to say yes, he’d have to, not to crush the guy.  He’d probably had to have sex with him about it afterwards.

 

He tries to imagine them having sex.  There’s no way he can fuck like Ilya.  No one fucks like Ilya.  It can’t be enough for Shane.  Andrew probably doesn’t even know what a real freak Shane can be.  He probably never pushes Shane, never makes him say it, never makes him beg.  It’s probably all light kisses and I love yous right when they’re about to come.  Ilya blinks against the setting sun peeking in over the car visor.  Does Shane love him? 

 

He turns the radio back on loud.  That’s enough thinking for one day.

 

-

When he gets home, finally, stretching his sore muscles, there is actually a text from Jane he’d missed while driving.

 

Jane:

Talk with parents went ok.  I think I convinced them not to send me to rehab lol.  

Was your drive ok? 

 

Ilya’s heart speeds up just a little looking at it. He feels guilty, caught.  Though it’s impossible Shane has any idea what he’d done on his phone today.  He shakes it off, spends time dumping his laundry in the washing machine, drinking a whole glass of water, heating up food before he answers.

 

Lily:

Lots of questions at US border.  They think my accent is suspicious.  But luckily I left rest of the joint at your house so nothing to get caught with.  

 

Shane calls almost immediately.

 

“You’re joking right?” he asks as soon as Ilya says hello.

 

“Which part?”  Ilya asks.

 

“Well all of it but you did not really leave that joint at my house,” Shane says.

 

“Of course,” Ilya shrugs even though Shane can’t see it.  “You told me was very dangerous to go over border with it.”

 

“Where is it?” Shane asks and it sounds like his teeth are gritted.

 

“Hmm,” Ilya draws out the syllable, pulls the half spent joint out of his dock kit, smiling to himself while he rolls it between his thumb and forefinger.  “Can’t remember.”

 

“Rozanov-”

 

“I was so many places in the cottage.  My bedroom, your bedroom…”

 

“I swear to God if my mom finds it next time she comes here, I’m telling her it’s yours.”

 

Ilya scoffs, “She knows it’s mine.”

 

Little pause then Shane clears his throat.  “Actually, I told them it was mine.”

 

“What?”

 

“I told them I got it for like pain management and you were just teaching me how to use it.”

 

Ilya laughs.  “What the fuck?  And they believed this?”

 

Shane sighs, sounds a little nervous when he says.  “I don’t know.  I tried to be convincing.”

 

“Why would you lie?  Obviously it was mine.”

 

“I don’t know,” Shane repeats, a little sheepishly. “I guess I just didn’t want them to dislike you.”

 

Ilya’s breath catches and he can’t exactly figure out what that means so he just says, “Of course they hate me.  You always say in press about how Yuna is life long Metros fan.”

 

Shane does laugh then, “True.”  

 

-

Marleau is on him the very next practice. “So what the fuck did you have to do that was so important I had to miss doing tequila shots off of Tiffany’s tits in Ibiza and replace you at All Stars?”

 

Ilya turns to him. “Who the fuck is Tiffany?”

 

“My girlfriend,” Marleau says like Ilya is the fucking crazy one.

 

“I thought her name was Amber.”

 

Marleau shakes his head, adjusts his skate. “I haven’t been with Amber for weeks.”

 

“Weeks? Tiffany is already your girlfriend after only weeks?”

 

Marleau shrugs. “What can I say I’m a fucking romantic?”

 

Ilya rolls his eyes.  Marleau laughs.

 

“So really why did you skip All Stars?”

 

Ilya picks at his jersey, adjusts his shoulder pads, buying time.  He’d told Shane he wanted to be open about it so…

 

“I was visiting Hollander,” he says, wipes at his nose, casual.

 

Marleau stops dead and stares at him.  “You serious?”

 

Ilya holds the gaze.  “Yes.”

 

“So you guys are, like, really friends?”

“Yes,” Ilya repeats, a little shrug the only thing to give him away.

 

Marleau looks him up and down, considering, then breaks into a grin.  “So how the hell is he?”

 

Ilya smiles back.

 

-

February 2019- Boston

 

They don’t quite get back to the intensity of their communication before the ill fated threesome. But they do text most days, call sometimes.

 

That’s why Ilya knows exactly when Shane is back in Montreal two weeks later, still just practicing in a no contact jersey.  But he tries to act surprised in press when Steve Schwartz from ESPN says: “Ilya, some sources are saying that Shane Hollander is back on the ice in Montreal but he still has a long way to go to reach the level of performance he was at before the injury.  Do you think that will give you an advantage as we start to narrow down the playing field ahead of playoffs?”

 

“Obviously yes.  He is only one who can keep up with me.”  

 

“Only one on the Metros, you mean?” Steve asks, pressing the microphone in a little closer.

 

“Hmm?”  Ilya scratches the back of his head.

 

“He’s the only one on the Metros who can keep up with you?”  Steve clarifies.

 

“No,” Ilya says, “Only one in MLH.”  And he flashes the camera a devilish little smile.

 

- 

The clip gets a fair amount of air time.  Not quite viral but it makes its rounds.  People love the rivalry after all.  

 

“You’re such a shit stirrer,” Shane is saying, clattering something together in the background.  Shane only ever calls on Mondays when Andrew goes to his friend’s house to watch The Bachelor.  Ilya had gotten that out of him only after needling for the reason for ten full minutes.    

 

“Hollander, what are you doing?  Is so noisy.”

 

“Just loading the dishwasher.”

 

“Stop it.  I can barely fucking hear you.”

 

Shane humphs at that but the noise stops.  “I said I watched your little interview about me.  You’re such a shit stirrer.”

 

“What I said was nice,” Ilya protests, “I said you can keep up with me.”

 

“You’re gonna piss off everyone in the league,” Shane counters.

 

“Just because we are only two good players is not my fault.”

 

A pause then Shane sighs, “Yeah but you’re not supposed to say that out loud.”

 

Ilya laughs for an entire minute while Shane mutters at him to shut up.

 

-

The first time they play Montreal since the injury it’s at home in Boston.  Shane is not cleared for real play yet so he’s back in Canada.  Ilya keeps glancing at the Montreal bench, feeling off.  He still wins though.  He’s a fucking professional.

 

When he gets home, he sits on his couch, decides to let himself feel disappointed for just a second that Shane’s not going to be visiting tonight.  It’s good he’s taking more time, it is.  He can tell Shane is not sleeping well from the way he replies to Ilya’s texts at 3 in the morning, sometimes sends a random hockey article.  He imagines him laying next to Andrew, hiding his panic, trying to catch his breath without waking him.  It makes him fucking mad.  If Ilya was there he would notice.

 

His phone rings- Jane.

 

“Hello?” Ilya says, picking it up right away.

 

“Don’t say it,” Shane says instead of hello back.

 

“What?”

 

“I know they played like shit but don’t say it.”

 

Ilya laughs. “You called me.”

 

“I know.”  Shane sighs, “But don’t say it.”

 

“They played ok,” Ilya offers.

 

“Don’t fucking lie,” Shane says.

 

Ilya laughs again.  “I cannot win with you, Hollander.”

 

Shane ignores him.  “I’ll kick your ass next month when you’re here in Montreal.  Then we’ll see who’s gloating.”

 

“No gloating,” Ilya says, then more softly, “Wasn’t even fun to win without you.”

 

Then Shane equally as quiet, “I know.”  

 

Ilya’s about to say something very stupid so it’s good that there’s a rustling and the sound of someone else’s voice and Shane is saying, “Oh Andrew’s home.  I should go.”

 

The line goes dead without even a chance for goodbyes.  Ilya lets the crown of his head fall back on the sofa cushion and sighs.

-

 

March 2019

 

Steve Schwartz, probably trying to capitalize off of Ilya’s sound bite, asks Shane about it his first official game back, even though it’s not even against Boston.  Ilya watches the clip at his kitchen counter after it shows up on his timeline for the third time.

 

In the clip, Steve asks, “Shane, you’ve made an impressive comeback tonight despite the recent injury.  Ilya Rozanov recently said you were the only one in the MLH who could keep up with him.  Do you have any comment on that?”

 

Shane’s eyes narrow.  “I think there are a lot of great players in the league.  And Rozanov should worry more about keeping up with me.”  Then he licks his lips, leaving a barely there satisfied smile behind. 

 

Ilya breaks out into a grin and watches the clip four more times.

 

He calls Shane, even though it’s not Monday and Shane surprisingly picks up.

 

“I watched your little interview,” Ilya says.

 

“Oh yeah?” Shane asks.

 

“Very cocky, Shane Hollander.  I hope you have what it takes when we meet up next week.”

 

A pause and Ilya wonders for a second if he’s actually offended Shane.  Then in a small, nervous voice he says, “Hey, would you wanna…”

 

And Ilya has to say, “Yes?” to get him to keep going.

 

“After the game, I know we usually hang out.  But Andew’s here most nights.  Would you wanna…”

 

Ilya waits, then:  “Spit it out, Hollander.”

 

Shane sighs.  “I don’t know.  Would you wanna meet him?”  

 

Ilya blinks at his refrigerator.  “You want me to meet your imaginary boyfriend?”

 

“Nevermind,” Shane says quickly, “You are so fucking-”

 

“Yes, ok,” Ilya interrupts him and he’s not quite sure why he says it.  He hasn’t even really had a chance to think about it. 

 

“Really?” Shane asks, sounding almost surprised.

 

“Yes,” Ilya says again and tries to ignore the clenching in his gut.

-

 

Ilya is a little nervous, truth be told, on Shane’s first game back against him.  It’s not about Andrew, even though he is really going to meet him tonight.  Ilya hasn’t been on the ice with Shane since the injury.  And there’s something making him feel a little uneasy, a little superstitious maybe. 

 

He skates up to Shane during warm ups.  “Want me to take it easy on you tonight?” he asks, spraying Shane with a little ice when he stops. 

 

Shane looks around, a little nervous, turns his stick over, “Is that what you’re gonna tell the press when I beat you?”

 

“Such a vivid imagination,” he says with the stupid teasing grin he reserves only for Shane.

 

“Leave him alone, Rozanov,” Hayden Pike says before Shane can get out a retort.  He positions his body between Shane and Ilya.

 

“He doesn’t want me to,” Ilya says simply, gesturing at Shane with his stick.  “We are friends, right Hollander?”

 

Shane gives him a warning look.  

 

“You’re just trying to get in his head,” Hayden says, stepping up a little in Ilya’s face.

 

“Call off your guard dog,” Ilya says, angling his face to Shane.

 

“I’m serious Rozanov,” Hayden says, stupid little face going red and angry.

 

“Hayden-” Shane starts, putting an arm out to try to push him back.

 

“We are friends, Pike.  No matter how jealous that makes you.”

 

“There’s no way.”

 

“Tell him,” Ilya says, looking at Shane instead of the angry little man in his face.

 

Shane gives Ilya a pleading look.  Ilya returns it with a raised eyebrow stare.

 

“We’re friends,” Shane mutters and Hayden turns to him disbelieving, letting Shane push him just a little further away.

 

Ilya smiles victorious.  “Try not to kill him tonight,” he calls and glances over his shoulder for one quick look at Hayden’s pissed off face before he skates fully away.

 

-

 

He watches Shane maybe a little too much during the game, actually tenses when he sees Connors board him, though it’s not even hard and Shane skates away easily still in possession of the puck.  Ilya tries to shake it off and must do an ok enough job because Boston wins.  By only one point, but still.

 

-

Shane opens the door, the front door this time.  Ilya guesses he didn’t want Andrew to see him coming up the back steps, inviting too many questions about why they can’t be seen visiting each other, so Shane had deigned to actually let him enter through the front door like a normal person.  

 

“I regret inviting you into my house,” Shane mutters but gestures him in.  

 

“Maybe you will still get wildcard spot,” Ilya says, waggling his eyebrows with a shit eating grin.

 

“I hope you choke on the snacks I put out,” Shane deadpans.

 

Then he’s leading Ilya into the kitchen where, sure enough, standing at the counter is Andrew.  In the flesh.  Unfortunately, he’s hotter in person than in his pictures.

 

“Hey man,” he says with a bright smile extending his hand.  “I’m Andrew."

 

Ilya swallows, shakes his hand back.  “Ilya Rozanov.”

 

Andrew laughs.  “Yeah, I know.”

 

A long moment of silence then Shane pipes up.  “Should we-” he starts, “We could bring the snacks into the living room and sit on the couch.”

 

“Yeah, babe,” Andew says automatically, springing to action scooping up an olive container.  And Ilya grimaces just a little.  Babe.  He looks at Shane’s face, unreadable as he gets some drinks out of the fridge.  There’s no way he likes that.

 

When they’re all seated in the living room, Andrew throws an arm around the back of the couch, gently massaging the back of Shane’s neck.  Ilya has to take a sip of his coke to stop himself from gagging.

 

“So,” Andrew says brightly, “I’m excited to meet one of Shane’s friends.”

 

“I mean, you’ve met Hayden,” Shane points out.

 

Andrew jostles Shane’s shoulder, “That doesn’t count. I knew him before you.”

 

“And he is terrible,” Ilya supplies, making Shane roll his eyes.

 

“Hey,” Andrew protests, “He’s a nice guy.”

 

Ilya shrugs. “Agree to disagree they say?”

 

Andrew shakes his head, little smirk. “Anyway I’m just saying I don’t get to meet many of Shane’s people.  So it’s nice.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya says, just for something to say.

 

“I was surprised though,” Andrew admits.  “I mean,” he gestures at Ilya, “It’s you.”

 

“It’s me what?” Ilya asks, innocently.

 

Andrew laughs a little uncomfortably.  “I just mean the famous rivalry.  I was surprised to find out you’re actually friends.”

 

“Ah,” Ilya says, “so you are hockey fan. Dream come true to be dating the Shane Hollander?”

 

“Yes,” Andrew agrees, “I mean to the Shane being a dream part,” and he gives Shane a quick kiss on the forehead. Shane blushes. “But no, I’m not really a hockey fan.”

 

Ilya barks out a laugh. “Not a hockey fan?”

 

“No,” Andrew says, cool as anything. 

 

“So what the fuck do you two talk about?”

 

“Rozanov,” Shane starts, low, warning.

 

Andrew squeezes Shane’s shoulder but his eyes narrow a little when he says, “I mean don’t get me wrong. I can talk hockey. I grew up in Montreal. I’m just not a fan. The league treats you guys like cattle. The game schedule is way too grueling, their focus is on returning you to play as soon as possible no matter the injury, they ignore basic safety measures like neck guards,” he gestures to Shane on this one, “and don’t even get me started on the piss poor concussion protocols. They throw players away in trades they sometimes find out about on social media and once you’re retired they provide so little fucking support even though they’ve made you grind and damage your body with consequences for the rest of your life. And I haven’t even touched on the blatant homophobia and racism the league does nothing to address. So yeah, not a huge hockey fan. But I am a big Shane Hollander fan. My man’s the best to ever do it.”

 

Shane is biting his lip, barely containing a smug little smile. 

 

Ilya clears his throat. “Second best.” He indicates towards himself.

 

Andrew smiles, lets out a friendly laugh. “Agree to disagree.”

 

-

Unfortunately, Andrew is nice and funny and smart. He asks thoughtful questions, laughs at Ilya’s jokes, and they spend several long minutes relating on coming to North America as immigrants, having surprisingly a lot in common even though Andrew has been here since he was six. Shane watches them, eyes going back and forth between them. He doesn’t say much but laughs and groans in the right places. Ilya tries hard to ignore the way Shane places a hand on the top of Andrew’s thigh, the way Shane leans into him as he gets more and more tired. Ilya excuses himself to the bathroom just to get a break from it. 

 

When Ilya comes back, he can see Andrew murmuring something into Shane’s ear, small smile playing on Shane’s mouth, his eyes closed. And when Andrew nudges his cheek with his nose, Shane turns to him, their mouths meeting in a short, sweet kiss. Ilya stops breathing for just a minute, feels himself go dizzy with jealousy. Shane looks happy. 

 

Ilya forces himself to step firmly into the room, clear his throat, and announce he’s leaving. 

 

“I’ll walk you out,” Shane says automatically. So he and Andrew shake hands again. Ilya can't quite bring himself to return the nice to meet you but he nods, as polite as he can muster. 

 

In the entryway, Shane talks low so only he and Ilya can hear. “Thank you,” he says.

 

“For what?” Ilya asks, toeing on his shoes, not looking at Shane.

 

“You were actually pretty nice,” Shane says and Ilya does look up then, sees his small, fond smile.

 

Ilya shrugs. “I’m still not convinced you did not hire actor for the evening. Just to prove fake boyfriend is real.”

 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, shaking his head but smiling still.

 

They stand and stare at each other for just a beat too long. 

 

Ilya swallows. “He is good for you, Shane.”

 

And Shane’s eyes go a little wide, small intake of air. “Oh.” Then he nods, takes a small step back. “Yeah, thank you, Ilya.”

 

After they say their goodbyes, he descends the front stairs to his cab. He doesn’t let himself wonder why they used first names.

 

-

April 2019- Montreal

 

For some reason they start talking more again after that.  Texts, voice notes, quick calls as they’re traveling.  They shouldn’t.  It makes no sense.  They should be locked in as playoffs approach.  And they are but still.  More than once, Shane calls him late, maybe after he’s snuck out of bed with Andrew.  He never says and Ilya never asks.  It makes Ilya fucking miss him.

 

As it turns out, Montreal does cling to a wildcard spot and so Shane and Ilya’s teams are eventually pitted against each other in playoffs.  He can tell Shane is tired.  He’s playing well but not to Shane Hollander level and his team has been a fucking mess this season, making new lines when he was out, reconstituting itself when he returned, so it’s not exactly a surprise when Boston wins in game 4.  

 

Shane and Ilya haven’t hung out through playoffs at Shane’s insistence, have only sent hurried, taunting texts.  But Montreal loses on home ice so without even asking Ilya shows up at Shane’s back steps per usual.  Shane opens the door and immediately is turning away, stomping up the steps, throwing a dramatic tirade over his shoulder without so much as a hello.

 

“I had you,” he’s saying, “I had you in the third. If JJ had just fucking come around a split second faster-“

 

“But he didn’t,” Ilya sing songs behind him.

 

“I know,” Shane throws his hands up miserably, pushes open the door to his condo at the top of the stairs, “But it was so close, so fucking close. Like there’s this alternate universe where he was .2 seconds faster and I am the one gloating right now. And the barrier between that world and this world is so razor thin, I can feel it.” Shane flops down spent on the couch.

 

“Ah yes,” Ilya says, “But luckily we are in my world called reality where I won.” He flops down on top of Shane so his head rests on Shane’s stomach. And it’s weird of him maybe but he hasn’t seen Shane off the ice in weeks and he’s thought about him everyday, worried about him even, and he just needs to…well he just needs. 

 

And Shane puts a hand in Ilya’s hair, already chewing on the pull tie of his sweatshirt so he’s repeating through gritted teeth, “But I was so close.” And Ilya is laughing into his stomach, patting at his face, taunting, “You are just sore loser.” And Shane laughs just a little, groans, says, “I hate you.” And then it's so so quiet in the condo while Shane starts running fingers through Ilya’s hair.

 

Ilya closes his eyes. He’s fucking exhausted. Playoff games are more brutal in your late 20s. And he’d be truly happy to die here, laying on top of Shane, feeling his fingers on his scalp.

 

“I’m not rooting for you,” Shane says, after a moment, stifling a yawn, “I’m a Chicago fan now.”

 

“Fuck you,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s stomach. “You would be so happy if I won, so proud of me.”

 

“Never,” Shane says and his hand moves down to the shell of Ilya’s ear, touching so gently it makes Ilya shiver. 

 

“Always been a terrible liar,” Ilya says before he lifts up, shifts a little, and rubs his nose into Shane’s sternum, resettling. Shane rests both arms on his back in a loose hug. 

 

Shane sighs. “It should have been me,” he mutters.

 

“Yes, yes,” Ilya says, wrapping a fist into the loose fabric at the side of Shane’s sweatshirt. “Better luck next season.”

 

Shane shifts a little, jerking his legs, once, twice. “What are you doing?” Ilya asks, reaching down to pin Shane’s knees with his hands.

 

“Trying to kick your balls,” Shane says, laughing a little deliriously.

 

“You’ve forgotten where they are already?” Ilya asks, arching an eyebrow even though Shane can’t see it the way Ilya’s face is pressed into him.

 

“Have I mentioned I hate you yet?” Shane asks and pinches Ilya’s side. Ilya moves a hand quickly to pin Shane’s arm down to the sofa.  His body is spread wide over top of Shane’s and he smiles down predatorily as he presses down against Shane’s arching and wriggling.

 

“I should have tripped you,” Shane’s laughing, “Taken you out the rest of the season.” And Shane’s eyes are sparkling and Ilya’s grin is getting wider.  And with one last buck, Shane groans, head thrown back laughing and frustrated when Ilya recenters his weight heavy on top. 

 

Then Shane comes back to midline, puff of breath in Ilya’s face. They’re staring at each other until Shane’s eyes flick down to Ilya’s lips.  And then he’s surging up to kiss him.

 

It’s like they planned it.  It’s like they’d had any communication at all.  It’s like it hasn’t been two fucking years since they’ve had this. Their mouths just fit.  And there’s something new and foreign in the way he’s forgotten Shane’s mouth is so soft, the exact way he tastes but it’s Shane, still Shane and Ilya feels crazy with it when his tongue swipes in and Shane is moaning into his mouth.  Shane’s hands are around his face, pulling at his hair, rucking up his sweatshirt and palming at the skin of his back like he can’t decide exactly where to touch or maybe wants to touch it all, and when Shane’s knees come up to bracket Ilya’s body, Ilya points his hips down and their groins make first real contact.  He has to pull back for one breath.

 

Ilya pants into the small distance he created between their faces.  Shane’s mouth hangs open, eyes dazed.  And Ilya knows Shane will stop it, any minute now he’ll stop it and it will be more painful than a bad boarding to peel himself away.  So Ilya takes what he can, reconnects their mouths, presses his hard clothed cock into Shane’s again and again, while Shane shudders hot breath against Ilya’s lips, digs strong fingers into Ilya’s ass.  “Shane,” Ilya gasps, wet lips just sliding against each other now, and Ilya wonders if you can die from it, wanting this much.

 

Then Shane’s phone rings on the table next to them.  Clear as day in big block letters it reads: Andrew.

 

Shane takes a deep gasp of a breath, picks it up.  Ilya hovers still on top of him, so still.  “Hey,” Shane says a little breathless but maybe if you didn’t know it just sounds like surprise.

 

He can hear Andrew a little, something about he’s sorry, is Shane bummed.

 

“I mean, yeah,” Shane answers and his hand is still on Ilya’s bicep, his legs still around Ilya’s thighs.  

 

Andrew asks something about coming over.

 

“No,” Shane says, maybe a little too quickly.  “Like I said, I’m exhausted so…”  He stops and listens, turns his head a little further away from Ilya.  “Ok yeah if you’re on the way.”

 

Then most absurdly, Shane is saying goodbye but he turns his head back to look Ilya shamefacedly in the eye when he says, “Love you too.”  Then he puts the phone back down.

 

Ilya only realizes then he is still panting.  Shane stares at him.

 

“We should-” he starts then tries again, “I mean, we shouldn’t-”

 

“Right,” Ilya says, finally sitting up, “Andrew is coming over?”

 

“Yeah,” Shane says, sitting up too and not looking at him.

 

And Ilya rubs his face, lets out a deep sigh, and leaves without saying a word.

 

-

Shane calls him two hours later. Ilya doesn’t answer. He’s having a cigarette outside the hotel and he doesn’t want to hear whatever Shane is going to say. But then Shane calls again and again, texts too.

 

Jane:

Please can we talk?

 

Ilya sighs and taps the contact, figures maybe he can get it over with before he has to go back up to his hotel room, join Marleau in the fucking miserable dark.

 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says instead of hello.  

 

“It’s fine, Hollander,” he says quickly.

 

“No, I kissed you first and I shouldn’t have-“

 

Ilya cuts him off. “I wanted you to so it’s fine.”

 

“It was a mistake,” Shane says forcefully. “Obviously I have a boyfriend who’s a really good guy and you and I have agreed to-“

 

“I’m not sorry,” Ilya says bitterly. A beat then: “No, actually I’m sorry your boyfriend called. I wanted to fuck.”

 

“Jesus,” Shane says, “why are you so- why do you have to-“

 

“Did you fuck him? After I left? You were so worked up with me on top of you you had to get it out. You had to-

 

“Fuck you,” Shane hisses. “It doesn’t even mean anything to you. I’m just the only guy you can regularly hook up with without-“

 

“Without what?” Ilya yells, “You said this friendship plan- this stupid fucking friendship plan would make the feelings go away. But they’re worse, Hollander. They’re so much fucking worse.  Everytime I try to stop being in love with you, you’re just there with those stupid brown eyes and your-“

 

“What?” Shane says at normal volume, cutting through Ilya’s tirade. And it’s breathless, surprised. 

 

Ilya’s brow furrows. “What what?”

 

“You’re in love with me? You said,” little hitch of Shane’s breath, “You said you’re in love with me?”

 

Ilya shakes his head even though Shane can’t see it. “You’re not this fucking stupid, Hollander.”

 

“Well obviously I am,” Shane bites back, then sharp intake of breath. “Since, since when?”

 

“The whole fucking time,” Ilya says miserably and hangs up the phone, stubs out his cigarette.

Chapter End Notes

the people in the comments who thought maybe andrew wasn't real cracked me the fuck up. please someone write a fic where shane makes up a boyfriend.

anyway...mad at me for the cliffhanger? i did say i was kind of a mean dom...

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Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Surprise! We're ending on lucky number 13. iIve had the absolute best time writing for this community and I'm actually so so sad to have it end. Hope this was worth the wait ;)

Ilya doesn’t sleep after the call with Shane.  He tries but Marleau’s snoring is louder than he’s ever heard it.  And his hand is fucking itching to turn over his phone on the bedside table.  He knows Shane has called.  Probably walls of text.  He can’t look at it, doesn’t want to fucking look at it but it burns a hole in his brain, calling to him like a siren song.

 

So at 3:08AM when there’s a knock at the door, it doesn’t actually wake Ilya.  He’s surprised but he’s also not.  Knows exactly who it is before he opens the door.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Marleau mutters from his bed, “What the fuck?”

 

When Ilya opens the door, Shane is hunched over, hands in his pockets, sad puppy dog eyes on full display.   “Can we talk?” he asks.

 

“Oh, I don’t want to talk to you.” He looks over his shoulder, “Marly did you want to talk to him?”

 

“No,” Marleau mutters and shoves a pillow over his head. 

 

“He doesn’t,” Ilya says with mock pity. “Guess that means no one in this room wants to talk to you so…” He turns away, letting the door close behind him.

 

But Shane intercepts with his arm, squeezes in the room before the door closes completely. “Please,” he says, big brown eyes still aimed at Ilya.

 

“How did you even know my room number, Hollander?  Kind of creepy,” Ilya adds, arms crossed.

 

“I told the front desk guy it was a hockey prank.” Shane says, eyes downcast guiltily.

 

“Is this a fucking hockey prank?” Marleau pipes up behind them.  

 

Shane shakes his head, “No I-“ he leans in towards Ilya, “Can we, can we find somewhere more private?”

 

“No,” Ilya says, steely gaze. “You can say whatever you need to say in front of Marly.”

 

“No he can’t,” Marleau grumbles, turning over in his bed. 

 

“Rozanov,” Shane starts.

 

“What?” Ilya asks, all mock innocent. “Don’t want other people to know? Feeling a little ashamed about your behavior tonight?”

 

“Rozanov,” Shane starts again.

 

Then Marleau sits up, “Hey assholes, could you shut the fuck up? It’s fucking playoffs. I’m exhausted. Can you do whatever this is at a decent hour?”

 

“You’ve kept Marleau up,” Ilya says, rounding on Shane. “Are you happy? You know what a fucking monster he is when he doesn’t get enough sleep?”

 

“Fuck you,” Marleau grumbles, lying back down and pulling the covers over his head.

 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says with a frustrated sigh, “Listen, I’m double parked-“

 

“Oh he’s double parked,” Ilya calls over his shoulder to Marleau who groans. “Well in that case-“

 

Shane grabs his wrist and Ilya lets Shane manhandle him into the bathroom. The light is so bright when Shane hits the switch, it’s momentarily blinding. 

 

Ilya pulls out of Shane’s grip to sit on the closed toilet. He stares at Shane, breathing heavy, hovering awkwardly by the door.

 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, so low it’s a little hard to hear over the whirring of the bathroom’s exhaust fan. He lets out a deep breath, then louder. “I fucked up tonight.”

 

“Oh good, yes, please tell me again what a mistake it was to kiss me.”

 

“It was a mistake,” Shane says, eyes shooting to Ilya’s, “It shouldn’t have happened like that.”

 

“Yes and you already said that over the phone so why are you here?” Ilya bites, the anger burning up his belly.

 

“I just,” Shane starts, “I didn’t know you were in love with me.”

 

“So what?” Ilya says, shaking his head at the shower, avoiding Shane’s eyes.

 

“So I’m just trying to understand,” Shane says, shrugging.

 

Ilya laughs without any humor to it.  “Understand what?  I talk to you everyday.  I invite you to my house for a whole week.  I drive to Canada to spend just one weekend with you.  I beg to share a bed even if it’s with fucking pillows down the middle.”  Ilya’s counting them off on his fingers.  “Should I keep going?”

 

“Ok yeah,” Shane says, “I get that now but you sent some pretty mixed signals.”

 

“Mixed signals?”  Ilya’s eyes go wide.  

 

“Yeah,” Shane continues.  “Remember in Tampa I said I liked you?  Too much?  And you said it was just sex for you.”

 

Ilya casts around in his mind.  “And you said bullshit.  You knew it was bullshit.”

 

“Yeah I thought,” Shane says, “I mean, I hoped.  But then that whole night you were talking about how impossible it was because of Russia and your family-”

 

“That was true,” Ilya says, shoulders raised up to his ears indignantly.

 

“I know!” Shane sighs, “ So I thought you were saying, like, I don’t like you.  I’m not gonna even let myself think about liking you.  It’s not possible.”

 

Ilya blinks at him.

 

“And that’s why I came up with the whole friendship thing- to protect my feelings because I thought you were ok with the meaningless sex and I-I couldn’t be anymore.”  Shane shakes his head at the floor.  “And I had to convince you to even be friends, by the way.  You were just going to walk out that night because I didn’t want to fuck.  So no I wasn’t really thinking in that moment: hmmm maybe he has feelings for me.”

 

“I was surprised,” Ilya says quietly.

 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees.  “I get it.  I’m just saying you think it was so obvious but it wasn’t to me.  Even once we were friends, you kept encouraging me to fuck other guys.”

 

“I know but-”  

 

“And when we stopped talking you got a girlfriend, like immediately.  And you were everywhere together looking so happy.”

 

“Yes but-”

 

“And I know about Rose.  I know you didn’t-” Shane blinks rapidly a few times, “fuck.  But she said you hit on her.”

 

“That is not what-.”

 

Shane shrugs, still looking at the ground.  “She said you did.”

 

Ilya shakes his head, wiping at his face, “No, I had one moment.  I had one moment where I thought about it because I was pissed at you but I didn’t-”

 

“Ok,” Shane says, raising a hand, “Look, it doesn’t matter.  None of it really matters.  I’m just saying given that, given all of that- no I didn’t think you were in love with me.” 

 

Ilya is quiet.  It’s kind of shitty when it’s all laid out like that.  He’s kind of a fucking idiot.  

 

“I’m not good at this, Shane.  I don’t know how to- but it was about you.  All of it.  Because I loved you and I was trying not to.”

 

Shane’s eyes go soft, a little wet in that way he gets.  And for some reason he takes two steps towards Ilya and drops to his knees.  He lets his forearms rest on Ilya’s thighs and when Ilya puts a hand on his cheek, Shane holds it there, moves his head gently back and forth so the skin of Ilya’s hand rasps over his stubble.

 

It’s past three in the morning and they’ve just played a grueling playoffs round and Ilya hasn’t slept so he’s tired and pathetic enough to ask Shane then, “Do you love me too?”

 

Shane stops moving his head and meets Ilya’s eyes.  He nods instead of speaking.

 

“What do you want?” Ilya asks, swiping a gentle thumb across Shane’s cheek.

 

Shane closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath.  But when he opens his eyes, his voice is sure, unwavering, “You.”  

 

Ilya takes in a quick involuntary breath, lets his thumb move across Shane’s bottom lip.  Shane’s mouth gapes open just a little before he says, “I broke up with Andrew.”

 

Ilya can’t help the little smile that plays on his lips then.  “When?”

 

“After you told me on the phone.  I woke him up.  That’s why it took me so long to get over here.”

 

A surprised laugh comes out of him.  “Hollander, you woke him up to break up with him?  That’s not very nice.”

 

Shane shrugs but looks a little sheepish.  “I think I’m not very nice when it comes to you.”

 

Ilya squeezes Shane’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifts his head to look at him squarely.  “So what does this mean?”

 

And Shane shakes his head, gets a miserable look when he says.  “I can’t figure it out.  We can go back to before, fucking in secret but at least being honest with each other.  But it still means we only see each other a handful of times a year.  We always have to look over our shoulders until we retire.””

 

Ilya scowls.  “I don’t want that.” 

 

“I don’t see another option,” Shane says with a sigh.  “Doing this for real would be so bad.  I mean, the coming out would be bad enough but the fact that it’s you and me would make it so much worse. They all think we hate each other. The fans would feel betrayed.  Our teams would feel betrayed. The league makes money off of this rivalry- I don’t even know all the things they could do to make our lives hell, investigate us for game tampering maybe. I really don’t know.”

 

Ilya’s hands snake down to Shane’s shoulders and it doesn’t take long before he says,  “Ok.”

 

“Ok?” Shane asks incredulously.

 

Ilya shrugs.  “I am permanent resident of the United States now, will be citizen in a few years.  I don’t have any reason to go back to Russia and I don’t want to.  I’ve won a cup and I am about to win one more,” Fond little scoff from Shane at that.  “So I don’t care about the rest.  They can trade me to shitty team and I will still win cups.  They can give me bad contract terms and I will still be fucking rich.  They can investigate me but they won’t find anything.  So let it happen.  All of it. Will be worth it if I have you.”

 

Shane lets out a little gasp. “Oh fuck.”

 

Ilya laughs.  “What?”

 

Shane swallows.  “Can I suck your cock?

 

“Hollander,” Ilya is all mock indignation. “I am making very romantic speech and you are thinking about my cock?”

 

“I know,” Shane says, covering his face in his hands, “But I love you.  I love you so fucking much and I just need to- I need-”

 

Ilya pulls Shane’s hands away from his face.  “Ok,” he says, “Shhh, ok.”

 

And it doesn’t take long.  Shane is beautiful and ravenous, eyes dark and wet looking up at him.  He has to pull his hair and grunt out, “Shut up. Marleau,” when Shane moans too loud around his cock.  He should be embarrassed actually about how short it takes but when he’s looking down at Shane he sees 17 year old Shane shaking his hand with a nervous smile, 19 year old Shane determined and red faced dropping to his knees, 20 year old Shane gasping underneath him as he takes his dick for the first time and on and on, all the many Shanes he has known for more than a decade.  And he thinks fuck I’ve loved him for so long as he comes down Shane’s throat.

 

He pulls Shane up to him immediately, barely giving him time to swallow, definitely not to catch his breath,  And they’re kissing so so fiercely, gasping into each other’s mouth.  Ilya feels dizzy, snakes a hand under Shane’s waistband to stroke at his hard cock.  And it’s probably the worst handjob he’s ever given, dry and rough and no rhythm at all but it only takes another minute after Ilya presses his tongue into Shane’s mouth for him to come hard over Ilya’s hand.

 

They don’t stop.  The kissing keeps going for a long, long time until it’s getting slower and sloppy and Ilya can tell that Shane’s knees must hurt because he’s shifting his weight restlessly.  “We will figure it out,” he murmurs, then kisses Shane again, “After I win the cup.”

 

“After,” Shane pants and kisses him again too.  And it takes at least 12 more tries before they can separate their mouths for good.

 

-

In the morning, Ilya has a headache and adrenaline is making him feel twitchy after too little sleep.  Marleau is making fun of him for looking like shit, telling him he deserves it.  But he hands Ilya coffee just before they step out of the hotel lobby and says, “So you and Hollander, like, for real?”

 

And Ilya smiles, wide and bright, can only say, “Yes.” 

 

-

June 2019- Boston

 

Ilya’s teammates rush him.  Their bodies clatter together, helmets strewn all over the ice.  Sweat and tears are running down Ilya’s face, stinging the corners of his eyes.  He’s yelling and laughing in the middle of the thrum as the commissioner says, “The Boston Raiders are your 2019 Stanly Cup Champions!”

 

After he’s kissed the cup and raised it for the whole world to see, after the family and friends flood the ice then and only then does he let his eyes lift to the crowd and find Shane.  

 

They haven’t told anyone about it.  They haven’t even fully made the plan.  Ilya’s been fucking busy and exhausted with playoffs, half asleep on the phone to Shane every night, only enough energy to murmur.  “I love you, fuck, I love you.”  Not even phone sex.  But players from other teams don’t come to Stanly cup finals.  So it might be admission enough.

 

Shane in a stupid baseball cap that’s doing actually nothing to hide that it’s him. Shane chewing his lip holding Ilya’s  gaze with the strangest expression that Ilya can’t read. Ilya jerks his head towards the ice. Shane shakes his head, tight and furious. Ilya does it again, pointing towards the penalty box. Shane looks around nervously but then rolls his eyes and is standing. Ilya breaks into a smile as he watches Shane make the short trek down. Ilya knows the cameras must be tracking Shane too. God knows what the announcers are saying about this to the people at home. 

 

When Shane reaches him, he pulls his cap down a little further, crosses arms over his chest. Ilya angles his body so he’s between Shane and the camera filming them. “Fuck off, he says to the guy operating it. The guy splutters. “Fuck off,” he repeats and the guy doesn’t stop filming them completely but he mutters something into his earpiece and backs up a considerable distance. 

 

“Come on to the ice,” Ilya says, turning back to Shane and offering out a hand.

 

“No,” Shane says immediately, angling his body away.

 

“Come on,” Ilya tries again.

 

“Do not Scott Hunter me,” Shane hisses low and threatening.

 

“I would never,” Ilya acts mock offended. “I wasn’t even thinking that.” And he’s doing his stupid broad underbite grin that only Shane can seem to get out of him

 

And Shane is biting his lip belying just the tiniest smirk. And they’re just looking at each other. Just looking for a whole entire minute until Ilya sees it. Shane’s lip wobbles. 

 

He laughs, delighted, when a single tear rolls down Shane’s cheek. “Crybaby,” he says, smile going broader.

 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, wiping it away hastily, “you cried,” and indicates towards Ilya’s tear streaked face.

 

“I just won the cup!” Ilya protests.

 

Shane shrugs, “Well my boyfriend just won the cup,” and his voice breaks just a little at the end.

 

Ilya is fucking beaming.  He could power every light in the stadium with the feeling in his chest. “Ok now I am going to Scott Hunter you,” he says, rushing towards Shane.

 

Shane jumps back, holding out his hands in defense. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

 

Ilya leans against the boards. “I have to go out and celebrate with my team. But I will see you later, yes?”

 

“Later,” Shane says with a nod. And they smile at each other for just another second before Shane turns to walk away.

 

Ilya calls after his retreating back. “I bought you Rozanov jersey to wear. For private celebration.”

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Shane calls back without even turning around. 

 

And Ilya has never in his whole stupid little life felt this happy.

 

-

Afterwards, it goes like this. 

 

Laying on their stomachs side by side in bed, shoulders knocking, they make a plan.  They’ll tell the people that matter; they won’t be a secret in their own real lives. They’ll tell the league so no one can ever question their legacies later. They won’t tell the whole fucking world.

 

They’ll still have to get by on four times a year rendezvous but they’ll spend every minute off season that they can. They’ll talk everyday. They’ll play good fucking hockey until they can’t and then they’ll move in together. Still no big announcement, still no reveal. Could be 5 more years, could be 10. And Ilya thinks they’ll end up in Boston. Shane thinks they’ll end up in Ottawa. Truth be told Ilya doesn’t really care. He’s never been so fucking excited for retirement. 

 

-

It goes like this:

 

Shane’s mom gapes and says, “Didn’t you tell us you weren’t dating?” At the same time his dad says, “So this is why you haven’t mentioned Andrew for awhile?”

 

And when they’re done sharing the short version of the story, Yuna gives a big sigh. 

 

“You are disappointed,” Ilya observes.

 

Yuna looks him straight in the eyes for a full five seconds, shrugs her shoulders and says, “He could do worse.” 

 

Shane squeezes his hand under the table. 

 

-

It goes like this:

 

Rose goes completely silent but they can still hear the sounds of traffic in the background.

 

“Um, Rose?” Shane asks tentatively. 

 

“Holy shit,” she says laughing. “Is the dick amazing? Please tell me he has the skills to back up that bravado.”

 

Shane looks at Ilya who is smiling delighted, clears his throat and says, “Um, I probably should have mentioned I have you on speaker phone.”

 

“Oh my fucking god,” ’Rose mutters.

 

“But yes,” Ilya chimes in,” The dick is amazing.” Shane slaps him in the chest.

 

-

It goes like this.

 

“It’s still kind of hard to believe you’re dating this asshole,” Hayden blurts out in the middle of their meal.

 

“Hayden,” Jackie hisses, kicking him under the table. 

 

“Is ok,” Ilya says, “I know he just needs time to adjust.” He turns to Hayden: “I can tell you are trying really hard, Pike. Just like on the ice.”

 

Shane slaps a hand over Ilya’s mouth, muzzling him. “Sorry Hayd,” Shane says. Then takes his hand off, disgusted, after Ilya licks at his palm. 

 

“Maybe we try that again later tonight?” Ilya leans in and stage whispers and Hayden chokes a little on his fish. 

 

-

It goes like this:

 

Shane falls asleep on the couch while they’re all watching a movie, head lulling onto Ilya’s chest and he kisses Shane’s head absentmindedly, turns the volume down just a notch.

 

He feels Svetlana staring at him. 

 

“What?” He asks, a little petulantly. 

 

Her smile is soft when she says, “You two are beautiful together. Good thing you didn’t listen to me.”

 

Ilya lets the smile slowly grow on his mouth. “I never do,” he says.

 

-

 

It goes like this:

 

Marleau claps a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “See man, so I was right to tell you to finally give up on Montreal girl. Or you never would have gotten with Hollander.”

 

Shane whips his head around to Ilya, “What Montreal girl?”

 

“Oh man,” Marleau laughs. “Don’t be jealous, Hollander. I’m sure he’s over it now but he was so down bad for this chick in Montreal.”

 

“Marly,” Ilya starts.

 

“What, it’s true?” Marleau says, arms open grinning broadly, “He would never go out with us in that city. Always rushing to meet up with her. Refused to let any of us meet her. He almost cried the one time we got snowed out of a game there.”

 

“Marly,” Ilya tries again.

 

“He fucking blushed reading her texts in the locker room. Can you believe that?” He pats Ilya on the cheek. 

 

“Marleau you fucking idiot-” Ilya starts.

 

But Shane interrupts him.  “It’s ok,” he says, touching Ilya’s hand. “I had someone like that in Boston.”

 

-

It goes like this. 

 

He knocks on Coach’s office door and hears a gruff “Come in.”

 

“Good morning, my favorite Coach,” Ilya sing songs, plopping down in the chair across from his desk. “Remember how I just won you a cup?”

 

Coach raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

 

“And remember how this is the second cup I’ve won you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And remember how I have been very dedicated captain, dragging this shit team back to glory from the first year you drafted me?”

 

“What do you want, Rozanov?” he gruffs.

 

“Just want you to remember that when I let you know I am dating Shane Hollander.”

 

Dead silence as coach’s eyes go wide.

 

“And when I say Shane Hollander I mean number 24 on the Montreal Metros.”

 

Coach sputters for a minute.  “This is a joke right?”

 

“No, not a joke. I think there is some HR paperwork I maybe need to sign. Probably it doesn’t even exist for MLH but we hear the lesbians in PWHL do it all the time so maybe they have, like, a form you can copy.”

 

Coach blinks.  “You wanna sign paperwork saying that you’re dating Shane Hollander?”

 

“Yes will protect us later from any allegations or whatever. And is a little bit romantic right?”

 

Coach gapes.

 

“That part was joke. But anyway, get back to me about it, yes?”

 

He’s almost out the door when he turns around and leans back in the doorframe. “Oh and we have attorneys- me and Hollander. So no funny business, ok? Thank you coach!” 

 

Ilya gets one more glimpse of coach blinking with his mouth hanging open before he walks away. 

-

 

It goes like this.

 

“Listen up motherfuckers," he calls to the locker room on their first practice back. “ I have some announcements to make before we get on the ice. First, I am bisexual.  Now I know you are all very stupid cavemen so I will explain what tt means-”

 

St. Simon pipes up, “We know what bisexual means.  We live in fucking Boston.” 

 

The guys mutter in agreement, nod their heads at one another. 

 

“Ok fine,” Ilya mutters, “Well what you do not know is I am dating most beautiful man in the world, Shane Hollander. Yes, that Shane Hollander from Montreal. No is not joke.”

 

A couple of the guys are looking at each other like they’re trying to figure out if this is a hazing thing.  Carmichael lets out a “What the fuck?”  Marleau is grinning.

 

Ilya continues, “Let me anticipate some other questions. No, you cannot ask me about the sex. But obviously is very good. No, we have never cheated or thrown any games for each other. I don’t need to because I am very good.  Best one on this team.  No, I am not attracted to any of you and never have been. You are all ugly motherfuckers and could never compare to my boyfriend Shane Hollander.”

 

He pauses for a moment, then finishes with: “If anyone has problem with any of this, feel free to ask for trade. Coach knows.”

 

The entire room is silent. Guys are standing with their mouths wide open. 

 

“Any other questions?” Ilya asks.

 

“Uh yeah,” Connors says, raising a hand, “I have like a million.”

 

“I said no sex questions,” Ilya reminds him firmly.

 

“Ok then I have like 5,” Connors amends.

 

“No time,” Ilya says cheerfully, “good talk everyone. Let’s go get on the ice.”

 

-

It goes like this.

 

The league does suspend them just before their first games of the pre-season. Their lawyers make the MLH lawyer put in writing that it’s not for any misconduct but beyond that there’s nothing they can do. So they just have to wait indefinitely while their whole careers are scrutinized, while some mysterious fucks complete an investigation. 

 

Shane paces around the cottage, unleashing expletive laden tirades until Ilya puts arms around his shoulders and says, “It’s a paid vacation. Extra time together.” And Shane gets slightly less huffy until he’s huffing for a totally different reason underneath him. 

 

Shane’s on a run when the report comes through their email. Ilya read the whole thing twice over by the time Shane finds him on the couch staring at his laptop.

 

“What’s wrong?” Shane asks, literally stopping in his tracks.

 

“Investigation is complete. They’re reinstating us,” Ilya says, “No evidence of wrongdoing.”

 

“Holy shit,” Shane says. “Are you serious?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya nods, finally letting himself smile.

 

“Oh fuck,” Shane lets out a long breath, runs his hands through his hair. 

 

“There was one finding though,” Ilya says, turning the laptop to Shane.”

 

“A finding?” He asks, a little panic rising into his voice.

 

“Yes,” Ilya nods, scrolling down and nudging the laptop over to Shane. “On nights when we play against each other your face off percentage is higher than any other time in the season and my shots on goal is higher than any other time in the season.  We both also have higher points per game averages.”

 

Shane reads it, squinting a little without his glasses. He stands up straighter after finishing biting his lip. “Oh,” he says, “Well that’s a little embarrassing.”

 

“Embarrassing?” Ilya smirks and pulls Shane down into his lap. “Is romantic. I make you better.”

 

Shane grins, says quietly, “And I make you better.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya nods, squeezing him in closer, kissing up his neck. “Yes.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm soooooooooo sad this is over wahhhhh. Should i just keep writing canon divergence fics for my canon divergent fic?

But also I have another one cooking- gonna be very angsty. They meet up in later life after breaking up in their 20s. Shane's partner has just died and it's going to be a meditation on grief and love after loss. So keep an eye out I guess? Follow me on tumblr!

For fun I'm going to share some ideas for this fic that I scrapped:

Shane's boyfriend was originally going to be none other than Scott Hunter and Ilya was going to find out at All Stars when he realized they were in Shane's room together (but whoo did that take the story in a new direction)

Originally, Hayden was going to be there the night Ilya met Andrew (Hayden thinks Ilya is being homophobic because he keeps glaring, Ilya comes out to him and he's like "oh shit wait you're jealous" and then "omg i can't believe you're actually making me feel bad for you. you are so not his type."

Then Rose was going to be there when Ilya met Andrew (she clocks that he's jealous, they commiserate over a drink about both being kind of still in love with Shane and hating perfect Andrew, "presidents of the Shane Hollander heartbreak club", then they really were going to sleep together and Shane was going to find out from tabloids)

I also toyed with Ilya getting outed after he and Kelci break up when she lands some ad campaign that has her coming out as trans (Shane was going to fly to Boston to check on Ilya who had turned his phone off after all of the online hate, Shane convinces him to consult Scott and Kip, Kip keeps saying "trans women are women" and Scott is like yeah babe but this is the MLH, and Ilya's like fuck it i'm just gonna come out, and Shane is like ok I will too, and then there's a whole scene where they post it on social media at the same time and Scott posts his support, all of this is probably written by Kip and they pop champagne on their Manhattan rooftop and Kip takes their phones so they can't see the comments and everything else blowing up, and Ilya kisses Shane under the stars and shane is like i broke up with andrew by the way)