Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Victor St. Simon, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Grief/Mourning, Therapy, Hurt/Comfort, POV Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Invasion of Privacy, Ableist Language, Shane Hollander Can Fight, like verbally. he would like to start throwing things but he's trying too hard to be normal for that, maybe the real enemy was the mainstream sports media we watched along the way, Not As Dark As The Tags Make It Sound, Feelings Realization, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Episode: s01e02 Olympians (Heated Rivalry)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-25 Words: 13,773 Chapters: 1/1

I can fumble around forever

Summary

Rozanov wanted to hurt himself, or tried to hurt himself, or did hurt himself. Acknowledging the idea feels like staring directly at the sun. If Shane lets the thought settle, it’ll burn its way through every other thought he has.

Rozanov is catching a pillow that Sveta throws at him and smiling. He told Shane that therapy is working. He’s here. He’s fine.

Shane takes careful breaths and taps his right thumb to his fingers one by one as he sets aside that confusion and terror. Rozanov did not invite him here to freak out, so Shane’s not going to freak out.

Or: The summer after he wins the Cup for Boston, Ilya almost dies. Shane tries to cope.

Notes

The language regarding suicide/mental health here is uhhh dated and a little stigmatized because this is the NHL in 2014 but for the most part it's not cruel or anything. I'm not sure if DBT-IOP is a historically accurate or accessible option for 2014 (If I think about that being more than ten years ago I'll burst into flames), but DBT did exist at the time so full send! This is also a story about the aftermath of attempted suicide, from the perspective of someone who cares about the person struggling with depression/suicidal ideation. It is not meant to be a graphic exploration of depressive thoughts/behaviors, though they are addressed.

Shane Hollander is my Shayla, I love him and I want him to connect with and experience his feelings <3

Russian translated in end notes (I do not speak Russian)

If you saw me change the name of this fic four times in five minutes, no you didn't

The preseason brings the promise of weird, intrusive PR announcements all over the league. Amid the noise, the day before the preseason starts, the Boston Raiders’ front office announces that Rozanov’s on SOIR. Shane finds out in the dressing room with the rest of the Metros.

The Metros gossip among themselves, offering increasingly outlandish theories of how Rozanov might have put himself on IR in his free time. Their most reasonable theory is that he spent the three months since Boston took home the Cup on a transnational bender.

Shane smiles indulgently at his team for a moment before he pulls up his texts with Lily. Since Vegas, they’ve both made a few stilted, miserable attempts at conversation.

Shane, “Moscow must be more fun than Sochi, right?” (“Of course, Sochi is barely Russia.”)

Ilya, “You have time for brand deals but cannot fix your backhand?” (“Fuck you, my backhand’s great.” “Jane the comedian 😂”)

Shane’s last text, from three days ago, is unanswered. “I’m taking the Hart and Conn Smythe this year, enjoy them while you can :)” Rozanov usually plays along with Shane’s tortured chirps, so his silence here is agonizing.

But if Rozanov is injured, maybe he hasn’t been able to respond. Shane shuts off the part of his brain that tracks social transgressions and sends a second message, “Hope you’re okay”. He turns off his phone, then turns it back on approximately eight times between pulling on his shorts and getting in his car to drive home.

***

Rozanov, again, does not respond. Shane continues to check the conversation way less than he wants to. Shane will not text him again, but something in his chest aches at the fact that this is happening all over again.

It helps, but also doesn’t, that Rozanov is MIA in the press too. It shifts the hurt from his chest to his stomach, where it settles more like dread than humiliation.

The league announced the regular season schedule before Rozanov officially went on SOIR, so the Metros’ first game of the season is in Boston. Instead of the star-studded rivalry the NHL is always selling, they get Shane Hollander at the top of his game, and a snarling mad Boston team with no star and no captain.

When the game ends, Shane has 2 goals and three assists, and the Raiders’ only victory has been cracking Shane’s rib guard.

Shane is getting dressed and looking idly at the predictions for tonight’s games on the West Coast when his phone starts buzzing with a series of messages from Rozanov.

You’re welcome

Am on vacation so your soft ego can heal

Next time we destroy you

Shane scoffs and replies, “You’re a real philanthropist, Lily.”

👎

Would you come over tonight?

Cannot do much, but I want to see you

Shane bites his lip and fights to type out, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” But he can’t get his fingers to cooperate. He wants to know what could possibly keep Ilya fucking Rozanov off the ice for three weeks and counting as much as he wants to know how Rozanov defines “much”.

He does some quick math on how long it’ll take to wrangle everyone back to the hotel, then replies, “One hour.”

***

An hour and fifteen minutes later he’s getting buzzed onto Rozanov’s property, and then he’s standing at the door of a beautiful modern house. He hears voices (Shit.) and then a beautiful woman is opening the door to the house while she yells behind her in Russian.

“Sveta please, you will scare him off,” Rozanov says, arms resting over the back of his massive sofa. Even from across the house, Shane can tell that he’s not well, his face drawn and pale.

The beautiful woman, Sveta, rolls her eyes so expressively that her head and hair move with it, and then she turns her full attention on Shane. She freezes, turns back to Rozanov, and says at a more normal volume, “Ты принял душ для него?” 

Rozanov makes a face at her and says pointedly, “Hollander, please come in.”

Sveta, for her part, only sighs loudly and steps back to let Shane into the house. He’s test running answers in his head for her next question—“What is Shane Hollander doing at Ilya Rozanov’s house?”—but she never asks.

Instead, she leads him into the TV area, where Rozanov collapses back with a look of defeat, and she turns back to Shane. She tells him, “Don’t take it personally if Ilyusha flirts with you, he likes to make trouble.”

Shane feels like he’s been slapped. He refuses to look at Rozanov, but from the corner of his eye he can see Rozanov’s hands come up to cover his face. Shane blinks a few times as he stares right past Sveta’s face into nothing, and then says, “Thanks, I think I’ll survive.”

Sveta nods once, firmly, and heads towards the kitchen, where the island is covered in empty takeout containers and dirty dishes. Shane still feels like he needs to get the hell out of here before someone finds out that he and Rozanov are. Nothing, definitely nothing, but also more than rivals.

He convinces himself that leaving would be more suspicious than accepting Sveta’s disinterest at face value. Rozanov trusts her, at least.

“Do you need help?” Shane asks Sveta, remembering that he’s a guest and that his post-game feast was 3 protein bars.

“No, no you two cannot be together alone,” Rozanov says urgently. He pulls himself up again, this time more permanently, and smacks the newly empty cushion beside him. “Come help me study.”

Shane obediently sits next to Rozanov as he reaches for a folder and pen. He flips through the folder for a moment, before pulling out a pamphlet that he passes to Shane.

The pamphlet says “What is Dialectical Behavioral Therapy?” on the front and has a heavily filtered photo of a woman whose expression screams “depressed.” He stares at the pamphlet in his hand uncomprehending for a moment. He feels Rozanov’s eyes on him even as the man pretends to go through the folder again.

Shane knows that this is important, but he cannot, for the life of him, connect therapy to Rozanov’s absence both on and off the ice. So he opens the pamphlet and starts reading, hunched over with his elbows on his knees.

It takes him a long time to read the whole pamphlet because his brain keeps snagging on shit that just doesn’t track with the reality that Shane’s been living in since he met Rozanov. Shit like “intensive out-patient therapy” and “CPTSD” and “grief” and “depression” and “suicidal ideation.”

When he closes the pamphlet and looks up, Sveta is bringing over two bowls of soup. She sets them down and walks away, and Shane turns to look at Rozanov, who is apparently absorbed in a worksheet of some kind.

While Shane is trying to force his throat to cooperate and form a question, Sveta returns with a third bowl, and the first thing Shane is able to say is, “Oh, thank you.”

“Always so polite, Hollander,” Rozanov says with a smirk, and then he reaches over to steal a bite of udon noodles from Shane’s bowl. When Shane stares at him, scandalized, he just shrugs and says, with his mouth still full, “What? Noodles are not part of high performance diet.”

Shane feels insane. Then Sveta says, “Oh my god, Ilyusha. You invited a hookup over? Now?”

Shane almost asks who she’s talking about, but then Rozanov levels her with a glare and says, “Mind your business.”

“ты чуть не убил себя,” Sveta hisses, and Shane can feel Rozanov tense next to him.

“это не имеет значения.”

“Fuck you, Ilyusha,” Sveta says, in English, and Shane’s relieved he can follow the conversation again. “You tried to kill yourself,” she says, voice low and careful like she’s reminding Rozanov of this fact.

Shane feels like he just dropped into a lake in the middle of winter. He looks down at the pamphlet in his hands. He tries, briefly, to construct a timeline in his head using their sporadic texts and press coverage of the offseason, but it’s hopeless.

Rozanov looks how he did during those months of giving Shane nothing when he tells Sveta, just as slowly, “This is not that.”

“ты всегда так делаешь,” Sveta says, and now she sounds sad. “You self-destruct when you have something good. Why would you do that to Hollander? To yourself?”

Shane hates this conversation, doesn’t want his name to belong in the same space as Rozanov sabotaging himself, as Rozanov hurting himself. He interjects, “I’m sorry, you don’t know me, you don’t know what this is.”

“Shane,” Rozanov says, warning him to back down, but Sveta has turned her attention on Shane.

“Okay then, what is ‘this’, Shane Hollander?”

Shane crumples the pamphlet with how much his grip tightens, and tries to imagine how Ilya Rozanov would answer this question. He offers Sveta the most unconvincing shrug in the world and says, “We fuck sometimes.” It feels like the words must be coming out of someone else’s mouth, but then they’re out in the world.

Sveta’s eyes widen as she looks between Rozanov and Shane, and she asks, “Sometimes?” and then, “Since when?”

“Sveta,” Rozanov says, again trying to stop this train wreck of a conversation. Shane takes pity on him, and also it’s none of Sveta’s fucking business.

He turns on Rozanov and asks, “How long?” as he waves the pamphlet in the air.

“Program is eight weeks, Hollander, is all in there.”

“Yeah, I fucking read the pamphlet, asshole. What week is this?”

Rozanov scrunches his brows together, then he says, “Seven, next week is last.” Ten days.

“And is it helping?”

Rozanov exhales and crosses his arms over his chest, seeming to collapse in on himself. He nods once, sharp.

Shane nods back and says, “Good,” in what may be the biggest understatement of all time. He feels dizzy with relief.

When Shane forces his eyes back to Sveta, she’s looking at Rozanov with so much sadness that Shane looks away, opting to stare at his bowl instead.

“Eat your soup,” Sveta says, more gently than Shane would have expected, and Rozanov pulls himself up to eat.

To Shane’s surprise, the company after that is mostly companionable. Sveta relentlessly draws Rozanov into conversation where Shane has only ever seen him alternate between comic insults and stoic Russian silences.

When Rozanov’s energy starts to wane, again, she turns that dogged will on Shane. He learns, against his will, that she’s Svetlana Vetrova, daughter of one of the most famous Russian goalies to ever join the NHL, and Rozanov’s oldest and dearest friend. Then, he learns on purpose that she possesses the same kind of fanatical knowledge of pro hockey that has always set Shane apart from even his peers.

At some point, the conversation becomes an interview—Shane naming NHL players and listening, awed, as Sveta (Svetlana?) provides an off-the-cuff scouting report.

“—but he would lose any face off to Pavel Morozov,” she finishes about a third-line center for the Dallas Stars.

Shane frowns for a second, searching for the name, and comes up with a KHL left-winger who started his career as a center in Belarus. He laughs, short and loud, and leans back against the couch next to Rozanov.

When he looks over, Rozanov is smiling, a little goofy and a little feral in a way that makes Shane’s stomach clench. He turns back to Sveta and says, “If we put you in a room with the Metros scouting staff it’d be a fucking massacre.”

Rozanov grunts and flicks his wrist. “Good thing she will never touch Metros staff rooms. Was a mistake to introduce you two,” he says, jabbing a menacing finger between them.

“Yes, absolutely. Sveta, tell me more,” Shane says, just to get under Rozanov’s skin a little more. He’s smiling and, maybe, pressing his knee against Rozanov’s leg where they’re slouched together.

Sveta looks at him too perceptively, then says airily, “I won him the Cup last year.”

Shane’s smile slips. Four months ago, Shane was watching Rozanov lift the cup and feeling like something enormous and suffocating was going to claw its way out of his chest.

Now, Rozanov rolls his eyes so hard it moves his head. “дa, it was all you in bathroom in Sochi. Why NHL decided to finish season anyway, one of great mysteries of the West.”

Sveta throws a dirty, wadded up napkin at Rozanov. It hits his nose and bounces onto his chest. “So ungrateful, Ilyusha!” She turns back to Shane and says with a terrifying twinkle in her eye, “Would you like to win the 2015 Stanley Cup, Shane Hollander?”

Rozanov gasps dramatically, grabbing the napkin, “Hollander do not listen to her, she is loyal Boston Raiders fan. Is trick to lose you season. My Sveta would never betray me to you!” He throws the napkin back at Sveta where it hits her dead between her eyes with more force than it should.

Shane is smiling again, thinking about how beautiful Rozanov and Sveta are. How comfortable they are with each other, and how easily Sveta brings out this giddy, foolish version of Rozanov. It makes his lungs burn. He watches quietly as Rozanov and Sveta bicker in Russian like best friends or lovers, and lets this bizarre, intimate evening wash over him.

Rozanov wanted to hurt himself, or tried to hurt himself, or did hurt himself. Acknowledging the idea feels like staring directly at the sun. If he lets the thought settle, it’ll burn its way through every other thought he has.

Rozanov is catching a pillow that Sveta throws at him and smiling. He told Shane that therapy is working. He’s here. He’s fine. But while Shane was offering his terrible babysitting services to Hayden and Jackie and relaxing at the cottage and representing brands, Rozanov was. Shane doesn’t know what Rozanov was.

Shane takes careful breaths and taps his right thumb to his fingers one by one as he sets aside that confusion and terror. Rozanov did not invite him here to freak out, so Shane’s not going to freak out.

Before he can unravel that thought, Sveta claps her hands and stands up.

“Shane Hollander, give me your phone.”

Shane tenses so quickly it hurts, and then he realizes that the biggest secret on his phone is all around him. He unlocks his phone and hands it to her.

“Where the fuck is Ilyusha in your phone?”

Rozanov blushes and it feels like Shane has been electrocuted. It takes him a second, but he says with a straight face, “What, you mean Lily?”

Sveta pulls up their conversation, which is humiliatingly one-sided lately, and Shane would like to burst into flames but he thinks it’s a good sign that she’s smiling. A moment later, he has his phone back. There’s a new group chat between Shane, Rozanov, and Sveta (not Svetlana).

“Uh. Thanks?”

“This was fun,” she says. Shane agrees even though he feels entirely insane. “I have to go, but Shane Hollander, make yourself at home.”

“That’s my line, Sveta,” Rozanov says, all exasperation.

Sveta makes a mocking noise at him and then leans over Rozanov to press a perfunctory kiss to his forehead. Rozanov closes his eyes and melts further into the couch. “Text me when you are getting ready tomorrow.”

Rozanov grunts affirmatively, and Sveta heads for the door.

“And remember your idiots will come by when they are drunk,” she calls over her shoulder. Another affirmative grunt.

Shane watches her put on her jacket and check her hair in a small mirror by the entrance. He realizes he didn’t properly say goodbye, so he jumps up and meets her at the door, hand extended. “It was nice to meet you. Really nice.” He makes eye contact and everything.

She smiles when she shakes his hand and calls past Shane, “Cерьезно?”

“Cерьезно,” Rozanov sighs.

“I think we will meet again, Shane Hollander,” she says, and then slips out of the house.

Shane has never done a real job interview in his life, but he has a new appreciation for how awful they are. He wonders if he should send Sveta character references or something, just in case.

He’s hovering awkwardly near the door. He almost walks away, then remembers the deadbolt. He locks the door, and drifts along the wall towards the kitchen, feeling exposed.

Is it presumptuous to sit back down next to Rozanov? Should he sit further away? Should he offer to head out? Does Rozanov want something from him or is there something wrong with Shane for the way want buzzes under his skin, even now?

“Sit down, Hollander, there is steam blowing from your ears.” Rozanov isn’t even facing his direction anymore, he’s staring at the blank TV.

Shane scoffs and says, “Fuck you,” reflexively, but he sits down right where he had been. Maybe a little closer to Rozanov.

Rozanov plants one hand on Shane’s thigh and the other on the couch and levers himself up to a proper sitting position. He leaves his hand on Shane’s thigh, where it twitches, but he’s still staring at the TV. With every second, the grip on Shane’s leg gets a little tighter.

“Hey,” Shane says, and Rozanov turns to look at him. They stare each other down for a moment, then Shane is leaning in to kiss him.

Kissing Rozanov defies description, every time, but tonight it doesn’t go anywhere. Rozanov doesn’t push the way that he usually does, and Shane is so worried about this passive, still Rozanov that he won’t push either.

It’s good in a totally new way, then. They kiss for longer than usual, long enough for something in his chest to settle. Just existing, enjoying this without going anywhere. Eventually, when Shane has ruined Rozanov’s already-messy hair and it feels like he must have Rozanov’s fingerprints imprinted on his jaw, they pull apart.

As they do, Rozanov sighs and collapses back against the couch. Shane just stares at him for a moment. “Sveta is right, I have idiots coming over tonight.”

Shane blinks, terrified, “When?”

“I do not know, maybe an hour?”

“Oh,” Shane says, jittery and unsure of himself. All of that joy and peace, flooding out of him all at once. “Do you want me to leave?”

Do you want to meet the Raiders, drunk, after you beat them in Boston?” Rozanov asks, one eyebrow raised. “In my home?”

Shane is thinking about how nice it has been to see Rozanov smile and he is thinking about the hurt of Sveta saying, “You tried to kill yourself.”

So he says, “Well, that depends, how funny do you think it’ll be?” because maybe if he pretends this is all normal, maybe he can keep it a little longer.

Shane doesn’t know how to interpret the look Rozanov gives him. The only other place he’s seen it is his condo in Montreal, after Rozanov fucked him for the first time. It has no place here, where Shane feels desperate and embarrassed and so, so scared.

“It will be very funny,” Rozanov says, half his mouth quirking into something like a smile. “Let’s play basketball,” he says and points at the gaming console under his massive flatscreen.

“Oh yeah? Who’s gonna set up the game?” Shane asks him drily, but he’s already getting up. After a moment he pulls out a the case for NBA 2k15. “Dude, this has been out for, like, one day, what the fuck?”

Rozanov looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Hollander, I win Hart and Conn Smythe and you wonder why I have new sports game?”

“Fuck off,” Shane grumbles as he sets up the game.

“No, seriously. All fancy watches and colognes and real estate but your mother cannot get you NBA 2k? My heart breaks.”

Shane tosses a wireless controller at his chest, which he catches with a dramatic groan.

Shane sits down on Rozanov’s other side, a normal, platonic distance from him. Rozanov decides to play the Heat because he is a “tropical bird,” and Shane picks the Spurs because the stats don’t lie. Rozanov calls him boring, and Shane shoves his face into the couch.

They get a normal amount of competitive about it. Rozanov yells so loudly that a vein starts bulging in his neck, and Shane starts shifting the controller between his hands, trying to determine how effective it would be as a projectile weapon.

Rozanov’s yelling ends abruptly when someone starts hitting the door like they’re trying to knock it down. Rozanov just stares at the door, so Shane accepts his fate and goes to unlock it.

Cliff Marleau and Victor St Simon almost crush Shane behind the door, staggering into the house like they’re looking for a fight.

Rozanov, because he’s an asshole, says, “Careful, you almost flatten my new maid,” in perfect deadpan.

Marleau turns his head 90 degrees and squints at Shane, while St Simon does a sloppy pirouette to face Shane. Their jaws are hanging open. St Simon reaches out with a single finger and pokes Shane’s cheek.

Shane is so stunned he just stares back at the man. Rozanov bursts into laughter that careens quickly towards hysterical. Marleau and St Simon whip around to look at Rozanov, though they both inch further into the house so they can keep Shane in their line of sight.

Rozanov stops laughing as suddenly as he started and swallows hard, then looks at Shane wide-eyed and panicked. Shane realizes that maybe they should have been prepared to explain why the fuck he’s here, but he doesn’t want to leave yet.

“Rozanov has the new NBA 2k,” Shane says.

“Right,” Marleau says, like he’s a warrior in the city of Troy and someone’s just offered him a large, beautiful wooden horse.

“Is true, and I am kicking Hollander’s ass,” Rozanov says gamely, baring his teeth at Shane.

“Oh you wish, asshole,” Hollander says, more instinct than thought.

“Is okay, I know you are not so good with late game performance.”

“My late game performance is great, fuck you very much,” Shane retorts.

St Simon relaxes fractionally, swaying slightly, and says, “Okay, sure. Why not?”

Which is how Shane ends up, briefly, playing 2k with two drunk hockey players and Ilya fucking Rozanov.

After the next round Shane’s skin starts crawling, so he abandons his remote and the couch.

“Where are you going?” Rozanov says, neutrally.

“Yeah, can’t let the enemy wander the Fortress of Solitude without an escort,” Marleau says, squinting at Shane again.

“It’s an open-floor plan,” Shane says, casting out a hand to demonstrate how much of everything you can see from the couch. “And you guys are making my ears bleed, entertain yourselves.”

Rozanov says nothing, just starts a new match and leaves St Simon and Marleau scrabbling to get back into the game.

Shane wanders over to the kitchen with its legion of dirty dishes. Shane doesn’t understand how Rozanov lives like this, but maybe he should research the symptoms of depression. It’s definitely not Sveta’s responsibility, but he doesn’t get how she could leave the kitchen like this. The longer he looks at the dirty dishes, the more he suspects that Rozanov has just been buying new ones so he doesn’t have to wash what he already owns.

With a shudder, Shane wipes his palms on his shorts and starts organizing the dishes so he can wash them. He knows he’s being loud, and the sounds of the dishes and the silverware and the water and the game and the guys on the couch are making him twitch, but it’s still meditative to just focus on the task at hand.

At some point, Marleau wanders over and leans against the counter next to Shane, watching Rozanov where he’s talking to St Simon. If Shane had to guess, he’s looking for advice from his Captain.

Suddenly Shane is so relieved by Marleau and St Simon’s presence that it almost unbalances him. From the way that they watch Rozanov, he thinks they know what Shane knows. Probably, they know more. And here they are, after a loss, sitting with Rozanov and involving him with the team. With his team.

He swallows hard and keeps washing the dishes. When Marleau doesn’t move, Shane gathers his courage and asks, eyes focused on a very crusty bowl, “Do you think it’s good or bad that he’s acting like this?”

Marleau turns to Shane, “Like what?”

“Like everything’s normal. Like it’s any other day.”

He watches Marleau work, slowly, through the implications of Shane’s question. Shane’s not-quite admission that he also knows. Then he points to where Rozanov’s lips are quirked into a smile while St Simon gestures expansively. “This isn’t normal.”

“What?” Shane startles. Because obviously none of this is normal. He’s doing Ilya Rozanov’s dishes and having a conversation with Cliff Marleau. But it’s funhouse mirror normal. Stage makeup normal. Pliny describing an elephant normal. All exaggerations and approximations of what’s supposed to be.

“Roz isn’t, like, loud, unless he’s putting on a show. He’s a good guy, but he’s quiet. Serious, too serious.” Marleau frowns as he says it, like he’s thinking something really sad that Shane refuses to wonder about.

“Oh,” Shane says, scrubbing a wooden spoon that may not be food safe anymore.

“He’s been quiet, since he got back.” Marleau says it like “quiet” is the most dangerous thing a person can be. Shane frowns.

St Simon turns his full, exuberant attention on Shane a few minutes later, drifting over to the kitchen island. He asks, loud enough that Shane almost drops a plate, “Is this a new PR stunt? Heroic Hollander?”

If it was only cruel to Shane, he would understand, but when Rozanov doesn’t say anything from the couch to break the tension, defang the insult, it scares Shane. It feels like ice water dripping down his spine, this realization that Shane’s…something—his care, maybe, or his respect—can be turned into a weapon against Rozanov.

He sets down the plate and brush with more force than necessary, turns off the water, and looks St Simon in the eye. He says, loud and flat, “If you say anything about this to the media I’ll take you off the ice.”

St Simon leans back, startled, and Rozanov chimes in from the other room with false cheer, “If Hollander is nice to me I break into hives. Do not trust him, Saint Vic. Is psychological warfare, he starts earlier every season. He is evil!”

Shane nods to no one in particular and goes back to washing dishes. Marleau escorts St Simon back to the couch where the Raiders talk more quietly amongst themselves.

A few minutes later, he calls it quits. He has no more space to put dishes to dry unless he wants to scrub down the entire kitchen island, which he does not. So he dries his hands and steps close enough to the couch to grab Rozanov’s attention.

“I cleaned, like 60% of your dishes. Don’t buy any more,” and then he fidgets with his keys for a second. “Get back on the ice soon, Rozanov.”

“Is reverse psychology,” he stage whispers to St Simon, and then to Shane, “Thank you.”

That’s all. Shane nods, then accidentally makes eye contact with Marleau and nods again. He forces himself not to look back at Rozanov like he might disappear, and leaves the house.

***

Shane counts down the days until Rozanov’s done with DBT-IOP and back on the ice. He’s spent a lot of time reading about depression in the DSM-5, in published research, in books, and in online forums in the week since he saw Rozanov. He knows a frightening amount about depression, but it’s like memorizing the Cyrillic alphabet—it doesn’t unlock much meaning for him, he just recognizes the shape of it.

So now, he knows what executive dysfunction is, he knows that Rozanov not answering his texts isn’t necessarily a catastrophe. It’s just one of a million things that Rozanov can’t prioritize right now. It’s still humiliating every time he has to text the group chat with Sveta, just to confirm that his whole world isn’t crashing down.

Three days before Rozanov finishes DBT-IOP, and four days before Shane expects him to be back on the ice in a random home game against Tennessee, the news finally leaks.

Shane feels like he should be hiding under a table, sheltering in place. It’s not even that bad. Just a short, clinical article on ESPN. Sources close to the Boston Raiders have confirmed that Conn Smythe winner Ilya Rozanov’s mysterious SOIR is due to a suicide attempt in August. The Team Captain was in Moscow at the time, but returned to Boston as soon as he was able to recuperate and seek treatment.

As far as terroristic invasions of privacy go, it’s compassionate. They even link a suicide hotline in the article and interview a psychologist who highlights that treatment like medication and talk therapy can be remarkably effective.

But Shane knows what it’s like to constantly be under a microscope, and he wants, more than anything, for Rozanov to not be dissected and examined like a particularly fascinating insect. He can’t do anything about it.

A few minutes later, his mom calls him.

“Have you seen the news about Rozanov?” she asks, all business but careful too, because she knows the scrutiny almost as well as he does.

“Yeah,” Shane says, not sure where to go from there.

“Do you think it’s real?”

It’s not a real question, but Shane says, “It’s real,” anyway, and it feels so good to acknowledge it, even so indirectly, that he continues, “I saw him when we played Boston last week.”

“What? Sweetheart, why didn’t you say anything?” She sounds heartbroken, like she always does when he tells her something important after it’s happened.

“He should get to talk about it on his terms.” The words catch in his throat.

She’s silent for a moment, and then she says, “I don’t understand, was this an open secret? How did you find out? How did you see him?”

Shane shrugs even though his mom can’t see him, and says, “It’s lonely at the top.”

His mom inhales sharply and he realizes he’s given her the wrong idea. “Shane, are you okay?”

“Yeah mom, I’m fine,” he exhales loudly. When she says nothing, he continues “Seriously, I’m not, like, suicidal or anything. It’s just hard to see someone else go through this, I think.” It’s as honest as he can be. He doesn’t know how to name the new cliff’s edge in his brain of “what if it wasn’t just an attempt?” He just knows it’s there, that it’s something huge and ugly and awful that he can’t approach.

“Okay sweetheart, that makes a lot of sense. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Shane rubs his forehead, angry at himself for scaring her. “Yeah, mom, of course. I know that.”

After another silence, she continues, “Kiddo, I’m sorry, but you know what i have to say. We’re already getting requests for comment.”

“He should get to talk about it on his terms.”

“Shane, you know that’s not how this works,” she says, gently but firmly.

“Yeah, but it should be.”

“Of course.”

“So we remind them. That’s our statement.”

“What if Rozanov doesn’t issue a statement?”

“Then that’s his terms,” he says, a little sharper because of the hypothetical disrespect.

He can hear a smile in his mom’s voice when she says, “You got it. Knock ‘em dead tonight.”

He texts Sveta and Rozanov something that might legally constitute a threat against the editor-in-chief at ESPN, not expecting a response but hoping for one anyway.

The vibe in the dressing room before warmups is sickly. There’s some lifeless small talk and chirping but that’s about it.

When they’re putting on their gear, someone says, “How do you think he—“ and Shane says, “Absolutely not,” so harshly that everyone finishes dressing out in silence.

On the ice, Shane leads the team through warmups like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

A lot of the Metros are off their game, but a lot of the Tampa players are too, so it balances out. Shane is untouchable, he barely lets Tampa touch the puck.

He ends the game with a hat trick, and then endures the post-game presser in the hallway like the gallows.

He gives a variation of, “Rozanov should get to address this on his own terms,” five times before he breaks his own script to say, “Hockey’s more fun with him on the ice.” Then he looks at the reporter’s camera and says, “Get well soon, asshole.”

That’s when the media manager for the Metros dismisses him to the dressing room and gives placid non-superstar answers to a few more questions.

One of the editorials that’s already come out about Rozanov discusses his “Situation” in the wake of success. It compares Rozanov’s wild reputation to Shane’s reserved one, and offers conclusions about why Rozanov was always destined to implode where Shane has always been destined to thrive. Ilya Rozanov, the flash in the pan. Shane Hollander, the dynasty.

The editorial has haunted Shane since he read it, and it floats back to the top of his mind like pond scum on his way to the dressing room. Everyone leaves him to brood in silence.

The energy in the room is higher now, and Shane is happy for them, proud of them for the win. He lets them celebrate and tease each other even as he feels like he’s losing his fucking mind.

Ilya Rozanov almost died two months ago and it hasn’t ruined anyone’s lives. It might be ruining Shane’s life. It doesn’t make any sense that nobody else is spiraling over this like Shane is.

A shadow falls over his shoulder and Shane turns to see JJ standing by his locker. He’s trying to make himself look non-threatening, which is impossible and kind of hilarious. “Are you okay, Capitaine?”

Shane is getting tired of that question, of people worrying about him. None of them worried about Rozanov. “Yeah, JJ, I’m fine.”

“You know if you are not fine, you can talk to us, yes?”

“Of course, man.” When JJ doesn’t step away, he sighs and rubs his face. Other guys in the locker room are watching too, worried about their Captain. “Listen, I really am fine. I just don’t appreciate people talking about it like the only thing stopping me from killing myself is the stick up my ass.”

JJ and their audience sway as they receive this information because Shane can only speak in riddles, apparently.

“But something is stopping you from killing yourself, right?” Andropov says.

“Yes,” Shane says, exasperated, “I’m not planning to kill myself because I’m not depressed and I’m not suicidal.”

“But how are you sure?” JJ asks. Small blessings, he seems more curious than concerned now.

“Those are actual medical terms. You can just google ‘depression symptoms’ for free.”

“Cap, why are you googling that?”

Shane feels like he’s in an Abbott and Costello sketch where nobody’s listening to each other. (Nobody’s listening to him.) With a dramatic groan, he says, “I don’t know if you heard the news, but a pretty popular athlete apparently tried to kill himself recently. It pays to do your research.” It’s easier to turn it into a punchline when he doesn’t say his name.

“Careful, he’s getting bitchy,” Hayden says, whipping his towel at a few unlucky guys near them. “Scram, before he convinces coach that we need bag-skates every day this week.”

“What a wonderful idea, Hayd,” Shane says, baring his teeth. Five different people groan miserably.

***

As expected, Rozanov gets back on the ice against Tennessee the day after he finishes DBT-IOP. He’s second-line, hopefully just so he can get his bearings before he reverts to starting center in a game or two.

Rozanov plays like a man possessed, all hard checks and risky plays that mostly pay off in a big way. He’s back on first-line by the end of the second period, and the Raiders win the game handily.

As always, Rozanov is the last man off the ice, and none of the players do post-game press.

The media, meanwhile, have a lot to say. Every time Shane sees a reporter, they’re asking about his thoughts on Rozanov’s leave, his mental health, the pressure that performing at such a high level places on young men, how Shane stays grounded, what he thinks it takes to succeed in the league.

He gives them answers so bland that they border on disrespectful and refuses to give them any fuel.

Rozanov talks to the press in small doses. He releases a formal statement at an official Raiders press conference, confirming the Situation and describing, generally, the mental health support he’s gotten from the Raiders and his impeccable physical health. When people ask him about the Situation, he either pretends that nobody said anything, or he offers a plastic smile when he says, “Sorry, my English is not so good,” and answers a question that has not been asked.

The Raiders are playing in Montreal in three weeks, and Shane is obsessing over every news update he can get on Rozanov. It makes him feel like an asshole and a hypocrite. He hates the reporters and the talk show hosts and the journalists for invading Rozanov’s privacy, but he clings to every sighting and whisper like a raft in a storm.

Rozanov seems well. He’s started texting Shane terrible Russian hockey memes, and Shane has been responding to them, once with what he thinks they mean, and then again after he looks up the actual translation.

He wants to talk to Rozanov, to see him with his own eyes and run his fingers through his hair and leave him breathless and relaxed in a quiet, dark bedroom in Montreal.

But that’s never been a real solution, so he settles for giving his thoughts on the memes Rozanov sends.

There’s an interview that Rozanov did a couple days ago that Shane watches every time he’s alone. He’s shirtless and relaxed and focused and all the questions are normal and hockey-related. He’s fine. He’s unharmed except for a purple-blue bruise on his arm where he got checked into the boards. Someone snaps their towel at him and he breaks into a quick, genuine smile.

He’s fine.

***

A week before they play the Raiders, the Metros are playing in Winnipeg and the Raiders are in San Jose. Shane scores twice in the first five minutes and helps the Metros win the game, so he gets stuck on press duty. The press room is fuller than usual, but he chalks it up to the Metros’ win streak and a slow news day in Winnipeg.

Shane is always stunned by the appetite for answers to the same questions, every week and every season.

“Shane, congratulations on your sixth consecutive win. As you prepare to fly to North Carolina for your third consecutive away game tomorrow, what’s the plan to keep team morale high?”

“The guys are professionals, and a rink’s a rink wherever you go. But winning tonight definitely helps morale heading into our next game.”

“Shane, the Raiders are also on a bit of a tear lately. How do you feel about facing off against Rozanov for the first time since he won the Cup?”

Shane is glad the reporter doesn’t bring up the Situation. He responds lightly, “A game’s a game, I’m happy to play wherever, whenever. But it’s always fun when Rozanov shows out to compete.”

“Shane, have you seen the news?”

Shane lifts the sweaty towel around his shoulders pointedly and says, “I hear the Metros won their sixth game in a row, pretty cool.”

He gets some smirks but no real laughs. He freezes up a little, rigid and aware, again, of how many reporters are in the room.

“According to the CBC, Ilya Rozanov’s brother recently gave an extended interview about his brother’s suicide attempt, and compared it to their mother’s suicide when they were kids. Do you have any comment on that?”

Shane feels like his body is shutting down, organ by organ. His brain is the first to go. He realizes he’s staring open-mouthed at the reporter. He blinks a few times and then says, “Sorry, you’re asking if I have a comment about an article I haven’t read? About Ilya Rozanov’s family, in Russia?”

The reporter looks away, and Shane continues to watch him as he writes out a note. He needs to move on because fanning the flame never works and he’s being weird about Rozanov in public again.

But he can’t let it go. He presses his hand against his eye socket. He feels exhausted and terrified. “Am I fucking crazy or aren’t there supposed to be standards in journalism?”

Again nobody answers him. It feels like screaming at a brick wall, but also like the brick wall is feeding you a length of rope.

“Seriously, open question for the room—what are the ethics on digging up dirt on someone’s dead mother because he tried to kill himself?” When no one responds immediately, Shane says “Jesus fucking Christ,” and leaves the press room without looking at anyone.

Back in the dressing room, the Metros are crowded around two screens. On one, the damage control for Shane’s failed presser. On the other, the last few minutes of the Raiders-Sharks game. Rozanov isn’t on the ice or the bench.

Hayden catches his eye and says, “Raiders pulled him at the top of the third.”

Shane frowns and wants to play it cool, but he burned all his tact on not screaming in the press room. He retrieves his phone from his locker and watches the clock count down on the Raiders-Sharks game as he dials Rozanov’s number.

On the fourth ring, Rozanov picks up. Neither of them says anything. Shane just listens to Rozanov breathe for a long moment. He imagines Rozanov is listening to the clamor of a post-win dressing room, overwhelmingly loud even when the mood is subdued.

“Hey,” Shane settles on.

Rozanov clears his throat and returns, “Hello.”

“I just, uh,” Shane tries to continue, but he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t ask Rozanov how he is, and he can’t put the protectiveness and grief he feels for Rozanov into words. He settles on, “I’m sorry.”

“Why? None of this is your fault, you did nothing wrong.”

Shane exhales fondly, turning towards his locker and feeling stupid and wonderfully, terrifyingly vulnerable. “I bet I can name about fifteen reporters who would disagree.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Go on, name them,” Shane can here the smile in his voice now.

“Fuck off, Rozanov. I’m not learning their fucking names.” A few people glance at him but nobody seems to pay close attention.

“So hard to be a sports reporter, I hear that Shane Hollander is total diva during interviews.”

“Fuck off,” he groans, drawing out the syllables this time. He’s rewarded by a small laugh from Rozanov that, from anyone else, Shane would call a giggle.

Some of the guys have spilled out of the dressing room into the hall, and one of them yells, “Incoming,” dramatically.

“Shit, I have to go. Call Sveta.” He hears Rozanov take a breath so he can argue, so Shane hangs up his phone. He starts a private chat with Sveta and tells her, Told him to call you.

As he’s typing the text, the media manager and Coach Theriault storm into the locker room. Shane finishes the text and puts his phone away as fast as possible.

“You’re going to draw a $5,000 fine for foul language during that presser, Hollander,” the media manager starts.

“When did the article drop, Mike?” Shane asks, feeling angry and raw.

“An hour ago.”

“Great, here’s a note: next time someone drops a nuke during a hockey game, you tell me before I walk into the press room.”

“That fine’s on you, Hollander, you’re a big boy. Take responsibility, don’t blame it on me.”

“Fuck the fine, Mike, I’m telling you to give me a fucking heads up before reporters start asking me on camera about Rozanov’s mom fucking killing herself.”

“I work for the Metros, not Boston. It’s not my job to track their news,” Mike says slowly and calmly, like Shane’s being fucking irrational.

They’re surrounded by his teammates, but the only sound is the echo of Shane’s bitter laugh before he says, “Right, how could you have predicted that the press would ask me about Rozanov after a game? They’ve only done it every single fucking week since 2010.”

“Okay,” Theriault puts his hands out placatingly and steps in, “Take a breath, Hollander.”

Shane continues to glare at Mike as he takes a very, very deep breath. When he doesn’t look away from him, Theriault gives up and continues tonelessly, “You’re going to see a counselor when we get back back to Montreal. They can be through the league or private, but you have a week to provide a letter confirming you’re not a basket case.”

Shane looks at Theriault now, shocked. “Says who?”

“General manager, owner. Keep acting out in pressers and see where it gets you.”

“Tell me what the fuck I’m walking into in there and they’ll get my very best behavior,” Shane grinds out.

Theriault nods like this is a tough but fair negotiation. Shane wants to throw something.

“Lay off him, Coach,” Comeau, of all people, calls out. “Hollzy just oustcored everyone and we’re 12-1 this season. They’re acting like he’s got one foot in the grave.”

Other players start calling out their agreement. Shane sighs. “Thanks, guys. I’m gonna take a shower. Good game, everyone.”

***

Two days later, Shane is back in Montreal, in a therapist’s office. The last time he went to a therapist was his second season, when one of the older guys on the Metros suffered a career-ending injury six feet away from Shane. He won’t call it a waste of time, but he would have been fine without the session.

This therapist, Dr. Reddy, comes at the recommendation of the NHL Players’ Association and his mother, who described her as “sympathetic to the requirements of the front office” and also “very highly regarded by other therapists”. So Shane’s mom thinks he should be in therapy.

Dr. Reddy introduces herself and asks Shane to do the same.

“Uh, it’s nice to meet you. I’m the starting center and captain for the Montreal professional hockey team. This is my fifth season, we haven’t won a Cup, yet.” He hesitates, then adds, “You can just call me Shane.”

Dr. Reddy makes a note, probably about how Hockey he is. When she looks up, she asks, “How old are you, Shane?”

“I’m 23,” he hesitates and then adds, “and a half?” because it’s November.

Dr. Reddy hums and asks, “And what brings you to my office today?”

Shane exhales and braces his hands against his knees. “The front office thinks I’ve been acting erratically this season, they want you to sign off on me.” When she doesn’t fill the silence, he adds, “And my team is worried I’m going to hurt myself.”

“And have you considered hurting yourself?”

“No, I’m not suicidal or anything like that.”

“Okay,” Dr. Reddy accepts this easily. “Can you explain to me where that concern is coming from, then?”

Shane forces some of the tension out of his shoulders. “Well, the front office thinks that I’ve been irritable and unprofessional with the media,” he starts. “And someone from my draft class almost, uh,” he swallows and his throat clicks. “He almost died over the summer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Reddy says, kind but neutral. “Is this person a friend?”

Shane laughs, a little hysterically. “Is that a trick question?”

“Not on purpose,” Dr. Reddy says mildly, and then gestures with her pen for Shane to elaborate.

“Do you know who I am?” Shane says, then cringes. “I mean, like, do you follow hockey? At all?”

“I’ve heard your name a few times,” she says. “My husband and I don’t really follow hockey, but the consensus is that you’re pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Shane shrugs. “You hear anything else, lately?”

“I have, but I think it’s important for you to describe your experience to me.”

Fuck. “Ilya Rozanov is,” he tries to rush through the sentence, but he immediately runs out of air. “He’s my age. He just won the Cup. He’s also uh, pretty good at hockey. He missed the first week and a half of the season because he was doing intensive outpatient therapy.”

Shane watches her choose what to say next while she makes notes. She settles on, “And your teammates are worried about you because he missed the beginning of the season?”

“Yeah,” Shane says simply. Then, “It’s always been me and Rozanov. Or, me versus Rozanov. We played each other internationally when we were 16, 17. He got drafted first to the NHL, I got drafted second. I won Rookie of the Year. Last year I got the Olympic gold medal, Rozanov won the Cup. Every time we play, it’s not just a fucking game, it’s Rozanov vs. Hollander.”

“So you’ve been compared to him constantly, for your whole career.”

“Yeah, but that’s not a problem. Competing with him pushes me to work harder and play better.  I like to think I do the same for him. It’s everything else that I can’t fucking stand.”

“And what’s everything else?”

“Everyone treats us like we’re mortal enemies. Like any day, one of us is going to fade into history and the other will have Won. So Rozanov almost kills himself,” Shane keeps talking despite the horrible way his voice cracks, “and everyone acts like I’m fucking crazy because I don’t want to make light of one of the worst fucking things a person can go through. Just because it’s him.”

“It’s not crazy to be affected, or even hurt, by something like this, Shane. Even if you’re not friends, and your professional relationship is complicated, he’s a big part of your life experience. Having a hard time right now is entirely normal.”

Shane tries to laugh and it comes out closer to a wail. He squeezes his arms around himself and leans over his knees when he says, levelly, “It’s definitely not fucking normal.”

When he says nothing else, she prompts, “Shane, could you tell me what’s going through your head right now?”

Shane moves his hands to wrap around his neck, head between his legs as he takes a few steadying breaths. He feels like he’s losing his fucking mind, he’s been losing his fucking mind, and Dr. Reddy is bound by patient privacy laws, and even if he by some miracle got his shit together right now, she probably wouldn’t sign off on him playing anyway because he’s being so fucking weird.

“Rozanov and I hook up sometimes. Or we did, a few times. Four, four times. And then kind of almost something another time.” He forces himself to look Dr. Reddy in the eye, and it’s vindicating that she looks utterly fucking shocked.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says carefully, like he’s about to run screaming from the building. “Is that…typical, for you?”

Shane laughs and this time it feels more normal, if still a little hysterical. “Absolutely not, it’s just him. Not because I—“ he cuts himself off. “I’m not—we just kind of fell into it. It’s nice. Was nice.”

“And who ended the relationship?”

“There was nothing to end. It’s just, before. Before, we would hook up. Now, we actually, I think, talk more.”

“So you haven’t been intimate since Rozanov’s treatment started?” The name sounds out of place in this space where they’re talking about him being intimate with a man. But there’s nothing else Shane can call him.

“Well, we did, we were, once.” She gestures to him again. “The first game of the season, we, uh, we played in Boston. And he invited me over after. His best friend was there, which was new, even though she’s great. He showed me the pamphlet for his treatment program and I learned he’d, uh, hurt himself over the summer.”

Shane feels like he’s there again, feels the same disorientation and fear he’d felt that day, along with the guilt and joy of getting to tease Rozanov, getting to exist in his orbit without a camera or a microphone.

Shane continues, “He told me he was doing better, and we were having a good time, and his friend left, and we, uh, we kissed. For a while. I don’t think I was in the best place in my head? But obviously, neither was he.” He adds, so, so quietly, “I just wanted to touch him.” Shane blinks rapidly because his vision is blurring.

“Shane, could you look at me for a moment?” Shane looks at her and feels mortified when a few tears escape. He pretends the tears aren’t there. “It’s normal,” she says, firmly and pointedly, “to feel scared, or angry, or anxious, or unbalanced, when someone you’re close to attempts suicide. Almost losing a person is traumatic, and it’s so, so much harder when nobody knows you’re dealing with that grief.”

Shane rubs his nose on his sleeve, even though it’s disgusting, because the tissues are too far away. “Thank you,” he says shakily. “I just,” he starts, and then says nothing.

“I just need you to think about that. You don’t need to have an opinion or an understanding of it, just sit with it, please.”

“Okay.” He inhales deeply and holds it for a moment, then says, “Okay,” again on the exhale. “I can do that.”

“Can I drop something else heavy on you?” she says lightly, after a pause.

Shane scoffs and says, a little wetly, “Do your worst.”

“You’re allowed to want things, and you’re allowed to want them from someone with depression. Whether your relationship evolves into a professional neutrality or a friendship or something more complicated, it’s okay to want. You don’t need to blow up your career, or cut him off, or make any sort of permanent decision. Consider talking to him.”

Shane feels something crack open in his chest, a deep, raw need he’s afraid to put a name to. He just nods and takes shallow breaths so he doesn’t start sobbing.

Dr. Reddy lets Shane collect himself before she moves on, “Now, what’s the deal with the front office?”

“I walked out of a presser after, like three questions in Winnipeg. I wasn’t very nice to the press.”

“I did actually see that one,” she points with her pen. “Are the questions usually like that?”

“No, not usually,” Shane says, a little amused. “I mean, it’s the press. They ask invasive shit a lot of the time. Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable playing in the Olympics for the Japanese team? Does your mom have to approve your hookups so you can squeeze them into your calendar between brand deals? Are your teammates unsettled by your anxious tendencies? Stuff like that. But that was in another league.”

“And what kind of support does the front office offer, in situations like this?”

“I told our media manager that he needs to warn me when news like that drops while I’m on the ice. Hopefully he will.”

“But no guarantee?”

“Nope.”

Dr. Reddy looks like she’s sucking a lemon. “And how have you handled those other questions in the past?”

“I know my way around a press room, most of the time. Instead of playing ball, you give a very dull answer that nobody can sensationalize and you play dumb.”

“But these questions have been around since you were a rookie?”

“In one form or another, yeah.”

“Okay. Let me know if I’m wrong here, but it seems like your relationship to the media may just be evolving. You’ve been in the spotlight since you were a child, and you’re still very young. It’s hard to set boundaries with the people you work with at any age. Does that make sense? It’s not sustainable to appease everyone, all the time, especially when you want or need to advocate for someone you care about.”

Shane feels exhausted, but he straightens his back and says, “That’s a really nice way to put it. I’ve just been saying I got sick of their shit.”

“Two things can be true,” Dr. Reddy says with a quirk of her mouth.

Shane looks at the clock and realizes they have only a few minutes left. “Shit, I’m sorry, our time’s almost up.”

“Yes, almost. Before we wrap up, I wanted to thank you for trusting me today. I imagine that’s not an easy thing to do, given your situation, and I just want to reassure you that my lips are sealed. I’ll be writing my assessment, that your emotional responses are appropriate and proportional for the circumstances, and that I see no indication that recent events have compromised your ability to do your job.”

“Thank you, Dr. Reddy, I really appreciate that.”

“That said, I do want to suggest that you continue seeing a therapist, whether it’s me or someone else. At least short-term. You’re in a uniquely complicated position, and it can be very, very helpful to have an impartial individual who can help you talk through these things.”

“That’s fair, I guess. I’ll check my schedule and see when I can get back in to see you. I really appreciate your perspective. Just, uh, just talking about it, helped a lot.”

“Of course, it’s my pleasure,” Dr. Reddy and Shane stand at the same time. They shake hands and she confirms she’ll send the letter directly to both Shane and Coach Theriault in the next couple days.

Shane walks out, goes home, and crashes on his couch even though it’s only 3 PM. As he’s falling asleep, he wonders at the fact that Ilya did some version of this for fifteen hours a week, eight weeks in a row.

He feels so much lighter, and he hopes that’s how Ilya felt, too, like maybe the worst things in his heart aren’t so scary and dangerous when he looks at them head on.

***

In the days immediately following his therapy session, Shane staggers between a kind of supernatural peace of mind and the sensation that he’s being hunted for sport.

He convinces himself three times that the letter to his Coach will include graphic details of his sex life with Rozanov that he never even shared with Dr. Reddy. He calls Rozanov “Ilya” in the dangerous, impossible privacy of his own mind and fantasizes about just holding him until they wither away.

Two days before the Raiders game, he texts Rozanov his home address and asks him to come over after the game. Rozanov responds immediately, “RSVP Yes. I am clicking yes. Yes please.”

Shane smiles smugly at his phone. He feels bad, awful, actually, because he still hasn’t decided what they’ll do when they get to his house.

He wants, obviously, to rip Rozanov’s clothes off him and stay up all night. He also wants to spill his guts completely and dare Rozanov to walk away. He wants to wrap a blanket around Rozanov and hold him until they fall asleep and wake up still holding him in the morning.

When they hit the ice on the day of the match, Shane offers Rozanov a handshake during warmups and is genuinely surprised when Rozanov uses the handshake to pull him into a proper hug.

Rozanov plays like a fucking demon, but so does Shane. The Raiders defense locks Shane out of the goal pretty fucking well, but he’s creating opportunities for his teammates wherever he can, and it’s Shane’s mission to make Rozanov forget what it feels like to possess the puck.

Hayden gets a hat trick off of Shane’s assists, and when the third period ends, the score is 4-4. In overtime, Shane draws on a reserve of energy that he didn’t know he had and breaks the tie with his first goal of the game.

When they all line up to shake hands after the match, Shane tells Rozanov with a little bit of a leer, “So sad, no stamina,” and tuts his disappointment. Everyone around him freezes in surprise before Rozanov throws his head back and fucking cackles.

“You do not need to terrorize other players anymore, Hollander, I have made a full recovery.”

Shane just hums and moves down the line. He hears Pike mutter behind him, “Yeah but nobody’s terrorizing you.” Marleau and Rozanov snicker.

Somehow, the Raiders and the Metros end up going out to a bar together. It is, perhaps, the scariest thing that has ever happened in the city of Montreal. The city should issue a public safety alert about the monstrous band of crooked-nosed giants roving the streets unsupervised.

Shane knows for a fact that half the Bears are about to violate curfew, and he’s curious about what the consequences will be. Maybe Coach LeClaire will simply pretend that this never happened, but Shane can see about eight Montreal locals tweeting furiously in this bar, including a bartender.

Mitty kicks things off, ordering a round of tequila shots for Metros and Raiders alike. “On Hollzy, of course,” Mitty says while Hayden grips his shoulder and shakes him violently. “Game winner gets the first round.”

“No fucking way, you guys are going to bankrupt him,” St Simon says, aghast.

JJ cackles and says, “Maybe that’s why the Capitaine never parties with us!” He sets a can of ginger ale in front of Shane while tequila gets distributed to everyone else across four tables, half the bar and three booths.

When Marleau gives Shane a sidelong glance, he says, a little aggressively, “I don’t drink during the season.” Marleau grunts and says, “You can keep Roz company then.”

Rozanov is sitting next to Shane, lips quirked in a smile that feels both authentic and out of place here.

“What, you don’t drink anymore?” Shane says, close to Rozanov’s face for normal, volume related reasons. There’s a shot glass in front of him already.

“I am not allowed to mix pills and liquor now,” he says with a bitter, lopsided grin.

Shane almost pukes on the table. Marleau winces, and Hayden actually staggers a little bit. The world keeps spinning, and nobody else seems to have heard.

As Mitty and the Raiders goalie link arms and start calling on everyone to raise their shot glasses, Shane shoves his ginger ale into Rozanov’s hand and snatches the tequila from him.

Shane stares Rozanov down to make sure he lifts the ginger ale, and then he knocks back his shot with the rest of the team. He immediately gags and, disgustingly, kind of has to swallow the tequila twice. JJ whips around at the sound of him gagging, sees the shot glass in his hand, and whoops like he’s at a rodeo.

Rozanov puts the ginger ale back in Shane’s hand, thumping him soundly (and unnecessarily) on the back. He stays close, leaving them pressed together shoulder to elbow. Shane sighs contentedly.

Shane takes sip of his ginger ale, reveling in the feeling of Rozanov’s eyes on him, while everyone gets more permanent drinks.

He calls out, “Hey,” not raising his voice much. The Metros fall silent immediately, like he knew they would, and it surprises the Raiders so much that they tune in, too. “Let’s hear it for Hayden Pike, look at that beautiful fucking hat trick!”

The Raiders boo and jeer while every single other person in the bar cheers for Shane’s best friend. He can feel the warmth radiating from Rozanov next to him. Shane raises his voice a little bit more, grinning, and says, “No, no! If you want to drink my Canadian liquor, you have to honor my best friend’s beautiful fucking performance.”

Rozanov raises a glass of water and says, “Woohoo,”in the flattest voice he’s ever heard, and the rest of the Raiders follow, congratulating Hayden like it’s the worst thing they’ve ever had to do.

One of them calls out, “You Canadian fucks wouldn’t have anything tonight if you didn’t have Hollander, he’s a fucking machine out there!”

Hayden tackles Shane, knocking him into Rozanov and Marleau and shouts, “Good thing we have him then, eh?” Shane smiles and throws Hayden off his back as the Metros and bar patrons roar their agreement around them. He stays pressed against Rozanov again.

His captain duties done, Shane sits down next to Rozanov and lets the conversation flow around him. He watches the easy way that the Raiders show affection to their captain, gripping his shoulder or leaning against his arm while they swap a few quiet words.

The Raiders start up two separate cheers for Rozanov’s performance, once for tonight and once for his overall performance this last month. Nobody has to bully the Metros to play along, even if it’s a little lukewarm.

A defenseman on the Metros’ third line looks like he’s scheming to start a mosh pit with two guys who ride the bench for the Raiders. Mitty and the Raiders goalie are positioning their hands in bizarre, troubling ways that he thinks are meant to resemble limbs blocking the net during a game. JJ is going shot for shot with St Simon in front of a horrified crowd. The rookies from both teams have sequestered themselves in a booth with a flight of the most heinous looking shots Shane has ever seen, and they’re playing some convoluted game involving a deck of Uno cards and a fork to decide who drinks.

Marleau drifts away. Hayden says he’s heading out early, anxious to get to the twins and his wife. Before he goes, he gives Rozanov a small, tortured smile and sends Shane a serious, indecipherable look. Then he’s off, and Shane and Rozanov are alone in this little pocket of the bar.

Shane’s mouth feels dry, and he runs a finger through the condensation on the side of his ginger ale, looking away from Rozanov in case he gives anything away to the people around them.

“Do you need water, Hollander?”

“Uh, no? I’m good.”

“Are you sure? Would not want Metros star player Shane Hollander to have hangover for next game.”

Shane laughs indignantly. “Fuck off, asshole,” he says, even as his stomach flips because Rozanov said his first name. “Just because I don’t drink often doesn’t mean I’m a lightweight.”

“Oh yeah, then why are you so flushed?”

“Why do you know the word flushed?”

Rozanov doesn’t even say anything, just drops his chin and looks at Shane from hooded eyes for a moment.

“Fuck off,” Shane says again, but he’s definitely blushing now.

They stagger their way back to a normal conversation, discussing the best sports video games and arguing over what it would take to make a playable NHL 2k game. They’re honestly mostly in agreement, but somehow it feels like an argument. They can’t stop cutting each other off, putting their hands in each others’ faces and raising their voices.

They pass maybe thirty minutes like that before Rozanov lapses into silence again. Shane nurses his ginger ale until Marleau comes over and says something low in Rozanov’s ear. Rozanov nods once, sharp, and Marleau straightens up. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and slaps Rozanov’s back as he walks away.

“What was that?” Shane asks.

“He asked if I plan to stay at your place tonight.”

“What?” Shane feels breathless and exposed.

“Not that way, no. He knows, since that night, that we are friends. He knows sometimes is hard for me, in hotels. I room alone but hotels are always so loud, so busy. Makes me feel lonely, trapped. Is bad combination.”

“Oh,” Shane says, slouching on his stool. “Okay, when can we leave?”

Rozanov looks up, like he’s surprised by this easy acceptance. “Now?”

“Deal,” Shane says with a nod. “You’re driving.”

“No fucking way Hollander, you cannot be drunk right now.”

“I’m not fucking drunk.” Rozanov looks at him skeptically. “Seriously, you’re just not supposed to drink and drive.”

Rozanov looks at him, stunned. “Okay, I drive, but you are doing the test. What’s it called? The drunk driving test?”

“Field sobriety test?”

“Yes, that!” Rozanov snaps his fingers, “You take test when we get home.”

Shane grins big and wide and pretends his stomach doesn’t flutter at the word “home” in Rozanov’s mouth. “Well then let’s go, quick, before someone decides to rehash the Olympics.”

They Irish goodbye and Shane passes the keys to Rozanov once they’re safely away from the building.

“Oh, shit, do you need anything from the hotel?”

“You have extra toothbrush, yes? Extra phone charger?”

“Yes,” Shane says, rolling his eyes.

“Then I am fine, thank you.”

Shane tries to think of a nice way to ask, but tact has never been his strength. “And there’s nothing else you need?” he asks as Rozanov turns the ignition.

“Yes, I have pills with me,” Rozanov says with a long-suffering sigh. He pulls a compact pill organizer out of his jacket. “Now stop worrying,” he says with a fond glance at Shane.

“You fucking wish, dude.”

When they get to the house, Shane turns on the kitchen light but leaves the rest of the lights off. Rozanov toes out of his shoes by the door and follows Shane around in his socks, standing close to him wherever Shane pauses for a moment.

Shane pauses next to the sofa to gather his thoughts, but Rozanov touches his shoulder gently. Shane is helpless, allowing Rozanov to gently guide him to turn around. Shane finds himself standing chest to chest with the man.

Rozanov’s eyes are wide and terrified, even as his eyes keep flicking back to Shane’s lips.

“Hello,” Shane says.

“Hello,” Rozanov responds.

Shane opens his mouth, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have the words, still, for this feeling. All he knows is that it’s burning him alive from the inside out.

Shane doesn’t know what his face looks like, but whatever Rozanov sees makes him step back, shutting him out completely.

“Hey,” Shane tries again. Rozanov doesn’t look at him. “Hey,” he says more insistently, and a little hurt, now.

Rozanov sets his jaw and stares at a blanket that Shane left on the sofa. Shane realizes he’s trying not to cry, and he wants to fix it, he wants to take away that hurt but he’s choking on everything he doesn’t know how to say.

Instead, Shane reaches for him, slowly but with as much confidence as he can manage. Ilya doesn’t move away again when Shane grabs his hoodie where it’s bunched at his elbow. He tugs gently and Ilya steps towards him, eyes still on the blanket.

They should talk, they need to talk, Shane is so fucking scared of hurting Ilya, of Ilya using Shane to hurt himself. But Shane doesn’t know what the fuck to say, and he will settle for looking Ilya in the eye right now.

Shane steps forward so they’re almost chest to chest and ducks to try to catch his eye, but now Ilya’s eyes are squeezed shut. He places a hand on his cheek and says, “Hey,” quietly. Ilya’s chest is heaving like he’s run a marathon.

Shane brushes his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone as he says, “Hey,” now just a whisper.

Ilya takes a deep, shuddering breath and then his eyes are open and he’s leaning in to kiss Shane, desperate and sloppy.

Shane makes a noise he doesn’t know how to describe and yields immediately, letting Ilya press him down onto the couch and climb over him. He feels dizzy and he can’t catch his breath and it’s eating him alive, how this kiss isn’t enough.

The trembling starts with his fingertips, so he presses his hands into Ilya’s hair and holds on as tight as he dares. But the shaking spreads until his shoulders are twitching with it, and then Ilya is breaking the kiss and pulling back from him to ask, “Shane?” He sounds terrified.

Shane gasps and lets go of Ilya’s hair, dropping his hands to the side of his neck. Ilya pulls back further and shifts like he’s going to move away. Without thought, Shane shifts so that his arms are wrapped around Ilya’s neck and he’s leaning his face into Ilya’s shoulder. Shane forces himself to take deep, measured breaths, inhaling the smell of soap and sweat on Ilya.

Ilya shifts uncomfortably, leaning back on his heels where he’s straddling one of Shane’s thighs. He relaxes by inches, until one hand comes up to run through Shane’s hair and the other wraps around Shane’s back.

Finally, Shane feels like a person again and he pulls back from Ilya, who moves jerkily off of Shane. Shane grabs his wrist so that he has to sit next to Rozanov, and he turns to face him, folding his legs under himself.

Ilya looks shellshocked and Shane squeezes his wrist harder.

“I fucked up, Ilya,” he confesses, and his voice cracks around the name.

Ilya flinches, and he says, hollowly, “We do not have to talk.”

Shane laughs, wild and mean, and says, “Bullshit, yes we do.”

Ilya opens his mouth and frowns, but he says nothing, hunching his shoulders and refusing to break the silence.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I am sorry. I did not—I am sorry, that I hurt you.”

Shane wants to scream. “No, no,” he starts rubbing his thumb now along Ilya’s pulse point, drawing his gaze. “I’m trying to—“ he cuts himself off again and frowns at himself.

“What is wrong?”

“I don’t know how to do this,” Shane mutters.

“We don’t have to, you don’t have to,” Ilya says, desperate and scared.

“No, I’m fucking this up,” Shane says harshly. “I had to see a therapist,” is what he lands on.

“What?” Ilya says, the word punched out of him.

“I mean, for bullshit reasons. Because I got pissy with the reporters and because everyone’s already decided I’m a basket case. But I did need to see someone, I guess?”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says and he sounds gutted.

“No, stop that. I don’t need you to apologize,” Shane says and lets out a long, deep breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he says staring at their hands. Ilya turns his over so that he can grip Shane’s arm.

“I don’t even know you,” he tells their hands. The rest comes out in a rush, “I had no idea what we were doing, and then you hurt yourself and I didn’t even know that it hurt me. That you not being here was an option. That this wasn’t permanent.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, low and choked.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s not about me. I don’t want to make it about me. I just want you to be okay,” his voice breaks again, but he swallows and carries on, “I just want you to know that you being here matters to me.”

Finally, he looks up at Ilya’s face. His eyes are wide and he almost immediately looks away, choking back tears. He watches one escape and roll down Ilya’s cheek.

“I did not want,” Ilya starts, and Shane wants to pull him into his arms and never let go. But if Ilya will talk about this, then he needs to hear it, needs to see him say it. Ilya starts again, “It was not on purpose,” his voice is shaking. “Sometimes, is hard for me. To be okay. Is harder, in Russia. I sleep badly there. Is hard, to be home.”

Ilya puts Shane’s hand between his own and Shane shifts so that he can be closer to Ilya, who continues, “Some things help, make it easier. Make it worse, too. Was not a plan, to hurt myself, but I did hurt myself. I wanted to.” Shane places his other hand between them, wanting to hold onto whatever part of Ilya he can.

“I remember pieces. I wanted to sleep, just sleep, for once. I thought I drank too much, maybe took more pills than I should. I remember thinking of my mom,” he takes another shuddering breath. “And then I remember bits of hospital, people yelling. Sveta and flight back to Boston and feeling very, very bad.”

Shane hums and Ilya looks at him again. “Did you read it? My brother’s article?”

Shane shakes his head and says quietly, “No, you should get to talk about it on your own terms.”

He’s rewarded by a tender, sad smile that slides away as quickly as it appears. “I learned from the article that it was Alexei. Who found me. I never want that, for anyone. Is fucking awful, to find someone like that.”

Shane frowns, devastated. Ilya extricates one of his hands to press a finger against the crease between Shane’s brows. “Was how I found our mother,” he says quietly, concentrating on tracing the worry lines on Shane’s forehead. “I was surprised that Alexei spoke to journalists. After my mom died, we never spoke of it. Any of it. And now is international news.”

“Never?” Shane interrupts, horrified and heartbroken.

“Never,” Ilya confirms. “Only when I was bad. Two weeks when I was 15, I almost would not leave my bed. My dad, every day, he comes in, tells me I am lazy, selfish, disappointing, like my mother. He sends in Alexei sometimes, to say the same.”

Shane grabs Ilya’s hand where it rests against his temple and pulls it down, pressing a kiss to the palm and watching Ilya.

“I love her, more than anything. I miss her,” he says, choking on the words. “She would have liked you. So much.”

Shane’s vision blurs and he feels like the world is tilting off its axis. He says, “I wish I could have met her,” and kisses Ilya’s hand again.

“Yes,” Ilya whispers, “I wish that, too.”

They stare at each other for a small eternity, but inevitably, they come back together in a desperate kiss.

Shane is running out of oxygen, gasping against Ilya’s mouth when he pulls back and says, “Okay, up. Drunk driving test.”

“What?” Shane says, his bottom lip stinging where Ilya just bit it. “You’re joking.”

“Yes, prove you are sober. Then we have sex,” Ilya doubles down, settling back on the couch and spreading his arms out over the back of it. His hair is a mess and his shirt is rucked up almost to his chest.

“Your foreplay needs work,” Shane mutters, but it’s a lie, because somehow, this is really working for him. He stands up and faces Ilya. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What’s the test?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“It was your fucking idea, and I don’t drink!”

“Yes I drink, but not when I drive, you really think this of me?” Ilya asks, indignant.

“I didn’t say that,” Shane says testily.

“I am not like this. Also I have visa, I cannot have arrests for being loose maniac on roads.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Shane says again.

“You know something about these tests. I know you do,” Ilya says, pushing Shane.

“Fine,” Shane says with a groan. “I think one is like, this,” he says and stands at one end of the couch, where he presses the heel of one foot to the toes of the other. He centers himself and begins to take small steps.

When he approaches the center of the couch, Ilya launches himself to his feet and makes himself comfortable in Shane’s personal space. “I have seen enough,” he says, eyes bright, and he leans in to press a hungry kiss to Shane’s mouth.

Shane lets himself to be pushed down onto the couch on his back. When Ilya climbs on top of him, he hums and says, “Am I free to go then?”

Ilya pulls back and makes an obnoxious gagging noise. “No, this is not police role play, do not do that again.”

“I don’t want to do that, don’t make me seem weird. You made me take a field sobriety test, Ilya,” Shane  protests.

“Enough, enough. I only want to make sure you can say yes when I ask to fuck you. No more cops, please.”

“Well, yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, please fuck me.”

“Oh, if you insist,” Ilya says with a ferocious smile and leans down to kiss Shane again.

***

Shane wakes up bright and early, wrapped around Ilya’s chest with his ear pressed to Ilya’s heart. It’s still dark outside, and Shane revels in this quiet, stolen moment.

He lets himself move with Ilya’s chest, rising and falling. He wishes this time wasn’t limited, that Ilya didn’t have to catch a flight and pretend last night was something it wasn’t. He starts logging what moments they’ll be able to steal, and it’s not enough, it will never be enough.

They both have to make playoff runs, so that Shane can knock the Raiders out in the Eastern Conference Finals and get his own Cup to match Rozanov’s. Then he can get the next one, just to drive the point home.

He’s spinning out imagining all the moments they have ahead of them, the stolen kisses and hotel rooms and hookups and jokes and imagining what’s possible if he can just hold onto this. He can’t fucking wait.

He squeezes Ilya’s waist and is rewarded by a sleepy grumble. The hand on his back slides to his arm and begins to move back and forth. Shane is smiling impossibly wide and he can’t get himself to stop, but he presses a kiss to the skin under his head, right over Ilya’s heart.

He kisses his chest again and again, getting a little sloppy until Ilya grips his arm and guides him up until they’re face to face. Ilya meets Shane’s slightly manic smile with an awestruck smile of his own.

“Good morning, Shane,” he says, quietly, still holding Shane’s arm like he couldn’t imagine letting go.

Shane pulls him in close, and he says, “Good morning, Ilya,” against his lips.