Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Brief Shane Hollander/Original Male Character - Relationship, Mikhail 'Misha' Popov/Jake Hines (OMC/OMC)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Mikhail 'Misha' Popov, Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags:

the campaign to get Misha his own GCU character tag begins, 5+1 Things, POV Outsider, Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Goaltender Shane Hollander, Goalie Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, What if Goalie!Shane as told by everyone's other favorite goalie

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of #42 Shane Hollander

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-06 Words: 18,123 Chapters: 1/1

mikhail popov’s guide to meddling & matrimony

Summary

It was like watching ants in those transparent tunneled habitats: the intricate, horny communication rituals of the modern queer hockey player.

Or, five or so times Mikhail Popov (award-winning goaltender and gay fairy godmother) nudged Shane Hollander (his best goalie friend) and Ilya Rozanov (annoying hot guy he tolerates) toward their happily ever after, and the one time they finally chose it for themselves.

Notes

Hello and welcome to things that happen when you ask readers what else they'd like to see in the Goalie!Shane universe and the overwhelming response is:

a) More Popov
b) More Popov [unbelievably R-rated version]

And, since I've already done a bit of the second one (though know that I have been effectively bullied for more), you get this nice little outsider POV one shot instead.

If you got here somehow without reading 'good on my own accord' first, I recommend clicking back a few times in this series and diving in there, as the very existence of Mikhail Popov and the timeline snippets used here will make little sense otherwise.

For gomoa readers, I did go back and reference my own canon while writing this, of course, but I may have forgotten or overlooked small plot details. If you notice characters knowing more or less or different information than they should at any given point, let's just assume I meant to write it that way in the original, okay? ;)

Hollapop nation, we're so back, baby 🍿

🍿 2009 🍿

December – Ottawa

There was a rabbit on the path back to the arena, a greyish brown little thing with a twitchy nose that scurried away as soon as Mikhail’s steps got too close.

“I am missing my cat,” he sighed, watching the rabbit disappear into a nearby bush, its barren branches dusted with snow.

“Pushinka,” his walking companion responded, then added, in an almost robotically-voiced translation: “Fluffy.”

Mikhail nodded, glancing over at the Canadian goaltender with a smile. “Yes, she is most perfect, fluffy cat in whole world.” 

Shane Hollander, wrapped up so cutely in his Team Canada fleece, smiled back with obvious hesitation.

Shane was small (comparatively speaking) and freckled and very, very shy. Not unlike the bunny they’d just seen, Mikhail thought, feeling hopelessly endeared. More than just pre-competition nerves though, there was a flightiness to Shane, in the way that he was constantly vigilant and hyperaware of everything and everyone around him. He winced a little, sometimes, when Mikhail leaned too close, clasping his shoulder, or when his booming voice pitched louder with excitement. Sensitive, like Pushinka had been as a kitten, and needing to be handled with the same sort of gentle touch too.

After they’d met at World Juniors a year ago, also on Canadian soil, Mikhail had all but forcibly taken the younger boy under his wing, desperate to win him over. He couldn’t say what exactly had led him to accost the Canadian teenager (a backup goalie, at the time) for most of the opening reception besides the fact that they’d been seated near one another at dinner and that Shane’s sheer, visible discomfort had activated his oft-misplaced savior complex. But a few quiet words exchanged and Mikhail was fucking sold, scooping Shane into one of his signature hugs as the reception concluded and declaring that he was keeping him. Burdened with curiosity, he’d attended every Canada game leading up to their final matchup with Russia, sitting rapt in the audience whenever Shane got a turn in the net. He was different there — still precise and controlled, but bolder with his body somehow — and Mikhail was fascinated.

In the end, Mikhail had forged the tentative international friendship through brute force extroversion and broken English alone, given that Shane barely spoke unless you got him going on hockey statistics, and even then he was prone to shrinking in on himself when he realized he’d been too excitedly encyclopedic for most people’s tastes. Lucky (or unlucky) for Shane, Mikhail loved to watch someone light up when they talked about their interests, however niche or however little he understood them. What’s more, he deeply admired players with both physical skill and hockey intellect, and it didn’t take an elite goaltender’s sensibilities to see that Shane was meant to be in the crease. With the right confidence, he would thrive, and Mikhail — once a bit of a disaster in goal himself, albeit as an easily distractible child — wanted to help him get there.

And if he was guilty of crushing on cute, muscly nerds in general? Well, that was just a bonus of having Shane Hollander’s attention.

If Mikhail was honest, Ilya Rozanov probably had a lot to do with his… fixation too, a star at center for Russia the way Mikhail was in goal, and a once infamous fixture of their Moscow league back home, for more than just… athletic reasons. Though now with a proper NHL team, Ilya still had a piss poor attitude, a hot temper on the ice, and what Mikhail considered to be a palpable flamboyance to him (a fact that everyone else seemed to conveniently ignore, given that the tales of his sexual escapades had featured dozens of girls a season). He was an arrogant, stupidly hot, cosmopolitan rich boy and seemed well-attuned to Mikhail’s not very secret secret just the same, and so they’d reached an uneasy sort of acquaintanceship based on mutual discretion.

Point being, Mikhail had watched Ilya Rozanov pull before, the confident, unsubtle ways in which he flirted until even the frostiest girls folded under the weight of that charming smile. And Mikhail had also noticed that he seemingly never brought up any hookup’s name again once the deed was done. ‘That tall girl in Rublyovka’ he might say vaguely, if pressed to recount a particular story in the locker room. (And if sometimes that girl was obviously the coach’s son instead, or a teammate’s brother, or the first born heir of an oligarch, that was none of Mikhail’s business. Not when he’d fucked the coach’s son too.) So Ilya Rozanov was discreet with his dalliances, not often one to kiss and tell besides a few self-congratulatory anecdotes (‘she came four times’), and even less often a repeat customer.

Which made Canada’s Shane Hollander a very interesting case indeed. 

In the sense that dear Ilyukha would not shut up about him.

Mikhail knew they’d met a year ago here at the WJC, had watched Shane block all of the center’s shots from his own goal across the ice, then sat on a flight back to Moscow with Ilya next to him — gold medals around their necks — listening to him complain endlessly that Canada’s terrible goaltending strategy had cost them the game before it had even started. Mikhail, a witness to his fellow goalie’s burgeoning talent, agreed of course, though he was baffled at how personally affronted Ilya seemed by a choice that had helped them win. He should have suspected then that there was a much simpler explanation for his teammate’s obsession.

(He felt it too, after all, each time he managed to make Shane smile.)

A year later and Mikhail had just spent the last week in practices leading up to the tournament, rooming with Ilya at their Kanata hotel and being subjected to a new series of obsessed serial killer-style monologues, Shane Hollander’s low-q game tape from some Canadian junior league on permanent replay on Ilya’s laptop screen.

“We will face them again in the final,” Ilya had muttered darkly, hunched over the desk in the corner in a comically vampiric manner, “And he will be in goal this time. The whole time.”

“Probably, yes,” Mikhail had agreed, and then, just to gauge the reaction, added, “I like him. Shane Hollander. We have plans to hang out before the prelims start.”

He’d half expected Ilya, wearing the ‘C’ this year, to forbid him from seeing his friend, but there had only been a nod and a grumbled ‘he likes you too’ in response.

Mikhail had raised an eyebrow, Ilya explaining, “He told me last year. About the hugs. And the shchi recipe. It was nice that you were… nice to him.”

“You were nice to him too, Ilyukha,” Mikhail had pointed out, almost certain that Ilya’s cheeks had gone a bit red in the low light, “He deserves that, sweet nervous thing. Even if you’re plotting against him on the ice.”

“Sweet?” Ilya had said with a scoff, “He was terrible to me.” Frown deepening, he’d added under his breath, “Mostly.”

“If by terrible you mean that he said you wouldn’t score on him,” Mikhail had retorted, having heard a brief summary of the first encounter from Shane’s perspective too, “well… he was right about that.”

With a flippant wave, Ilya had dismissed the thought. “Ugh, whatever. We will win again anyway. With plenty of goals from me. A record, I think.”

Mikhail had regarded him carefully, finding the determination a bit foolish. “You know this is a silly, meaningless tournament, right? We’re NHL players, Rozanov. We do a little song and dance for the Motherland, and then we go back to the hockey that matters.”

Ilya had looked surprised. “This doesn’t matter to you?”

“No, Ilyukha, it doesn’t,” Mikhail had replied with a laugh, “It matters to Russia. It matters maybe a little to the boys being scouted. But to us? This is barely an exhibition. Mostly I think it’s fun. You should try having some.”

A beat of contemplative silence and then:

“It will be fun to score on Shane Hollander.”

Mikhail had simply sighed, clasped Ilya on the shoulder, and said, “Good luck with that.”

It was a layered statement: less to do with the game and more so a quiet wish that his eccentric teammate might dig a little deeper for the root of his obsession. Openly teasing Ilya for his obvious crush might be too bold of a step, given that their mutual queerness was not something they actually discussed and especially given the Rozanov family’s… reputation back home. And Mikhail didn’t know if Shane was even— well, okay, he might have a strong suspicion anyway. But all that aside, he could have some fun of his own with these two, couldn’t he? A sort of gay fairy godmother — a fairy gay-mother — bonking his wand on the helmets of two top hockey talents just to see what might happen. 

Plus, with Ilya already at Boston and Shane destined for Montreal, it would be kind of poetic, wouldn’t it?

A forward and a goalie? Sworn rivals from the start?

Mikhail had sighed again, but in a dreamier way, and quietly wondered—

“Popov?” a soft voice asked, interrupting his musings.

Shane was looking up at him, big earnest brown eyes like a shot straight to the heart. He sighed affectionately. One day he would get this silly boy to call him Misha if it killed him.

“Yes, Hollander?” he replied, sticking to the distant Western formality that Hollander — still privately ‘Shane’ in his head — insisted on.

“Do you think we’ll have another Russia–Canada final?”

They slowed their pace, sitting down on the garden bench outside one of the arena’s private player entrances. The resting place, framed by tree limbs that dipped low with snowy weight, had punctuated their daily tournament walks. A metaphorical ending and goodbye of sorts, it made Mikhail a little sad each time he waved Shane off through the double doors beyond, reminiscent of a parent dropping their child off for school and hoping the other kids would be kind. Mikhail smiled wryly to himself, knowing that Shane was only a year or so younger and a fierce competitor besides, so it was silly to baby him. But he still felt the quiet thrum of protectiveness just the same.

“Early to say, but yes, I do,” Mikhail said, finally answering the question, “If we both play to our, ah…” He frowned, chancing a guess at what he thought might be a Russian-English cognate, “... potensial?”

“Potential,” Shane offered, the correction gentle. 

That was another thing Mikhail liked about him, that he was fact-based but never cruel with how he wielded his knowledge. Maybe some people would call him a ‘know it all’ but they weren’t destined to succeed as a professional athlete if that were the case; precision was important, essential even, and Shane’s commitment to that ideal boded well for his future in the net. It was no exaggeration that, in their position, the decimal point to the thousandth could spell the difference between an NHL career and an EBUG.

Even so, under the strict Russian coaching of his youth, Mikhail had balked and rebelled and stomped his skates, stubborn as a mule about his goaltending instincts leading him places that repetitive, data-driven practice could not. But he’d watched Shane Hollander in goal a year ago and thought, Maybe, maybe there is some room for both mind and body in the crease. And then, like a miracle on ice, it had simply all clicked into place.

“You know, the Crawfish want to start me,” he said, watching Shane’s pretty face light up at the news.

“Popov, that’s huge!” he cheered, expression quickly morphing into something more serious, “And deserved. It’s rare, of course, a twenty year old in goal, but with your stats—”

Mikhail chuckled, reaching over to ruffle the beanie atop Shane’s head. “Yes, yes. Numbers say I am amazing, I know. But actually, it is thanks to you.”

“Me?” Shane asked, eyes going wide.

“You,” he affirmed, nodding, “Since last year, I watched your games and your tape and learned a lot. Stole, maybe, some of your style. The Crawfish were, ah… impressed.”

Shane’s eyebrows were furrowed. “You… learned from me? You’re the most accomplished goaltender at this tournament.”

“And you kept Ilya Rozanov scoreless,” Mikhail offered with a cheeky smile, “There is no player here who did not take note of this. And I think—” he winked, “that you will do it again. You have scared him.”

Shane scoffed at that, a little more of his brattier personality slipping through. “Yeah, right. Like the NHL’s newest star would consider a CHL goalie real competition.”

Mikhail frowned, immediately picturing Ilya back in their hotel room, scheming like a mustache-twirling villain. But psyching Shane out pre-game with the intensity of the other boy’s fixation probably wouldn’t help, so instead he shrugged.

“I think it would surprise you,” he said lightly, “the way good goalies can get under skin. Rozanov is… paying attention to you now. Close attention.”

Shane immediately ducked his head, cheeks going rosier even than the wind chill could account for.

Interesting, Mikhail thought, pleased with his meddling.

He tucked his imaginary wand back into his equally imaginary hip holster and let an embarrassed Shane Hollander start talking his ear off about the Czech offense in a pitiful attempt at distraction. Bless him. After a moment, Mikhail pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, noting that he had a message waiting from an American player with an image attachment (one he didn’t dare open in front of Shane’s ‘probably not that innocent but still cartoonishly Bambi-like’ eyes).

He angled himself on the bench so that the screen was out of view and clicked.

‘Meet up later?’ the message read, ‘I want that thing we talked about.’

Ah, these poor repressed jocks, he thought, admittedly greedy for the attention, Can’t even say the words.

It was a bad idea, maybe, to sow certain rumors in the NHL and affirm them each time he appeared in international tournaments like these. But sometimes being brave and a little stupid when it came to sexuality in a sport like hockey won you just enough prizes to be worth the risk.

‘Prove it,’ he replied. Never easy, he liked to make them work for it; big manly bottoms-to-be a particularly delicious challenge.

The image that arrived a moment later was even more obscene. Mikhail licked his lips.

When he looked back up, Shane’s eyes were on his tongue. Lingering.

Fuck, okay. If Ilya Rozanov ever stopped circling Shane Hollander like an Amur tiger, teeth bared, Mikhail would be first in line.

Carolina would play Montreal too, after all.

🍿 Interlude: 2012 🍿

July – Raleigh

A bell overhead chimed to announce his arrival.

The whiskey bar downtown was a bit of a hike from his place in Cary, but one of the Crawfish d-men had recommended it as a chill going out option, full of old biker dudes who ‘couldn’t give a rat’s ass’ about hockey players even if they had just paraded through the city with the Stanley Cup a week ago.

The divey spot did feel pretty discreet, blasting classic rock tunes while a handful of bearded men in bandanas and fringed leather hunched over on their barstools, glass tumblers in hand.

“What can I getcha, hun?” a bartender, not much younger than her clientele, asked him as he slid onto a stool of his own. With a wink, she placed a napkin on the bar top and added, “Allegedly, we have cocktail specials tonight, though I haven’t made one yet. Order at your own risk!”

Mikhail glanced at the ‘Specials’ menu displayed on a felt board above the top shelf of liquor bottles, the plastic letters broken or missing entirely as they attempted to spell out some English puns about summer fruits and moonshine. 

“The peach one, please,” he said, watching the intrigue bloom on her face the way it did for most people when they heard his obvious accent.

The South was strange about things like that. Mikhail’s blond hair and blue eyes meant folks were pleasantly surprised and curious about his foreignness. But he knew other immigrants didn’t fare the same — even though many had been in the States far longer than Mikhail had — and he wouldn’t pretend to yet understand the nuances of identity and belonging in a place he only sort of called home.

“You from out of town?” the bartender asked when she returned with his drink in a chilled mason jar, three syrupy peach slices floating in the middle.

“No,” Mikhail said, a little sorry when it came out shorter than he intended.

She merely nodded though and flitted away to the other end to pour more whiskey waters for the biker crew. That was another thing about the South, the way a total stranger would happily talk your ear off if you gave them a friendly opening (and often even if you didn’t). Usually Mikhail found that sort of fun, meeting others and swapping life stories, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood.

He sighed and sipped his sweet, peachy cocktail, debating whether it might be worth texting the Crawfish group chat to see if any of the other guys wanted to drop by. Mikhail wasn’t lonely exactly, just… a little adrift as of late. Months ago, the news at the March deadline that the Crawfish had traded his teammate and close friend Arseniy Volkov — a defenseman and the only other Russian on the team — had been a tough pill to swallow. And now they had gone and won a Stanley Cup without him too. 

Mikhail had been further saddened when on autopilot he’d started to text Senya about drinks tonight, only to remember that his friend was in Seattle now, all the way across the country. He’d been very close to simply wallowing at home with a glass of white wine after that, but forced himself out anyhow. There was only so much moping Pushinka could take before she’d started turning her tiny pink nose up at him too.

“Anybody sittin’ here?” a voice asked from over his shoulder, low and syrupy with a subtle regional twang.

Mikhail barely glanced up, shaking his head and gesturing at the neighboring stools. “All yours.”

He felt the stranger settle in next to him, distracting himself from another conversation by scrolling through his dedicated Pushinka folder looking for his next Instagram post. Maybe he would send Shane Hollander a few and ask him to pick a favorite. Maybe Ilya Rozanov too, just to get a rude reply in Russian in return; that would be comforting.

“Lordy, that’s a lot of cat pics,” his neighbor’s voice remarked, followed by a blurted, “Oh shit, uh, sorry for snooping. Don’t know where my manners ran off to.”

Mikhail spun on his stool, locking eyes with the nosy stranger as every synapse in his nervous system lit up like a neon sign.

Tall, broad, and fully bearded. Tattoos littering the length of one toned arm. Circular wireframe glasses. Fuck, the glint of a ring through his right nostril and more piercings dotting his ears.

“Sorry again,” the man said, looking genuinely apologetic.

Mikhail’s eyes flicked down to where his pecs were visibly defined, straining against the red t-shirt he wore with ‘Cornell Hockey’ stamped across it in white block letters.

“You play hockey?” Mikhail heard himself ask, in lieu of acknowledging the awkward start to their conversation.

“Played,” the man corrected politely, looking relieved by the subject change, “Technically I’m retired now. Just graduated in the spring, though I took a few gap years to travel first.”

Mikhail nodded, impressed. “Ah, so you are smart then. Doing a degree at fancy school for real.”

The blush that appeared on those apple-shaped cheeks made him feel nearly feral. God, how he wanted to nuzzle into the wiry hair tracing that rugged jawline like Pushinka against her bristle brush. This guy was fucking delectable. And straight, surely, with the Raleigh whiskey bar of it all.

“Not that smart,” the man replied, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows, “Just… a loyal son.” He shook his head, smiling wryly. “But let me not bore you with all the family politics I came here to avoid. I’m Jake, by the way.”

A large hand reached out and Mikhail clasped it with his own, shocked when he realized that for once his massive goalie paw wasn’t dwarfing that of his acquaintance.

“Mikhail,” he said, avoiding the urge to purr at the way Jake’s warm eyes drank him in head to toe. Maybe not so straight after all. Or curious, at least. He could work with curious. “But you can call me Misha.”

Mikhail braced himself for the moment of recognition, given Jake’s hockey background (exceedingly rare for the region as it was). But the man was either unaware he was speaking to a recent NHL Champion or playing it very, very cool, which left Mikhail feeling blissfully normal, whatever the reason. Funny though, how Jake didn’t seem to be a typical local either, with his fluctuating accent and Ivy League degree and slightly more alternative style. Perhaps most perplexing was the watch on his left wrist which Mikhail, as a multi-millionaire with a styling team himself, recognized as a Patek Philippe model that, if real, cost a crisp six figures at minimum.

“Come here often, Misha?” Jake asked, just as the bartender slid a pint glass and a shot of Jameson in front of him with a wink.

“First time,” Mikhail replied primly, still a bit cautious even as he reached out to clink their glasses together, “though I might become regular. Depends.”

Jake grinned and ducked in closer, shaggy brown locks falling into his eyes like the best kind of dog. “Oh, yeah? Depends on what?”

Mikhail locked onto his target like a heat-seeking missile, dialing his charm up to a thousand as he delivered his closing line: “On how often you are here.”

Jake snorted so hard over the rim of his glass that a few bubbly clusters of beer foam floated into the air between them. Mikhail resisted the urge to reach out and thumb at a blob that had caught on Jake's upper lip, heart thumping just as hard when the tip of a pink tongue darted out to lick at it instead.

“Right, yeah,” he said between chuckles, “s’pose I should’ve seen that coming.”

Mikhail bit his lip, suddenly a little nervous about the reaction. “I am not reading this wrong?”

Jake’s expression turned devilish, sharp canine teeth glinting in the splashes of neon bar light. “No, you sure aren’t,” he said lowly, “But did you want to hear what my line was going to be, since you beat me to it?”

For the first time in months, the heavy ball of twine in Mikhail’s chest started to unspool. He took a grateful breath, savoring the lightness.

“The ‘come here often’ was not cheesy enough?” he teased.

Jake laughed, a deep throaty sound, and brought a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Ouch, alright, maybe I’ll take my suave charms over thataway instead.”

Mikhail’s eyes drifted back toward the hardened biker gang in the opposite corner. “If you flirt with one of them without getting us chased out of bar, I will be impressed.” 

Jake grinned, starting to slide off his stool with a murmured, “Deal.”

“No, no!” Mikhail yelped, laughing hard as he grabbed at Jake’s arm to keep him from leaving. “Do not actually.”

“Why not?” Jake simpered, though he hooked a leg back over his barstool in obedience. “Hottest guy I’ve ever seen told me it would impress him so…”

Mikhail bit his lip again, fighting an even bigger grin.

“Jacob Hines, you aren’t bothering this nice gentleman over here, are you?” the bartender said teasingly, appearing between them across the bar top.

“Not bothering, Marnie,” Jake said, that deeper twang back in his voice to mirror hers, “Trying to buy him another drink though.”

“He’s drinking the ‘Nice to Peach You!’ seasonal cocktail,” Marnie offered with another wink, turning to look at Mikhail as she asked, “You want a second one, sweetheart? Careful with the ‘shine now, though.”

Mikhail nodded, flushing when a pleased smile bloomed on Jake’s profile. “Yes, please. And put order of onion rings on my tab. Not his.” 

He met Jake’s eyes again, seeing something like a future in them, or at least one really, really good night ahead. 

“I think we will be here a while.”

🍿 2013 🍿  

May – Boston

Mikhail was in his hotel room before Game 4 against the Bears, flopped on his stomach on his phone and several dozen Wikipedia articles into an accidental deep dive on eels, when a new text came through.

Ilya (Boston): do you have hollander’s #?

Mikhail blinked. What a strange thing for Boston’s captain to be worried about a few hours before the Crawfish were set to put another nail in the coffin of the Bears’ playoff run. Mikhail had seen the news and accompanying memes, of course — this ‘Hollander Hex’ idea sending chills down the spines of all the league’s most superstitious players — but Montreal had been eliminated in the last round. By Carolina, no less. There was nothing, beyond his usual obsession, for the Ilya Rozanov to be concerned with when it came to Shane Hollander now.

Still, Mikhail was terrible at minding his business, particularly when the opportunity to meddle gayly arose. With an ever-growing #Hollapop tumblr tag to entertain himself with and a hot older boyfriend rich enough to jet off to see him whenever he wanted, Mikhail had admittedly been neglecting ‘Hollander and Rozanov’ and the strange swirling tension that he’d once noticed between them. All that to say, this could be fun.

Mikhail: like phone number?

The reply was immediate.

Ilya (Boston): yes

Mikhail: ?????

Color him intrigued. He quickly typed out a joking follow up, hopeful that the teasing might elicit the real reason behind the ask.

Mikhail: yes... but if i give it to you, can you promise that whatever you send won’t implicate me in any crimes?))00))0)

Ilya (Boston): what? no? i just want to ask him a hockey question

A hockey question, hmm? Perhaps Ilya really was just fishing for every possible angle to bring Boston back from their current series deficit, the momentum heavily in Carolina’s favor after a brutal 6-1 finish the night before. He smirked, unable to imagine Shane reacting amenably to his sworn rival’s request for tips on getting past Mikhail in goal. It was interesting, though, the way that Shane playing up in the big leagues had brought the two men back into each other’s orbits. Like most of the hockey world, Mikhail had watched the viral clip from the Boston-Montreal matchup in December, and the way that Ilya had stood — frozen, mesmerized and redder than Mikhail had ever seen him — with Hollander’s gloved hand shoving at his chest. The commentators and fans had called him a good captain, in admiration of the biggest asshole on the ice still respecting the ‘don’t touch the goalie’ rule. 

Mikhail snorted. Touch the goalie? Right. If only they knew. 

Considering Ilya’s weak excuse, he replied with another teasing message.

Mikhail: that’s what i’m worried about)))

Then, dusting off his magic wand, he cast his next meddling little spell and sent over Shane Hollander’s number, delighting in the fact that he would most certainly hear from Shane about it afterwards.

Mikhail: ###-###-#### ❤️

Ilya (Boston): thank you

An additional, unexpected reply from Ilya came a few minutes later, just as Mikhail was starting his gentle pre-game stretching routine. From his place in the middle splits on the carpeted floor, he reached up for his phone at the end of the bed to read:

Ilya (Boston): you text him a lot, right? you’re friends?

Mikhail: i do. and we are, obviously

Mikhail: why do you ask?

The typing bubble appeared and disappeared several times.

Ilya (Boston): just… unsure how to approach. what to expect. you know?

Mikhail: hmm well shane is a bland texter. though he can be very funny. takes time for him to warm up to new people

Mikhail: and he usually doesn’t reply right away, just so you know. it’s not personal

Mikhail: although with you… maybe a little ;)

Ilya (Boston): oh

Mikhail sighed, typing quickly. 

Mikhail: you won’t scare him off, ilyukha. just be cool

Ilya (Boston): right

Ilya (Boston): be cool

He bit his lip, deeply amused. What a transparent loser.

Mikhail: this is a lot of worry for a hockey question))

Ilya (Boston): mind your business popov

Mikhail: 😽 see you tonight!

🍿

June – Las Vegas

Even as a winner, the NHL Awards were, as usual, interminable. 

Mikhail shifted in his starchy tux, forever uncomfortable with playing dress up, and wished not for the first time that Jake could be here with him. He would look effortlessly gorgeous in a suit as he always did, made for spoiled fancy-pants events like this one, though he loathed them even more than Mikhail did.

The ‘congratulations baby, proud of you ❤️🖤’ amongst his texts tonight was a comfort at least.

After a summer of rabid hookups, they’d mutually caved and started dating for real, even with the looming threat of Jake’s permanent move to New York for work in October. It was hard to lose the daily physical contact, but Jake was still in the stands for nearly every Crawfish home game and NY away game anyhow, his game-worn ‘POPOV’ jersey a particularly inspired gift on Mikhail’s part. Although he was never shy about the benefits of generational wealth, Jake had an extremely complicated relationship with his family, his sexuality something they simply refused to acknowledge as truth. He hadn’t cut them off entirely just yet, but he was carefully building up his independent investments just the same. And though Mikhail was pretty positively in love with this man, he also wasn’t in a rush to force anything too serious. He had reasons of his own, obviously, for keeping the whole gay thing under wraps. And they both liked casual sex with strangers — and telling each other the details after — a little too much to be completely monogamous besides.

It was strange, having a relationship that was so necessarily clandestine and yet didn’t feel motivated by the thrill of a dirty secret, not like his hookups with other athletes and anonymous Grindr torsos did (the two of those often one and the same). Given the chance one day, Mikhail would gush to the world about the hulking college hockey forward turned financial analyst by day and alt-boy math nerd by night that he’d somehow bagged in North Carolina of all places. For now, front row seats at PNC Arena, quiet weekend getaways to Kitty Hawk, and Jake’s old number ‘18’ written on his tape before each game would have to be enough. Jake had already joked too about tattooing Mikhail’s ‘35’ into his sleeve one day, so at least they were both a little crazy as a baseline.

“Pop Tart!” a familiar, tipsy voice called out. 

Kuch sidled up to him, champagne glass in hand, as he continued in clipped Russian, “Reception is winding down but we’re having a little Slavic after party at the pool bar on 8. Have you seen Rozanov?”

Mikhail shook his head. “Not for a while. But he’s probably smoking on the roof. I’ll go find him.”

Kuch nodded, clasping him on the shoulder, before he wandered off to herd the other Russian players in attendance.

Making his way up to the top floor a few minutes later, Mikhail was unsurprised to find Ilya leaning against the railing, gazing morosely out over the skyline as a tobacco cloud floated dragon-like around him. He’d lost the Hart to Mikhail’s captain tonight after all, and the Cup much earlier than that.

“There you are, Ilyukha,” he said, the chance to speak more Russian a delicious balm after a night full of English schmoozing. “Come down to the pool bar. The Russians are doing shots together. Zhenya is buying.”

Ilya turned to look at him, eyes as round as saucers and as sparkling as the wine he held aloft.

Mikhail laughed. “Ah, you are drunk.”

“Not so much, anymore,” Ilya argued with a pout, swaying a little. Then, “I texted him.”

Mikhail blinked. “Who? Your father?”

Ilya hadn’t brought any family to the event, as far as Mikhail had noticed, but his father — a high-ranking military police official with a vested interest in Russian hockey — seemed to be his own personal boogeyman. Mikhail had seen him sometimes, back in the Moscow leagues, always in full uniform dress and looming like a specter in the practice rinks, an Ambassador of something or other always at his side. The sight of Grigori Rozanov in the stands had made even Mikhail nervous, and he had no connection to the Moscow elites beyond occasionally being on a team with their sons. Even now, for Ilya, the pressure must be suffocating.

“Ugh, no,” Ilya said, dismissing the suggestion with vitriol on his tongue. “Hollander.”

Ah, well, speaking of specters.

“For the first time?” Mikhail asked, surprised that it had taken Ilya so long to work up the nerve. God, the crush must be even worse than he thought.

“Yes,” Ilya said, and then his face did something very strange. Softening almost, into a younger, freer version of a man that Mikhail had only ever known as a fighter, expressions and words like sharpened steel.

“How did it go?”

Ilya smiled. Properly. And for a moment he was so ethereally beautiful, backlit by Vegas’ neon strip, that even Mikhail’s stupid gay heart skipped a beat.

“Good, I think,” Ilya said, stepping forward and wobbling a bit. 

His hand reached out to grasp at Mikhail’s shoulder and he leaned into him, full bodied and completely unselfconscious of it. The gesture reminded Mikhail of their age difference, Ilyukha technically a little brother to him, and he patted gently at those dirty blond curls with an affection that would surely have a sober Ilya recoiling in the morning. Instead, the current version of the man just purred, nuzzling further into Mikhail’s side with a nonsensical string of Russian syllables that seemed to end in ‘big’. 

Mikhail frowned, annoyed by the sentimentality that bloomed in his chest. This silly boy had been a pain in his ass for over a decade, from Moscow and an ocean’s width beyond, but fuck if he didn’t have a soft spot for hockey’s rotten little prince.

“You were right. He is funny,” Ilya whispered into his shirt collar, leaning away just as they arrived back at the elevators.

Hollander, Mikhail thought with reverence, Not a hex but a love spell. You will ruin us all.

🍿

Mikhail awoke to the sensation of buzzing beneath his pillow, grimacing at the persistent pounding in his hungover skull. Wetting his chops around the taste of fuzz in his mouth, he dug for his phone, chuckling when he saw the name there.

Shane 🐇: Popov 😡

Shane 🐇: Did you give Ilya Rozanov my phone number?

He scrubbed away the sleep in his eyes and replied.

Mikhail: yes )

Shane 🐇: Why?

Mikhail: he asked for it

Shane 🐇: And you weren’t suspicious of that??

Mikhail laughed again. It was a valid question.

Mikhail: to be fair i did say no crimes

Shane 🐇: Pushinka tax. Now.

Sighing good-naturedly, Mikhail searched his pets album for some eligible submissions.

Mikhail: [5 images attached] 🐱🎀

Shane 🐇: Thank you. You’re mostly forgiven.

He frowned. No, that wouldn’t do. Time to pull out the big guns.

Mikhail: extra rare unreleased pic just for you 🩵

Shane 🐇: Oh my god 😭

Shane 🐇: She’s perfect! ❤️❤️❤️

There was a pause and then:

Shane 🐇: Fine. All the way forgiven.

Mikhail: yay!))))))))

Mikhail: he did not say anything weird to you tho?

Shane 🐇: I mean he was definitely weird but

Shane 🐇: Nice… sort of. The usual.

Mikhail: he was very drunk when i found him. and a little sad i think

Shane 🐇: Yeah I got that

Mikhail: sweet that he thought of you tho 💗

Shane 🐇: Not sweet. Annoying 🙄 He just wanted to commiserate with a fellow loser.

Mikhail took a brief moment to look up the word ‘commiserate’, frowning when he realized the implication of Shane’s words.

Mikhail: shane hollander, you are not a loser. say it back

Shane 🐇: Popov… it’s fine, really. Rozanov didn’t mean it like that.

Mikhail: say it 😡

Shane 🐇: I’m not a loser.

Shane 🐇: There. Happy?

Mikhail: i will be when you believe it for real.

Mikhail: and i did mean it when i said montreal will start you next season, if they are not fools

Shane 🐇: Maybe. I hope so.

Shane 🐇: But don’t give my number to any other mean Russians in the meantime, okay?

Mikhail: varlamov will be so sad to hear this

Shane 🐇: Have you ever been serious a moment in your life?

Mikhail: no <3

Mikhail: but anyway, you do not have to text him back… you know this right?

Shane 🐇: Mind your business, Popov :P

Mikhail let out another deep sigh. Where had he heard that before?

🍿 2015 🍿

January – Nashville

In hindsight, the bro-y ass slap was maybe a little overkill, but it was worth it for the way Ilya had immediately shot deathly laser beams in Mikhail’s direction.

He shook his head, amused. Those two idiots really thought they were slick, Ilya leaning all over Shane at the bar with a teasing look on his face, hotel key card pinched between his fingers below the counter. The way they’d made eyes across the room, clearly texting one another the whole time. And just now, as Ilya watched Shane make his way to the elevators, gaze trained on that extremely cute butt like Mikhail had left an actual handprint there.

Something tangible had changed between them over the last season, and it had Mikhail feeling so nosy he could die. But then again, Shane’s reticent reaction to his joke about hockey ships had given him pause. He didn’t think Shane was homophobic necessarily, but there could be a lot more internalized shame for him to work through which wouldn’t benefit from Mikhail pushing too hard. Lord knew he was deeply familiar with the kind of professional athletes that would ‘no homo’ their way right into the arms of a future wife the minute they had a little too much fun with Mikhail’s dick… or on it. Actual bisexuals not included, obviously, though he doubted that most NHLers viewed men as a serious long term option even if they did acknowledge what their attraction to them implied. But anyway, whatever was going on between Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, it was something they clearly meant to hide; the poor execution of that plan notwithstanding. 

So this All Stars Weekend, Fairy Gay-mother Mikhail would behave and refrain from spooking either of them with the knowledge that he knew; especially not when the risk of public suspicion was actually quite low, given you could kiss a teammate on the mouth as a celly and not have a single player or fan bat an eye. Plus, knowing Ilya Rozanov and his… proclivities, it was unlikely this was a defined relationship, fucking the goalie he famously couldn’t score on probably more of a poetic thrill than anything (if he’d even managed to badger hockey’s newest Precious Angel Baby into fucking him in the first place). And Shane, for his part, still used variations of ‘asshole’ — or else a hissed, distantly formal Rozanov — to refer to Ilya on the rare occasion he came up in conversation, so perhaps there really was no love lost between them.

(Mikhail too had known his fair share of men that made better fucks than friends after all.)

The misplaced jealousy was a different beast though, Ilya still glowering at him as Mikhail finished his drink and made his way toward the same elevator bank that Shane had used earlier. They had always been a little competitive about boys, he and handsome Ilyukha back in their Moscow days (Mikhail always smug as hell about being the taller of the two), so it wasn’t surprising that Ilya was still circling Shane like a wild cat, with claws out and cute little growls in Mikhail’s direction. Feeling messy as usual, Mikhail just winked in return and laughed as Ilya’s scowl deepened, immediately reaching into his back pocket for his phone to text Shane in complaint no doubt.

It was like watching ants in those transparent tunneled habitats: the intricate, horny communication rituals of the modern queer hockey player.

An hour or so later, showered and changed into cozier clothes, a knock on his door startled him from where he was lazing in bed. He hopped up and padded over to let his visitor in, Shane kicking off his slides and shyly presenting a cold bottle of the vending machine Minute Maid pink lemonade he knew was Mikhail’s favorite. Pink for no reason. He found that very fabulous.

“You did not have to bring anything,” Mikhail said, genuinely touched, as he led Shane over to the suite’s square coffee table where he’d poured out the puzzle pieces from their plastic bag. “Sorry, it is a short table, so I hope being on floor is okay? I was using the throw pillows as cushion.”

Shane simply nodded and plopped down into a cross-legged seat with ease. “Oh, no problem. My mom has a kotatsu at home.” At Mikhail’s head tilt, he explained, “It’s like a Japanese table with a built-in heater and blanket for your legs. Super cozy. You have to sit on the ground to use it.”

“Ah, sounds nice.”

Shane smiled dreamily, as if tapping into older memories. “Yeah, it really is. My mom was raised in Canada so I can be kind of… disconnected from my Japanese heritage. But the small things, even if they’re like… stereotypical, do make me feel closer to her and my grandparents.”

Mikhail hummed, squatting down to join Shane on the floor on the other side of the table. “It can be hard to ah, preserve culture in new country. Even though I have some Russians around me and can speak the language with them, it is rare for hockey players to come from my region. Sometimes that is… lonely.” 

He sighed, beginning to sort out the edge pieces and smiling when he noticed Shane was already doing the same. “Plus, over here… they are not shy to point out I am different. My height. My accent. I imagine you hear worse, maybe.”

Shane frowned, consulting the Frogs of the Amazon image on the lid before sliding a corner piece into place. “I think discrimination of any kind sucks, obviously. But being Asian and mixed, yeah, it was rough in a very white hometown and in a sport like hockey. Still can be.”

“Sorry people are shitty,” Mikhail offered, knowing that didn’t change the reality of Shane’s experience but wanting to acknowledge it all the same, “but you know, so many fans really love you.” He flexed his muscles, adopting a deeper heroic tone like something out of a movie trailer, “You are Wallender! Bricks emoji in my phone now.”

He watched Shane roll his eyes in response, a small smile tugging at his lips in spite of it.

“People love you too, Pop Tart,” Shane said, throwing Mikhail’s own silly fan nickname back at him, “And they were obsessed with you long before I came on the scene. At World Juniors, I thought you were like… a celebrity.”

Mikhail shrugged. “Maybe they liked me some, but they like us together most.” He winked. “You are good for my image, Shane Hollander.”

Shane was quiet for a bit, piecing together a long line of rainforest canopy to form the puzzle’s top side. “You don’t think it’s weird that some people imagine us… you know.”

Mikhail’s first instinct was to laugh, but he bit into his bottom lip instead, rolling the flesh between his teeth. “Maybe a little, if they write in detail. But I think it’s nice that they can tell we care for each other. That we can be softer. It is… an ugly sport with men who are ugly inside. If a hug between goalie friends makes fans happy, then I let them imagine more. Does not hurt me.”

Shane had stopped puzzling, staring down at his hands. “You support it…? Um, LGBT stuff? Even though you’re—”

“Russian?” Mikhail said, raising an eyebrow, “Yes, Shane, I do. Maybe not as loud as I would like, given… risks for my career right now, but…” 

He trailed off with a shrug and picked up another edge piece, fitting it neatly near the corner so that the border was now complete. Shane’s eyes lingered for a long moment, on his lips as if contemplating the words, and then to the swell of his bicep before landing on the place where his tank top gaped at the neckline, a bit of blond chest hair peeking out.

Silently, he waited. To see if this might be the moment that Shane shared the truth with him. Or part of it, at least.

“Popov,” Shane all but whispered, “I…” 

But then he was shaking his head, shoulders hunching as he retreated back in on himself. 

Mikhail deflated too, just a little.

It would be nice one day to have a real friend and ally in this sport to know him completely, someone he could mention his boyfriend around without fear of judgment or exposure. The few guys in the NHL he hooked up with didn’t count obviously, and neither did that flamboyant little shit Ilya Rozanov. Maybe he could talk to Jake — who knew already, of course, how much Mikhail adored his precious Canadian goalie — about a way to come out without making Shane feel like he too was being outed in the process.

Shane had his head down again, sorting pieces into piles by color and then into shape-based subcategories with methodical precision. Strange and delightful in all his ways.

Mikhail took a long sip of his pink lemonade and said apropos of nothing, “It is nice to see you and Ilyukha getting along. You might make a good team this weekend.”

Shane’s whole body seemed to freeze in place, before he finally glanced up to meet Mikhail’s eyes. “What does that mean? When you say his name like that?”

Mikhail blinked. That had not been the response he was expecting.

“Oh, Ilyukha?” At Shane’s nod, he continued, “It’s like… Russian nickname thing. Saying full name like Ilya Grigoryevich or Rozanov or even just Ilya can sound very formal. So we add an ending. Ilyukha is like… Bro. For friends, you know?”

“Is that why you’re Misha to some people?”

Mikhail nodded. “Yes, though I think we Russians understand it is not the same in U.S. or Canada, and in sports where last name is common. So ‘Popov’ is okay too.”

Shane looked contemplative for a moment, matching several bright blue pieces together to form a tiny poison dart frog. “Are there more versions for friends or family? Or, um, romantic partners?”

Mikhail felt a devious spark lick up his spine as he said, “Well, using Ilya for example, you could say Ilyusha. That is cute. Like a girlfriend or boyfriend might say. Or Ilyushenka, even cuter, but maybe more for older family to use. Like grandma or auntie who pinches your cheeks.” He furrowed his brow, the translation into English a little difficult. “But there are… rules? For what ending makes sense and if we are being sweet to show real affection or just to tease. To us, comes naturally, but probably complicated for someone learning.”

Shane was nodding along again, mouthing the words as if in practice. “So you wouldn’t call Rozanov, um, Ilyusha?”

Mikhail burst into laughter at the thought. “Not if I did not want a punch to the face.” He smirked. “But if we were lovers? Sure.”

Shane stilled, one brownish-blue puzzle piece — probably the leg of a ‘milk frog’ — pinched between his fingers.

“You’re a very confident person, Popov,” Shane said eventually, his flat affect making the subtle compliment sound more like an intoned proclamation of truth.

Mikhail smiled, touching Shane’s hand for a moment to move the piece toward his section, where the milk frog was clinging to a brightly colored leaf with its big sticky toes. He watched Shane’s pupils dilate at the contact, those round brown eyes considering his fingers with unmasked interest.

Ilya Rozanov, you owe me for behaving, he thought, dragging the pads of his fingertips ever so lightly across Shane’s wrist as he retracted his hand. But if he asks, I won’t say no.

Finally responding to Shane’s comment, he spoke lightly, “Why not be?”

Shane was quiet again, seeming to turn those words over in his brain until they were rock tumbler smooth, though the furrow between his brows only deepened.

“It’s not that easy for me,” he said, looking almost dejected by the thought.

Mikhail hummed. “You are confident in the crease, yes?”

“Well, yeah,” Shane replied, “but it’s different. I’m number forty-two Hollander there, in goal for the Montreal Voyageurs. When I’m off the ice, I’m just… Shane.”

“I like just Shane,” Mikhail said, “He is hot and funny and very kind. Weird too, a little, in a wonderful way. The type of person to do a puzzle with his also weird Russian friend instead of go to big party.”

“We could still go out, if you wanted,” Shane offered, expression turning visibly nauseous at the idea.

Endeared, Mikhail shook his head, and reached out to clasp Shane’s shoulder. “I would not want to be anywhere else, okay?”

Shane’s cheeks turned pink at the assertion or the contact or maybe both, the pleasure on his face unmistakable. “Okay,” he whispered, “Cool.”

They focused on the puzzle in companionable silence for a long while after that, socked feet nudging into one another beneath the table. It was only 2,000 pieces with rather unique patterns in between the jungle foliage, so they made quick work of it; soon a collage of colorful Amazonian frogs took shape before them.

“I have a request,” Shane said, fitting the final piece into the center with a cute shimmy of success, “It’s… kind of stupid.”

Mikhail sat back for a moment, admiring their joint creation. “I am sure that is not true.”

Shane bit his lip, considering. On the long list of possible English sentences, Mikhail would never have anticipated what he said next. 

“Can I… have another hug?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, Mikhail all but melting into the floor at the innocent look on Shane’s face.

“You can have hugs from me times infinity, Shane Hollander,” he proclaimed, maybe a little over the top with the feeling, “On ice or off. Whenever you want. Virtual even, I will type them with—” He raised his hands, making a C shape with each one for the parentheses.

Shane exhaled in relief, his shoulders drooping, though he didn’t move to initiate.

Heart full in his chest, Mikhail patted the carpet next to him, pitching his voice low in the way he did for one other very specific circumstance, and instructed, “Come here.”

At that, blessedly, Shane was scrambling around the table, all but launching himself into Mikhail’s arms with a happy chirping sound. Mikhail wrapped him up, knowing how nice it felt sometimes to fold yourself into a smaller, softer shape — a break from a life dedicated to being a Body in the net, bruised by obligation.

“What brought this on, зайчик?” Mikhail asked softly, the endearment slipping out before he could help himself.

“Lonely,” Shane replied immediately, then burrowed his face into Mikhail’s chest and corrected himself with a muffled, “No, I don’t know.”

Mikhail reached a hand up, curling fingers into those pretty black waves. “People do not touch you very often, do they?”

He felt Shane’s head shake left to right. No.

“Unacceptable,” Mikhail said, proud when he only stumbled a little bit over the multisyllabic word. “We should find you someone this weekend, hmm? Something fun and casual to… loosen up. Would be good for you, I think.”

He expected Shane to protest a little, surprised when he simply said, “You don’t think it’s too risky?”

“Risky?” Mikhail chuckled, “No. I had sex last night. Big hotel with lots of visitors? Perfect place for it.”

Shane startled, then quickly extricated himself from Mikhail’s grasp as if he might catch hookup cooties from their contact. The harried motion made Mikhail laugh again even harder.

Leaned back, now one cushion away, Shane blurted, “I’ve been… texting someone. Here.”

Mikhail worked very hard to craft a look of surprise. “Oh?”

Shane nodded, blush nearly scarlet. “So I probably will… um, get some. Like tomorrow or whatever.”

Mikhail leaned forward, tongue pinched between his right side molars as he fought a bigger grin. “That’s good, Shane. Will you tell me about it after?”

“What? No, you perv!” Shane protested, throwing one of the other cushions at Mikhail in maybe only half-faked outrage.

Dodging the projectile, Mikhail laughed delightedly, throwing Shane a smarmy wink in return. “Worth a try,” he joked, “And if it does not work out, you come back to my room, okay? I will hug it better.”

Shane looked so comically scandalized in return, it was kind of the best thing Mikhail had seen since All Stars had begun. Or at least a strong contender, given he’d watched a rookie fan vote nominee trip into Sidney Crosby’s arms like something out of the Hallmark movies Jake liked so much.

“Thank you for tonight though, really,” Shane said after a moment, “I needed it.” He paused, squeezing his arms around himself a little. “All of it.”

“Any time,” Mikhail replied, “Now maybe let’s get some rest, hmm? You will have to block all of Ilyukha’s shots tomorrow. He will pick you for one-on-one, definitely, even though that is stupid idea.”

“He’s so annoying,” Shane whined, his phone letting out a tiny ping at the same moment. And then several more pings in quick succession.

Mikhail didn’t bother asking who it was.

Ants in a little glass house, he thought, They will find their way to one another. 

🍿

Scott Hunter was irritating as a rival player and, as it turned out, even more so as a captain.

Mikhail rolled his eyes as the clock ticked down to zero, annoyed more by his lack of ice time than the meaningless All Stars loss that had hardly been his fault. As usual, he was across the ice in seconds, barrelling into Shane Hollander for one of their signature hugs, the crowd cheering excitedly at the sight.

It was only after they’d skated apart that he watched an oddly shy Ilya Rozanov hover near Shane, the two exchanging a few words before embracing in celebration. 

The hug was sweet, at first, a show of sportsmanship and mutual respect in spite of the Hollander Hex that hovered over Ilya’s head like a perpetual storm cloud. Except then… well, they sort of didn’t let go, Shane’s eyes adoring behind his mask and Ilya — his mouthguard chomped between his teeth to mask a wider smile — looking practically moony as they held one another several seconds too long to be all that friendly.

Oh god, it’s even worse than casual, Mikhail realized, aghast at the tenderness there, They’re fucking with feelings and they don’t even know it.

Turning away from the sight, he skated over to the boards to interact with some fans. With a wink, he passed his stick over the glass to a shrieking young woman who’d held up a massive trophy-shaped cardboard sign all tournament that read: Pop Tart, you have my Hart. More fans flooded over from there, eager for Mikhail’s attention.

Eyes eventually in search of Shane again, he spotted him drifting sort of aimlessly near a face-off circle, wearing a dreamy expression.

“Hollander!” he called out as he skated over, waving a glove in front of Shane’s face, “You were out in space there for second.”

“Ha, sorry,” Shane said, shaking his head, “Just… taking it all in, I guess.”

“It has been crazy few days,” Mikhail agreed, before pointing over to a group of families at the corner glass. “I came to get you because these children are crazy about goalies. Thought we could go make their day.”

Shane smiled and nodded, though he didn’t immediately follow, Mikhail tracing his sight line to where Rozanov was entertaining a herd of Boston fans. Oh no, not the posing with babies. That was enough to make even Mikhail’s heart flutter.

He continued his journey over to the goalie kids, cheering when one tossed a Pop Tart plushie, complete with arms and legs and big goofy eyes, over the glass for him to catch. Cradling it to his chest, he posed for a picture before looking back for Shane once more.

“Hollander, you coming?” he shouted back, feeling soft at the way Shane looked totally bowled over by a cutesy, fun Ilya Rozanov doing stupid figure skating spins for his audience.

“Yeah, sorry!” Shane said, skating his way.

As Shane started interacting with the families, mask off and smile blinding, Mikhail glanced over to Ilya’s corner of the ice again.

It was no surprise to see that Ilya was already looking back.

🍿

July – Montreal

“Are you sure he is not going to freak out?”

Jake shook his head, laughing affectionately. “For the last time, Misha, no. We can’t be sure. But it doesn’t sound like he’s homophobic from what you’ve told me.”

“No, I know,” Mikhail gasped out, feeling the knot of nerves grow in his chest, “I just… we are such good friends. I would be very sad if this changed things. What if we scare him?”

“Darlin’ we’re starting slow, remember?” Jake said indulgently, squeezing his thigh under the table, “He doesn’t even know you’ve been flirting a little, right? And we have no idea how casual things are between him and Rozanov, or if any of that has changed. We can’t treat him so straightforward like we do the others.”

As if summoned, the restaurant’s front door chimed again and Shane Hollander walked in, looking so nervous that Mikhail had no choice but to immediately wrap him up in a bear hug once he’d found their table. Releasing him from the embrace, he watched as Shane turned to Jake, noting the way those round eyes went impossibly wider at the sight of all 195 or so centimeters of rugged, bearded man before him.

“Hi, I’m Shane. Hollander,” he offered, endearingly awkward as he stuck out his hand.

Jake laughed, Mikhail feeling a pleasant voyeuristic buzz in his chest as he watched the two men interact. His favorite boys all in one place.

“Yeah, I know. You’re the one everyone thinks is kissing my boyfriend.” Shaking Shane’s hand, he added with a smile, “I’m Jake.”

Mikhail watched, breath held in his throat as Shane dropped Jake’s hand like he’d been burned, before freezing up completely.

“Ah, sorry,” Shane managed after a tense moment, “I told him he shouldn’t encourage it.”

Mikhail exhaled. Well, that wasn’t not acceptance.

He watched as Jake frowned at the assumption, joking, “On the contrary. I’m also encouraging it.” The wink he added was one Mikhail knew to be particularly deadly.

Shane blinked, though his cheeks had gone very pink indeed.

Okay, Mikhail thought, heartened by the fact that Shane hadn’t bolted from the establishment upon hearing the word ‘boyfriend’ at least, we can work with that.

🍿

Mikhail smiled down at his beer, pleased now with how the evening was going. 

Shane had been politely inquisitive about the relationship, laughed at Jake’s nerdy jokes, gasped — gasped, Mikhail thought with a roll of his eyes — at a dramatic story about stock market fluctuations, and had even agreed to follow them over to the divey bar down the street post-dinner.

As Jake left to get them a second round of drinks though, Mikhail was faced with the immediate onslaught of a guilt-ridden Shane Hollander, apologizing profusely as he blurted, “I wasn’t trying to flirt or anything, I swear. I know the fans have their… theories… but I hope Jake doesn’t think I meant to come between you. He seems really nice.”

“Your concern is sweet,” Mikhail replied, once Shane had exhausted himself with explanations, “But to be clear, Shane, I have been flirting with you.” At Shane’s perplexed look, he explained, “It has always been open relationship between us. We are very… secure. Not jealous people. As long as we give detail about other person first, it’s okay.”

He tracked the bob of Shane’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed, pupils dilating in the same way they had back in that Nashville hotel room. Lord, don’t tempt me now.

Shane openly shivered as Mikhail leaned in, the dark, smoky back corner obfuscating their closeness. “Like I could kiss you right now,” he continued, voice low, “That would be allowed. Or you could kiss both of us? Also allowed.”

Bolder with the way Shane wasn’t pulling away, he let his lips brush against the shell of one ear as he teased, “But would your man allow it?”

At that, Shane jerked back, genuine shock painted across his features. “My what?”

Mikhail stared, caught off guard by the intensity of the reaction. “You are dating Ilya Rozanov, no?”

Dating was the wrong word to use, clearly, with the way Shane gaped. “Oh my god, no. No! We’re not—”

“Oh, it is casual then?” Mikhail asked, subtly crossing his fingers.

“It’s nothing! He’s not—”

“Not what?” Mikhail probed, amused now, “Interested in men? I can assure you he is.” He shrugged, deciding now was better than any to reveal just how much he’d noticed. “And at All Star game, I was certain you two were—”

“What do you mean you can assure it?” Shane cut in, sharper than Mikhail had ever heard him speak.

Ah, right, okay. So Shane and Ilya had made exactly zero progress since the last time he’d seen them together. Spectacular.

“There were rumors. In the leagues back home. We all sort of knew about each other,” he explained, laughing at the way Shane’s tense expression immediately relaxed, “Wow, did you think he and I—? Your face did something very crazy then.”

“Is it… that obvious?” Shane asked instead, almost whispering, “That we…?”

Mikhail tried valiantly to cover the huff of his incredulous laugh with a cough instead. “Are hooking up? Yes. Or at least that you were wanting to. But only to those of us who know what to look for, I think.” He felt himself frown. “You certainly picked big star to try to be discreet with though.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Shane replied feebly.

“And when did it happen? In Nashville?” Mikhail asked, finally able to pose the questions that had been eating at him since he’d first noticed Ilya’s strange obsession as a teenager.

“Um,” Shane hesitated, and then, “It’s been, uh, a few years… actually.”

Mikhail felt his eyebrows hit his hairline. So even before All Stars, much longer before. That was… shocking, really, and he said as much. “Years? Wow, okay. I didn’t know Ilyukha even repeated hookups, much less stuck to one.”

It was a true-ish observation, if carefully phrased to allow Mikhail to fish a bit about the circumstances of their arrangement. When Mikhail had first noticed Ilya’s crush, he had assumed a single fuck would get it out of his system. Or at least that was what Ilya would tell himself, the depth of his professional obsession with Shane as a hockey player always blurring the lines between competition and lust.

Shane looked a little ill as he replied, “No, I mean, he’s, uh… he’s still sleeping with other people.”

Mikhail’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion that they weren’t on the same page all but confirmed. “Right, and how do you feel about that?”

“Why would I feel any particular way about it?” Shane snapped, transparently upset by the insinuation, “He can do whatever he wants. And he told me that I can too.”

Mikhail fought a sigh. He had — after a long talk with Jake about his own baby crush and the way Shane pinged hard on his gaydar — wanted to see if there wasn’t a little something more possible between them. Jake was open to a lot of things in their long-distance relationship, the two of them occasionally dating other people both separately and together. And then there was the sex, of course, with almost everything (and everyone) on the table for hookups too. But that was only going to work if Shane was interested in men (great, big checkmark there) and in an actually casual and healthy arrangement with Ilya. 

Alas, every response so far indicated the very opposite of that. And while Mikhail loved a bit of mess to gossip about, he wasn’t interested in sticking his dick in the mess too.

“Let’s send him a picture then,” Mikhail proposed with a shrug, plan shifting in his mind as his Fairy Gay-mother wand made a renewed appearance.

“What?”

Sliding an arm around his shoulder, Mikhail said, “Just trust me, Shane.”

Raising the phone camera, he snapped a few selfies, indulgently pressing his lips to Shane’s cheek for one pose. That particular shot turned out beautifully, Shane’s freckled face glowing pretty and pink in the low light. He typed out a quick message, just as Jake returned to the high-top with their beers, a big hand tracing his back as his boyfriend settled in next to him.

Mikhail: [1 image attachment]

Mikhail: greetings from the goalie love nest ;)

Just a few minutes later, all three of them startled at the sound of Shane’s phone vibrating loudly on the table with an incoming call. Feeling smug, Mikhail gestured at Shane to answer it.

There was a pause, a bit of muffled Russian accent leaking through until Shane shifted to angle away from them. Bingo.

“I’m out with friends,” Shane said nervously, “Mikhail Popov came to visit Montreal. His b— uh, his—”

Oh, sweet thing, still trying to protect their privacy. Mikhail waved a hand and mouthed ‘It’s okay.’

Shane nodded. “His, um, boyfriend always wanted to travel across Canada. And they asked if I’d be in town during their summer trip so. We’re getting drinks.”

Ilya’s response must have gone on for a while, the way Shane sat silently, grip tightening around the phone.

“No, I wasn’t—” Shane protested, tensing as Mikhail took a step closer and snuck an arm around his waist.

Mikhail leaned in until his lips were near enough to the receiver to say, low and teasing, “Are you going to stake your claim soon, Ilyukha? I must say, he looks very pretty on a Russian arm. All blushing and shy and… pliant.”

“I don’t own him,” Ilya hissed back, a shocking degree of anger in his tone that Mikhail had only really heard off the ice after a Russian loss. His mind flashed back to a teenage Ilya, the stick that he’d broken himself in hand, yelling his head off in the locker room about their pathetic offense and that fucking Canadian golden boy in goal.

“So you can fuck him,” Ilya continued darkly, Mikhail not missing how the harsh Russian tones made Shane shiver against him, “Go ahead, I’ve seen how you want to. But know that he will be thinking of me the whole time, how no one else makes him feel like I do, with every stroke of your meager little cock.”

Christ, alright then, Mikhail thought, a half-nervous (half-another thing) sort of laugh punched from his chest. A moment later, Shane was stammering out something nonsensical, fleeing the bar to finish the call outside.

“You looked a little affected by that,” Jake remarked knowingly, amusement written all over his face, “Rozanov say somethin’ sweet?”

Mikhail laughed again, lighter this time, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “No, but ah… let’s revisit some humiliation kink soon, hmm? I am feeling… suddenly inspired.”

Jake all but snorted into his beer. Nodding, he wrapped a hand around Mikhail’s bicep and tugged him closer with a murmured, “So you had fun tonight, at least? Even though Shane seems… preoccupied?”

“I did,” Mikhail said, leaning into him, “I am happy he is okay with us. And any chance to get under Ilya Rozanov’s skin is very hot to me, if I am honest.”

Jake’s smile turned predatory. “Would you ever…?”

“Ugh, no,” Mikhail said quickly, “Maybe when I was a teenager. But he is so… toppy. It would be a disaster.”

Jake shrugged. “I’ve known you to bottom for less, peaches.” Mikhail frowned, the use of his oldest nickname one of his boyfriend’s most unfair tricks. “And he’s got that awful hung smile in pictures, like, you just know it’s big.”

“I would rather die,” he replied primly, though he knew that Jake had felt him squirm at the words.

“Anyway, imagine those two manage to get their shit together,” Jake mused, meeting Mikhail’s eyes as he offered the parting blow, “Then one day we could have both of them. At once.”

The images that played through his mind rapid fire as a result would have made even a seasoned porn star blush.

“Call a car,” Mikhail blurted, not at all proud of his sudden desperation.

In the same moment, Shane arrived back at their table, blurting out his own hurried excuse about an early morning and that his Uber was arriving outside.

They exchanged goodbyes, Jake pulling Shane into a hug this time too, much to Shane’s clear embarrassment before he darted back out the door.

Minutes later, one hand creeping up Jake’s thigh in the back of their own ride, Mikhail hit send on two identical text messages.

Mikhail: You’re welcome 🤠

🍿 2016 🍿

December – New York

The last thing Mikhail expected, cuddled up on the plush sectional in front of the fireplace in Jake’s Greenwich Village brownstone, was the ping of a 1 a.m. text. Fishing his phone out from under his thigh, he read:

Shane 🧱: heyyy I think I’m gay

Mikhail snorted, finding the admission sweet, if a little overdue.

Mikhail: shane, i am shocked 😦

Shane 🧱: Wait really?

Mikhail: no??))0)0))))

Thinking this might be more emotionally literal for Shane than he realized, he tacked on a few additional assurances from the classic Coming Out playbook.

Mikhail: but thank you for telling me, you are very brave, etc

Shane’s next reply had him swallowing, the temptation never quite dialed down to zero. Which Shane knew all too well, after the Montreal proposition the year before.

Shane 🧱: Next time we hang out, can I kiss you to make sure?

“Shane Hollander wants me to kiss him,” he murmured, tilting his head up to nose into Jake’s beard, grown out thicker for the winter weather.

He felt Jake’s hum where their chests were pressed together. “You seem less excited about that than I’d expect.”

Mikhail sniffed. “He is drunk, I think. And definitely going through… something.” He waved a hand, explaining, “He just came out to me. But then asked to kiss me to make sure?”

Jake snorted out a laugh. “Well, not to be presumptuous but… I’ve been harboring a strong suspicion. What with the Ilya Rozanov of it all.”

“That’s what I was typing out too,” Mikhail said, frowning, “I guess maybe he was keeping women as option before? But that does not explain why he would need to kiss even more boys. Seeing as he just wants to kiss the one, mostly.”

Jake shifted, making another thoughtful noise, as Mikhail hit send on his messages.

Mikhail: i am pretty confident about your gayness, shane. if you are asking for peer review))))

Mikhail: and how about we have rest of that conversation sober hmm

“Maybe he thought Ilya was the exception?” Jake offered, “He sure is handsome enough. Would have made me gay if I wasn’t already.”

Mikhail shoved at him, grinning. “You know the rule.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said, rolling his eyes with clear affection, “No other blond Russian hockey players allowed. But if he ever goes brunet, I’m in there, baby.”

Mikhail stuck his tongue out in mock-disgust before his phone pinged with Shane’s reply.

Shane 🧱: Not that drunk 🍄‍🟫

He smiled, heart warm and feeling a little spoiled with a big cuddly man beneath him and Shane Hollander’s virtual attention too.

Mikhail: sure thing, гриб. where are you right now?

Shane 🧱 : Rose landrys couch

The hell? Mikhail jolted, making Jake let out a matching gasp in surprise. He pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s chin in apology, spamming question marks on the screen.

Mikhail: ???????????

Shane 🧱: LOL. tell you later

Mikhail: ok. can you tell me when you get home safe too?

Shane 🧱: 👍👍👍👍

He let out a deep sigh, a bit more worried than he was at the start of what had seemed to be a silly drunken conversation.

“Our Wallzy okay?” Jake asked, sensing his unease.

“I… I don’t think so,” Mikhail replied carefully, “Maybe later when he is sober, I will check in.”

“You’re a good friend to him, Mishenka,” Jake said, the nickname affectionate and a little silly in his Southern drawl, “but remember that you can’t fix everything. Sometimes just being there is okay too.”

Ah, his sweet Jake, so handsome and so wise.

“I love you,” Mikhail whispered, burrowing into him like he might merge their very souls together.

When he looked back up, Jake was flashing him a lottery-winning grin. “Lucky me.”

🍿 

Mikhail: [link to People magazine article, feature image: Rose Landry and Shane Hollander holding hands outside a Montreal steakhouse]

Mikhail: what is this 😡 i would have started dating rumor with you if you asked

Shane 🧱: Not really the point of a beard.

Shane 🧱: And we already have dating rumors 🙄 You’re the origin of at least half of them.

Mikhail: does he know?

Shane 🧱: No.

Shane 🧱:  And we’re not really talking right now. It’s for the best.

Mikhail: shane…

Shane 🧱: Leave it, Popov.

Shane 🧱: I’m fine.

🍿 2017 🍿

March – Tampa

Privately, Mikhail thought the decor in Shane’s Tampa condo was kind of insane, avoiding eye contact with a hyperrealistic pelican painting over Shane’s shoulder as they embraced.

Hugging Shane Hollander was indulgent as ever, though he knew the poor goalie had needed it, the transfer to the Storm making a mess of all Shane’s careful plans. They were comfortably, companionably quiet for a while, Mikhail continuing to rub his back in soothing strokes. 

It wasn't long though before Shane shifted against him, seeming a bit restless. Wordlessly, Shane tilted his head back and met his eyes, deliberate and unsubtle with the way he looked down to Mikhail’s mouth and back up. There was a hunger there that made Mikhail gulp, having mostly written off any possibility of a liaison with Shane after realizing the depth to which he was totally unavailable. Or, well, he had written it off, before Ilya Rozanov had somehow fumbled the greatest thing that would probably ever happen to him, Stanley Cups included, in Mikhail’s humble opinion.

“Shane,” he warned, voice pitched low.

He felt Shane freeze against him, and then the tears started in earnest. Oh, fuck. No, no no.

Shane reached a hand up to scrub at his face, hiccuping, “Sorry, I just… I just needed to know if I—”

Mikhail was rearranging them immediately, both hands on Shane’s cheeks as his thumbs swiped away the tears.

“Oh, Shane, no,” he said hurriedly, injecting every possible ounce of gentleness he could muster, “I’m not saying no. I’m just worried you are not in right, um, mind place for this. Have you even been with anyone besides—”

“Yes,” Shane interjected quietly, “Twice. And just, um, hand and mouth stuff. A while ago. I was too nervous for more.” He bit his lip. “It’s stupid but… I wouldn’t let them kiss me. He’s the only one.”

Mikhail felt his heart thump, gaze shifting into something extraordinarily fond. So Shane had been with other men even, and still he was saving certain acts of closeness for the one man he had clearly fallen a little bit in love with. Maybe more than a little bit, if the tears had anything to do with it.

“That is very romantic, Shane Hollander,” Mikhail mused, “I should not take that from him.”

“Please,” Shane whispered, surprising him, "That's why I need one from you. I’m terrified I made up how it felt.”

Mikhail could only watch as Shane’s face contorted into something wretched, a devastation in his eyes that mirrored both hope and heartbreak. It was understandable, maybe, the thought that you might have exaggerated your feelings in hindsight. That maybe that person wasn’t so special after all. And if you didn’t care for them like you thought you did, the losing them part didn’t have to hurt so much in the end. It probably wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism Shane could have chosen, but love was a vicious motivator — or however that saying went — and Mikhail could see the desperation behind the request.

It was a little funny, the way Mikhail didn’t need this kiss to know whether Shane was in love with Ilya or not, but clearly Shane did.

“Just one, hmm?” he proposed, leaning in slowly to give Shane the chance to back out at any moment.

He expected him to, in fact, his heartbeat quickening in his chest when he realized that Shane was not turning away.

I’m the best Fairy Gay-mother in the universe, he thought nonsensically, just as his lips met Shane’s own. And, not for the first time, he added another deposit to the ‘Ilya Rozanov, you fucking owe me’ box.

At first, he kept their connection rather chaste, lips moving slowly together without parting for more, though Shane had a natural submission to him that tempted Mikhail like no other. There was undoubtedly a physical chemistry between them, a live wire letting off sparks that Mikhail knew he could kindle into a flame if he chose to. For a moment, just to see, he snuck his tongue past the seam of Shane’s lips and felt the immediate shudder and moan in response.

Abort mission, he shouted internally, lightening the kiss once more until they eventually parted in a silent, mutual conclusion.

He let his eyes roam over Shane’s flushed face, checking for any sign of discomfort.

“I’m really in love with him,” Shane murmured, touching two fingers to his lips, “Fuck.”

Mikhail snorted, shifting back to put a little distance between them. Yep, that was about as much as he’d expected and he told Shane the same. “I will try not to be offended that is your first thought. But yes, obviously. Did you not know?”

“Sort of,” Shane winced, “but I just… filed that away for later. Or for never, really. An actual future together is... unattainable, even if I hadn’t already ruined things.” He glanced away, venturing, “But how did you know? For sure?”

Mikhail smiled, though he felt his expression shift into something more thoughtful as he considered the question. “I don’t think that I have perfect words for it in English. But I guess basic answer is that I don’t believe love has to be big and grand. Or meet others’ standards. Sometimes it is so simple, like… When the door opens after weeks apart, or longer even, I want him to be the one standing there.”

It was a foundational truth: despite the lust for other bodies and hearts that they mutually shared, Mikhail Popov would always come home to Jacob Hines. And vice versa, he hoped. He was pretty damn certain about their own slice of forever.

He let Shane collapse back into him and softly chatter away, the poor thing emotionally wrung out after his discovery of Big Feelings, and valiantly did not think about kissing him again.

(He was always, probably, a tiny bit going to think about kissing Shane again.)

When Mikhail finally stood to leave a few hours later, he hugged Shane tightly in the entryway and pecked him on the cheek. There. Perfectly platonic.

“Mr. Wallender, always a pleasure,” he said with a wink, “Jake will be terribly jealous of me. And your Ilyukha too.”

“Not mine,” Shane said as if on instinct, surprising Mikhail when he added, “But um, do you remember when you visited Montreal? You said something to him on the phone. I’ve always wondered…”

Mikhail braced a hand on the doorknob as he folded slightly forward, choking out a laugh. “Oh, was stupid, really. I told him that he better stake his claim soon, seeing how pretty you looked on a Russian arm. Something like that.”

Shane gulped, a deep blush blooming on his cheeks. “And do you remember what he said back?”

Mikhail hesitated. “Ah, it’s a little…”

“He has literally had his dick in me,” Shane deadpanned, making Mikhail burst into laughter once more.

“Shane Hollander,” he gasped out, bringing a faux-scandalized hand to his chest, “What have we done to you?”

His eyebrows furrowed in concentrated memory as he continued, “But yes, it was something like that. How he had no right to claim you, but was confident no one would ever fuck you better. I remember thinking he was very loud with his feelings in Russian. Hard to explain.”

Shane shifted, his entire being turning fragile like the first frozen layer of ice on a winter pond. Mikhail’s favorite little bunny, his best goalie friend in hockey (in general, probably), so vulnerable and searching as he asked, “Do you think he…?”

Did Ilya Rozanov love Shane Hollander in return? From the few times he’d seen them together, Mikhail sure thought so. And it would be madness, really, if Ilya’s near decade-long obsession with the Canadian goaltender hadn’t led to this eventual conclusion. Nineteen and mostly ignorant of the world of romance, Mikhail had sensed it even then.

And so he tried to put all the honest reassurance he could into his returning smile. “Yes, I do. But you should ask him to be sure, I think.”

Reaching out to clasp Shane’s shoulder, he squeezed once, twice, and then tugged open the front door.

“See you in playoffs, Shane,” he said cheerfully — if a little optimistically this year, given how his Crawfish offense was doing — and then, “And tell Montreal to get fucked!”

When the door clicked shut behind him, Mikhail let out the breath he had been holding, touching two fingers to his lips. A mirror of the motion Shane had done earlier that evening.

It wasn’t heartbreak exactly, this strange jagged feeling in his chest, but it was a bizarre sort of ‘what if?’ knowing that in another universe maybe he had been brave enough to fight for Shane Hollander too.

Clink, he heard in his mind, as another coin dropped into the bank of Ilya’s IOUs.

Fishing for his phone, he fired off a cryptic text as he made his way down the hallway, a little angrier now on Shane’s behalf.

Mikhail: are you going to continue to be an idiot about him or what

The reply was almost instantaneous, shocking Mikhail damn near out of his skin when it synced with the elevator’s chime of arrival.

Ilya (Boston): i don’t know what he told you, but HE is the one that left

Ilya (Boston): and i’m getting tired of your meddling, mikhail. you never fucking let things be

Mikhail: sorry i believe in love and care about my friends

Ilya (Boston): we’re not friends

Mikhail: i was talking about shane, asshole

Ilya (Boston): cool, whatever! i don’t want to talk about him, and especially not with you

Mikhail: you didn’t deny the love part

Ilya (Boston): you’re right, i didn’t

Ilya (Boston): now stop texting me

Mikhail: i think you want to talk about it

Ilya (Boston): and i think i’m going to block your number

Mikhail frowned, knowing there was something to the fact that Ilya was still replying to him. He remembered, for a moment, the way Ilya had leaned into him on a Vegas rooftop years and years ago, dazzled by a simple exchange of messages with Shane Hollander. And then again, on the ice in Nashville, holding his temporary goalie to his chest like he couldn’t believe his fucking luck.

Mikhail: i’m here, if you need it. genuinely

The reply was as petulant as ever, but it was another reply nonetheless. So much for that block, hmm.

Ilya (Boston): whatever. good night, popov. leave me alone

Mikhail sighed, figuring that had gone about as well as he might have expected. As he walked out the condo building’s front entrance, he thought back on what he’d told Shane about love. About doors and coming home.

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had been circling something more for as long as Mikhail had known them. Inextricable like binary stars, but in the same way maybe just as destined for destruction? He shook his head, refusing to believe that after years spent falling into each other over and over that there wasn’t something there worth fighting for.

Shane had left, apparently. Walked out a door and pulled it shut behind him, in a way that Ilya seemed to think would remain closed forever.

But Shane hadn’t let himself be in love then. Not the way he was now, after Mikhail had kissed him and awoken a True Love like some kind of fucked up inverse fairytale.

Typing a message out to Shane instead, he said:

Mikhail: it’s not too late. boston @ tampa, maybe.

Shane 🧱: he hates me, misha

Mikhail: i really don’t think he does

🍿

May – Raleigh

The ‘Hollanov’ reprieve arrived in a long string of exclamation points, a texting style so deeply un-Shane-like that Mikhail was scrambling to unlock his phone after peeping the message preview alone.

Shane 🧱: !!!!!!!!!!

Mikhail: !?

Shane 🧱: I’m in mutual like with Ilya Rozanov, oh my god

Mikhail let out a sigh he’d been holding in since March, a teary Shane clinging to him with the devastated realization that he’d been in love with his ‘casual hookup’ the whole time. While it didn’t sound like a full confession, at least they had finally been brave enough to admit their shared feelings. It had only taken four or five actual years or so, and a hundred metaphorical years off of Mikhail’s gorgeous long life.

Mikhail: obviously

Mikhail: but you are okay now? things are good?

Shane 🧱: As good as they can be while I’m stuck in fucking Florida. 

Mikhail: fair 😭

He thought then about the other thing making Shane unreasonably miserable.

Mikhail: and remember, fuck Montreal 🚩

Mikhail: say it back shane

Shane 🧱: … I’m getting there

🍿

Mikhail wasn’t all that surprised maybe, watching that old queen kiss his boyfriend after winning the Stanley Cup. The public nature of it was… a choice, certainly, but ugh, if Mikhail didn’t love a messy, messy bitch. The Commissioner was going to lose his marbles.

Mikhail: so… scott hunter huh

Shane’s first text arrived a few hours later and read a little like a PR statement.

Shane 🧱: He did a good thing for hockey. 

Shane 🧱: Probably.

Mikhail: did you know?

Shane 🧱: Yes 🙄 Don’t ask me how.

Mikhail: 😮 you’ve been holding out on me, shane! your most gossip loving friend!

Mikhail: should we start a group chat 🌈🏒

Shane 🧱: God no

🍿

June – Outer Banks

Christmas arrived in mid-June that year, Mikhail on a beach lounger in Corolla gazing out at the sparkling ocean. Jake’s family were mostly a bane for both of them, but their real estate connections were unfortunately sublime.

Shane 🧱: Would signing with Boston be crazy?

Mikhail let out a pretty sigh. What a beautiful summer this was turning into, even without another Cup for the Crawfish. Shane heading to a team that might actually value him in goal? With the bonus of the reconciled lovebirds being in Boston together? A nightmare for every other team in the NHL, Mikhail’s included, but a very romantic proposition nonetheless.

Mikhail: career wise? not really. nosey will retire after this season 

Mikhail: for the real reason you are asking? yes. definitely. good crazy tho

🍿

And the gifts just kept on coming.

Ilya (Boston): i want to talk about you and jake

Mikhail: a foursome? ilyukha i thought you’d never ask

Ilya (Boston): you are so irritating

Ilya (Boston): but no, like about how you keep it secret. safe

Mikhail: ‼️ is this a boyfriends reveal????

Ilya (Boston): … not yet

Mikhail: oh you are nervous)0)) this is so cute i will cry

Ilya (Boston): can you just answer some questions please

Mikhail: 👍

INCOMING CALL: Ilya (Boston)

“Ah, so someone wants to talk about love after all,” Mikhail said when he answered, all smug Russian tones.

“I will hang up,” Ilya replied, voice laced with annoyance. He was more expressive in Russian and a little… camp, even. Mikhail wondered for a moment if Shane knew that.

“No, you won’t,” Mikhail sing-songed back, “You need my advice.”

“Need is doing some heavy lifting there,” Ilya deadpanned, though he sounded markedly less certain of himself as he added, “But yes, I… Shane invited me to vacation with him this summer. We’re sort of… serious now, I think. But he wants us to spend time together before he decides on Boston, and on us.”

Mikhail furrowed his brow, a flare of protectiveness sparking in his chest. “You did not give him an ultimatum, did you?”

“No,” Ilya said forcefully, “No, not at all. In fact, I wouldn’t want him to pick a team because of me. Boston reached out on their own. And I think it’s a good idea for his career obviously, but I get how it makes our… thing feel more intense. If suddenly we are in the same place all the time.”

“Well, you know I don’t have much experience with that,” Mikhail offered, “Jake and I are apart more often than not. At least for now.”

“But you love him,” Ilya said, “and love makes things worth it?”

Mikhail didn’t miss the way that statement ended on a question mark.

“Most things,” he agreed, a little amused by the scourge of the NHL spouting off romantic cliches, “But what do you really need, Ilyukha?”

There was a sigh over the line. “I want to ask Shane to be my boyfriend—”

Mikhail let out a squeal of delight, practically able to hear Ilya’s eye roll through the phone as he continued.

“— but that makes me feel like an idiot. And I’m worried too that I’m putting too much pressure on the relationship, if he agrees, by sort of passively pushing him toward Boston so it’s easier for us to be together.”

Mikhail took a moment to process all of that. “It’s true that both of you on the Bears would simplify a lot. But if you love him, I really believe you can make it work with the distance. You fell for him just meeting up a few times a year, after all.” He hummed. “It sounds like… maybe you’re just afraid to ask about the boyfriends part, so you’re piling on more excuses?”

Ilya scoffed. “Okay, wow.” There was a pause. Mikhail waited, smile growing. “Fine, maybe you have a point.”

“He’s not going to say no, Ilyukha,” Mikhail said, then added, “You know, Jake and I had a similar start in a way.”

Ilya made a curious noise over the line.

“Shane knows some of this story already,” Mikhail noted before giving him the cliffsnotes version, “We hooked up for a while after we first met, knowing we had deeper feelings but thinking it could only be casual given Jake was moving to New York for his job. I wouldn’t have asked him to change his career plans to take a risk on a brand new relationship, not when my job was equally important to me and had me traveling all the time too.”

Mikhail sighed, thinking back to some of their tougher conversations during that time. The feeling that he could lose a beautiful thing before it had even really begun.

“Ultimately, we kind of said ‘fuck the logistics’, this means something and we’ll only find out if it’s worth it if we do the hard part now. And years later, it was worth it. It is.”

“Do the hard part now,” Ilya echoed, clearly ruminating on the idea, “And if I already know Shane is worth it? As long as I have him some of the time?”

Mikhail smiled. “Then you have your answer, I think. Go get yourself a boyfriend, you dork. I’ve been waiting since 2008 for this moment.”

Surprising him, Ilya said, “Me too.”

“And Ilyukha?”

“Yeah?”

“The Shane I know, the professional goaltender Shane who analyzes everything to a pathological degree, would go to Boston,” he affirmed, “Leo Campbell in my tandem and an actual offense? Even I am salivating at the offer and I have multiple Cups and a ten million dollar cap hit.”

“Show off,” Ilya grumbled, though it was teasing, “and what about the fearsome Rozanov as your captain?”

Mikhail laughed. “Ah, I’d ask for eleven to put up with that part. Hazard pay.”

“Fuck you, Popov,” Ilya said, in English this time.

“So formal, little brother,” Mikhail said in jest, chuckling again. “You know, Shane asked me once why I call you Ilyukha and I explained how our names work in Russian. He asked me after if I might ever call you Ilyusha instead.”

He expected Ilya to respond dramatically, with an exclamation of disgust or a gagging sound or something. He was shocked when Ilya replied, voice soft, “I did wonder where Shane found Ilyusha, when he started using it between us. I thought maybe online. But Ilyukha is nice too. I’ve… always liked that you call me that. I have an older brother, technically, but…”

“But?” Mikhail prompted, feeling a strange ache begin to grow beneath his ribs.

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. A state so very unlike him that Mikhail started to worry he might have simply hung up, if not for the shaky intake of breath he heard across the line.

“Our relationship is… bad,” Ilya said eventually, “He has always hated me, for being queer, for trying to please our father despite that. And he’s an addict. A mean one. We… we don’t speak anymore. Not since the funeral.”

Mikhail sniffed, fighting the urge to be further endeared to Ilya Grigoryevich of all people. 

“Well, I have always liked you,” he said, his own compulsion for honesty betraying him, “Even when you were an arrogant baby on the ice and a huge pain in my ass. Plus, I knew you were a little gay from the moment we met. So there. Fuck your idiot brother. You are loved, Ilyukha. By Shane and maybe by me, just a tiny bit.”

“Thank you,” Ilya whispered, voice breaking on the second syllable as he added, “Misha.”

The Ilya-shaped ache beneath his ribs blossomed like a cactus flower, a little prickly but… nice too.

“Finally,” Mikhail said fondly, “Was that so hard? You and Shane are both the same brand of stubborn, I swear. I’m your friend, you know? I have been this whole time.”

“A friend who wants to fuck my boyfriend,” Ilya argued, seemingly back to his usual self after that sentimental interlude.

“He’s not your boyfriend yet, remember,” Mikhail teased, “But yes, I am first in line. Say the word. I’ll even let you watch.”

Ilya made a noise of disbelief. “You’re awful.”

“I’m you,” Mikhail stated cheerily, “if pretty Shane Hollander had not turned you into a certified monogamous lover boy. You were exclusive for him before he even asked, weren’t you?”

“That’s… I still had sex,” Ilya argued, though it came out sounding sort of pitiful.

“Sad boy sex. To like The Weeknd or something."

Ilya tried to hide it, but Mikhail could’ve swore he heard him laugh a little.

“Whatever, we are so off topic,” Ilya said petulantly, “So I ask Shane to be my boyfriend and maybe he agrees. How do I protect us?”

Mikhail rolled his shoulders back, squarely into advice mode now, though he was quietly pleased by the sort of bonding moment they’d just had. “Ok, so assuming you’re both in Boston, first you’re going to want to get your agents involved, or get new ones if you think they won’t be cool about it. And then…”

Thirty minutes of detailed discussion on security (both physical and cyber), PR, social media use, team culture, and a dozen Worst Case Scenarios later, Ilya seemed to have finally exhausted his list of questions.

“And remember, there are two people in a relationship,” Mikhail concluded sagely, “You can’t do any of this without him. It has to be together. On the same page.”

“Obviously, Misha,” Ilya said with the same bratty energy as ever, though Mikhail knew he’d made a purposeful effort to use the diminutive that time.

When they finally exchanged their goodbyes, Mikhail was shocked to see the time stamp on his phone.

43 minutes 8 seconds.

Worth it if it meant that all his Fairy Gay-mothering would end in happiness for Shane Hollander.

And fine, okay.

Maybe a little happiness for Shane’s soon-to-be boyfriend too.

🍿 2022 🍿

It was all over the news the moment the press verified Ilya’s claims during media availability.

Those idiots had done a Vegas chapel wedding, an elopement so outrageously campy it made Mikhail and Jake’s Brooklyn courthouse sneak pail in comparison.

And Mikhail was sort of, maybe, if you squinted… to blame for it.

How was he supposed to know that the 2 a.m. text from Shane that read ‘lmao should we get married?’ with a selfie attached of him and Ilya wearing Señor Frog’s balloon hats and sipping blue slush from a singular yard drink with two straws was meant to be taken as a serious yes/no proposition.

‘Yes, obviously, then we can be husband friends,' he’d texted back enthusiastically. He didn’t think conventional, planning-obsessed Shane Hollander would actually go through with it.

But then again:

“Shane was barely tipsy,” Ilya had whispered to him much later, “He just hates when people realize he is a total romantic. He already had the rings with him.”

A little over a year after The Press Incident, with some of the worst fallout of coming out behind them, they’d also decided to hold a real wedding. Or, well, Shane’s mother had apparently decided for them and invited seemingly 90% of North America’s non-homophobic hockey royalty to her sprawling Ottawan backyard. Arriving earlier that afternoon, Mikhail had been delighted to find that he and Jake were seated in a row of current and former goalies and their partners, Benny to his left (that old bisexual sneak!) and Nosey a few chairs to his right, then Flower and Grizzly and Holts across the aisle. Hazy was right next to Jake, the former roommates chatting up a storm before the walk-in music began.

The ceremony was elegant but simple, the grooms barely getting through the standard, pre-written vows with the officiant, snotty and teary-eyed as they kissed like they were the last two people on earth. Mikhail felt his eyes starting to well up at the sight of their embrace, his hand reaching over to clasp Jake’s own. They knew all too well how beautiful the relief could be. Everything out in the open, loving in full technicolor. Shane and Ilya's bravery had a lot to do with their own freedom too.

The reception was held in the same backyard, the rows of chairs carefully moved to the edges and replaced by round high-top tables where the guests could mingle with their drinks and small bites. There was a basic A/V setup blasting out a wedding-friendly playlist of Top 40 hits and a handheld mic set aside for the upcoming speeches.

Mikhail had been shocked when Ilya, of his own volition, had asked him to give a wedding toast. They hadn’t opted for real groomsmen or anything, Shane still grumbly about the Yuna-planned wedding in general and vehemently opposed to a bachelor party, but Ilya had assured a preening Mikhail that he was as close to their joint Maid of Honor as it could get. Hayden Pike, Shane’s former Voyageurs teammate, had claimed the title of Best Man at the sort of vague ‘rehearsal dinner’ a few nights ago despite JJ Boiziau’s protests, the two men engaging in so many tying rounds of rock paper scissors that they’d finally agreed to give a joint toast. Two hockey bros, one mic? That promised to be a comedic disaster.

Up first were Shane’s parents though, both delivering heartfelt speeches that had the grooms openly tearing up, Ilya looking especially affected by the way David called him ‘son’ too.

Mikhail’s heart ached a little at that. His own parents were back in Russia, perfectly kind people who had raised him and fed him and given him the gift of hockey, but who did not care to be involved much beyond that. They knew who Jake was, and what he meant to their son, but continued to refer to him as Mikhail’s roommate. They were too committed to being pleasant to outwardly express their disapproval, but it was there, always, a darker undercurrent in the rare times he needed to speak to them. Good thing Mikhail had never been naïve enough to seek their blessing anyway. He and Jake had chosen better family for themselves now.

Not to be outdone by the Voyageurs side of the house apparently, Cliff Marlow and Svetlana Vetrova also presented as a duo in what ended up being more like the Roast of Ilya Rozanov than any sort of congratulations. It was perfect though somehow, and every time Mikhail glanced over at the newlyweds, a bright red Ilya was turtling deeper into his suit collar while Shane was seal-clapping like a madman, having the time of his fucking life. 

All too soon, it was Mikhail’s turn, the mic pressed into his hand as he turned to face the crowd. He’d rehearsed this so many times he could probably perform it backwards, but still. Public speaking in a foreign language? It was like he was back in school again.

He found Jake’s face in the crowd, his husband flashing him a tiny thumbs up that made him smile, and then the expectant expressions of Shane and Ilya, champagne tipsy and beaming.

“My first impression of Shane Hollander was that he was obsessed with hockey,” Mikhail began, “and my first real impression of Ilya Rozanov — not counting that tiny, grumpy speed demon I shared Russian ice with as a child — was that he was obsessed with Shane.”

His captive audience laughed and nodded along and that was all he needed, thank god, breezing through the rest of his toast with ease.

“To forwards and their goalies,” he exclaimed as the finale, surprised when his voice cracked a little on the words. Tears in his eyes, how embarrassing, he held his champagne flute aloft as the guests echoed the words back. “To Ilya and Shane. To happily ever afters. And to an Eastern Conference Final without the god damn Boston Bears.”

That got another laugh, the majority of hockey players in attendance whooping in agreement. He glanced back to Ilya who was flipping him the bird, a huge grin on his face.

Passing the mic to the DJ, he made his way back into the crowd, weaving toward where Jake stood waiting. He felt a sudden tug at his suit jacket before he could get there, a small child — statistically belonging to the Pikes, though he didn’t think they had any ethnically ambiguous Asians in the family — looking up at him with big brown eyes. She was wearing a pink dress with a twirly ballet-style skirt, swishing it to and fro while she regarded him with an intensity well beyond her years.

“Excuse me, mister tall guy,” she said politely, “I think you should have this. Matches your outfit.”

She thrust out a hand, presenting a magic wand with a pink plastic handle (which did indeed match his baby pink tie almost exactly), ribbons of tulle in pastel rainbow shades hanging down from the top where a big silver star was attached, actively shedding its glitter.

“Are you sure?” Mikhail asked, bending down a little to talk to her more directly.

“Yes,” she said with adorable confidence, hissing a little through the gap in her teeth, “I got it for free, so now it’s free for you too.”

Well, hard to argue with a bargain. Mikhail accepted the wand and waved it back and forth before nodding solemnly. He placed his hand over his heart and vowed, “I promise to wield my magic responsibly.”

“Magic isn’t real,” she said, looking at him like he was a bit of an idiot.

Mikhail stood back up, laughing as he said, “Very scientific of you. Don’t lose that spark, little one.”

“Sorry,” Shane’s voice cut in with clear amusement, sidling up to him as the tiny princess skipped away, “that’s like my second cousin or something. Her parents couldn’t find a babysitter, so we were letting her play in the house during the ceremony.”

He gestured at the wand. “I think by free she means she stole it. My mom’s always kept a few toys and things around for when the Pike kids are over.”

“Oh,” Mikhail said, thrusting it toward Shane, who waved him off with a laugh.

“No, no, you’ve earned that I think,” Shane joked, his eyes finding Ilya across the lawn, “Took some real magic to get me and that idiot together for real.”

Mikhail felt his cheeks warm a little at the acknowledgment. “Well, I did maybe nudge here and there. Just a little. But it was up to you in the end.”

“We’re lucky to have you in our lives, Misha,” Shane said, his voice going a little wet with emotion, “I love you, like so much. I don’t know if I’ve ever said it aloud before, but… I hope you know. That I do, and always did.”

Mikhail blinked futilely against the moisture threatening on his lash line, feeling his heart swell ten more sizes at Shane’s words.

“I know,” he replied, “and I love you too. It’s been…” He huffed, scrubbing at the traitorous tear rolling down his cheek. “It’s been so wonderful to see you become who you were meant to be. And to know you have found someone who loved you even before, who always believed you would bloom like this.”

“You believed in me too,” Shane said, expression colored with nostalgia, “So loudly. I needed a cheerleader back then.”

Mikhail shook his head. “You just needed someone to understand a little, what we go through in goal. And what it means to be a bit weird because of that. The rest of it, the drive, the skill, the success… that was all you.”

“Misha,” Shane whispered, bottom lip gone all wobbly, “can I have a hug, please?”

Mikhail had his arms around Shane in an instant, uncaring if they wrinkled their suits a bit as he squeezed extra tight. It was a motion he had performed dozens of times before, as padded marshmallow men on the ice, and as friends comforting one another off of it. Holding Shane Hollander was one of life's small miracles, like a game-winning save or a playoff shutout, like the mind-clearing simplicity of hovering between two red posts and waiting for the shick, whoosh of a vulcanized rubber challenge. Mikhail was just glad that there was at least one other person on this planet that knew intimately what a gift the man in his arms really was — to hockey, to all of them. Just as Shane relaxed fully into the embrace, muffling sniffles into his collar, Mikhail heard the sound of approaching footsteps and then a quiet, familiar chuckle.

Both he and Shane turned their heads, still holding one another, as Ilya Rozanov walked up, the sunlight hitting him in the most obnoxiously flattering way possible.

“You know, Misha,” Ilya said, arms outstretched and smile sparkling, “I think I’m going to need one of those too.”