Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-18 Words: 68,349 Chapters: 4/4

black dog

Summary

Ilya is not going to steal Shane Hollander's dog. That would be illegal. And wrong. And someone would probably find out and make Ilya give him back.

So. Not stealing.

But there is nothing wrong with giving Chernysh all the pats and treats that he deserves, is there?

Nothing wrong with encouraging Chernysh to spend more and more time at Ilya's house until he doesn't even remember who Hollander is.

Because Hollander is stupid and boring and does not deserve a dog as good as Chernysh. No, he doesn't, does he? Because Chernysh is the best boy in the whole world, yes he is.

Notes

Wildly canon divergent following the first Prospect Cup, with a smattering of mostly TV canon and a few bits and pieces of book canon thrown in after that for good measure.

Contains spoilers for some characters/elements of The Long Game. I also played fast and loose with all sorts of timeline factors, so if that bothers you, or if you need gritty realism (including but not limited to issues like player contracts) this may not be the story for you.

CW: canon-typical discussion of suicide (Irina's), dementia (Grigori's), forced outing (Shane's to teammates, in the past, off-screen), minor hockey injury (Shane's), undiagnosed depression (Ilya's), undiagnosed anxiety (Shane's), self-medicating with alcohol and cigarettes (Ilya's), self-medicating with macrobiotic diet and other attempts to exert control over the uncontrollable (Shane's). That makes this all sound more serious than it is - essentially, this is a self-indulgent cottage-level-sappy story about these two idiots being MFEO. Also: absolutely no animals are harmed in this story.

Split into parts so it didn't end up painfully long to scroll through, but the main story is in parts 1-3, then a little epilogue in part 4. I haven't tagged extensively but if you need to know the main premise before you jump in, check out the notes at the end.

(Updated 19/05 & 31/05 with very minor edits, ie. typos and something an eagle-eyed English-as-a-second-language reader spotted, thank you!)

Chapter 1

Ilya Rozanov first shakes hands with Shane Hollander aged seventeen, outside a rink in the middle of Canadian nowhere. Shane Hollander is embarrassingly earnest, practically wagging his tail as he compliments Ilya's play, and he has freckles. Ilya had just come out here for a stupid fucking cigarette.

The second handshake when Hollander says goodbye leaves Ilya prickling under his skin with something else entirely. He has never wanted to beat anyone more in his life.

The third time Ilya Rozanov shakes hands with Shane Hollander they are on the ice and there is a gold medal around Ilya's neck. He thinks maybe Hollander will not enjoy this handshake so much, so he leans in and holds on just a second too long. "See you at the draft," Ilya says. The world is at his fucking feet.

The fourth time Shane Hollander tries to shake hands with Ilya Rozanov, they are both twenty four. Ilya is several days into an experiment to see how long he can outrun a hangover by always being one vodka ahead, and Hollander has just rung Sveta's doorbell.

"Hi," Shane Hollander says, hand out, ready to shake. He has some kind of gift basket on his other arm. "Ilya, right? I'm Shane Hollander, from next door. Sorry I missed you when you moved in. Welcome to the —"

"Nyet," says Ilya, definitively, and he shuts the door in Hollander's face.

Sveta never answers her phone when she's working, so Ilya texts her: Why did you not tell me that Shane Hollander is your neighbour.

I think you mean your neighbour, he gets back half an hour later.

It is your house. Even though she left for New York six weeks ago.

You should make a friend, she sends. You have lots in common.

Like what. Ilya is eating honey mustard pretzel pieces by the handful. The crunching is obnoxious even by his own standards. And don't say hockey.

He is breathing and has a pulse?

Nice that Sveta’s standards for him are so high. I am not so sure. He brought a gift basket and tried to shake my hand. I think he may be a robot.

Did you at least invite him in?

I shut the door in his face.

Sveta doesn't reply. Ilya probably deserves that.

He scrabbles in the bottom of the pretzel bag but there are no pieces left, just greasy crumbs. He tips the bag back and empties them into his mouth. Fuck Shane Hollander. Ilya bets there were no pretzel pieces in the stupid gift basket anyway.

Hollander is a quiet neighbour, at least. No wild parties. No hookers ringing Ilya's doorbell at three in the morning because Hollander has kicked them out and they need a cab home.

Not that Ilya thought Hollander was the type to do that. Probably he is a hockey robot after all, good for nothing but skating and working out. Ilya does occasionally catch glimpses of him heading out for a run in the early mornings, around the time Ilya finally gives up and gets into bed. If Hollander does have sex it is probably polite robot sex, very neat and quick and not a hair out of place, then back to the treadmill.

Ilya has not done any exercise, let alone fucked anyone, in — Christ. Six months. If he doesn't look too closely in the mirror, and he doesn't, he can pretend the softness around his chest and his thighs is still muscle, and not the result of a solid diet of pizza pockets.

Boston does not know how to do December correctly. It is cold, but not cold enough. There is not enough snow, only stupid rain.

Sveta comes home for a few days over American Christmas, because apparently no one in New York wants to work then, but she has to go back before New Year, because Americans are wrong about almost everything. Ilya makes exceptions only for their deep fried snack foods.

Sveta frowns at Ilya when she realises he has not put up any decorations. "I told you to get a tree," she says. "Where am I going to put your presents?"

"You are not going to be here when we open presents," he reminds her. She just puts a hand on his head, and doesn't try to fuck him the whole visit. Ilya doesn't mind. He thinks it is probably not a good sign.

The beginning of January is a little better than December. It is colder and there is some snow, at least, though not much — global warming, they say on the TV. Anyway, cold enough that Ilya can wear three or four layers during the day, and take only the top one off when he gets into bed. He left everything with the Dynamo logo behind in Moscow but he still owns plenty of hoodies. Probably he smells bad, but the only people who come near him are the delivery guys, and they mostly leave things on the porch. It's cold enough that the ice cream doesn't melt.

On real Christmas Day he gets so sick of the sight of his own feet on the coffee table that he goes out in the back yard. There is a little snow on the ground, scattered patches. His house shoes are no good for this weather, but probably he won't slip over and freeze to death in Sveta's backyard. Anyway he has heard that hypothermia is a peaceful way to die.

There's a wrought iron bench out here, metal cold even through his thickest sweatpants. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, then remembers he smoked the last one earlier, sitting on the toilet.

He is trying to decide if it is better to go and find more cigarettes, or stay here until his sweatpants freeze themselves to the bench, when something moves in the bushes that line the fence. Probably a squirrel. Or a stupid American bird. Or —

A dog. A cat?

Definitely a dog. Black, with a few lighter patches over the nose. Not too big, not too small.

The dog has crept all the way out of the bush now. He is standing amongst the patchy snow, looking at Ilya, ears pricked up.

"Privet," Ilya says, and holds out his hand for the dog to come and sniff. At least if he's talking to a dog he doesn't have to speak English. "Good boy. Come, say hello."

Is it a boy? The dog’s tail wags a little as it comes closer. Yes, it's a boy.

"Hello there," Ilya says. The dog gives his hand a sniff, cold wet nostrils on Ilya's palm, then warm and wet when it licks him. Ilya should definitely have gloves on, but he is glad he doesn't. The dog’s ears are very silky.

"What are you doing out here?" Ilya asks. The dog doesn't have a collar, or a tag. "You should not be out alone in the snow."

The dog bumps its nose up into Ilya's hand, like he's asking for more. "You are a good boy, yes," Ilya tells him, and scratches him under the chin. "But where did you come from?"

The dog follows Ilya back over to the fence. The bushes are dense, but eventually Ilya forces a gap big enough to see behind: a couple of the wooden panels have come loose, maybe in the storm last week, and there is a dog-sized gap. Into Hollander's yard.

"Are you Hollander’s dog?" Ilya asks him.

The dog wags again. He looks smart, this dog. Well, obviously he is smart, because he has escaped from Hollander's clutches and come to see Ilya.

"I am sorry you belong to such a boring robot person," Ilya tells him. "Do you want to come and live with me instead?"

Another wag of his tail. Yes. Way too smart for Hollander.

"Probably he will call police on me if I steal you, though." Ilya rests his hand on the dog's head. "Let's go see if he is home, and I can shout at him for being stupid and letting such a good boy escape. Yes? Okay, come."

The dog trots obediently next to him as he goes down the side of the house, through the gate. Once they're out in the street Ilya has a moment of panic that the dog will run off and he'll have to explain to Hollander how he lost him. It seems like the dog is probably Hollander's, though, because it turns into Hollander's driveway without a fuss, and at the front door, he sits down politely next to Ilya.

Ilya rings Hollander's doorbell. Waits. Nothing.

Hollander has a garage so Ilya can't tell if his stupid boring Jeep is home. Ilya had had a Lamborghini in Russia, his one indulgence. Terrible in the snow, yes. But fun. Much better than a Jeep.

Ilya rings the doorbell again. Still nothing.

The dog is still sitting politely, but Ilya is worried he will get bored and wander off. Ilya does not want him to wander off. Ilya wants to keep him and give him pats and feed him treats and rub his belly because he is such a good boy.

Probably Hollander is not home. Maybe he went for one of his stupid runs, even though it is so cold. Why would Hollander not take his dog though? This dog looks like it would be good to run with.

He rings the doorbell a third time, waits until he hears the echo die out.

Okay. Enough.

"Come," he tells the dog. "We will go and wait at home."

Hollander's dog likes to sniff things.

They have been in Ilya's house for five minutes now, and the dog has methodically worked his way around the entire room, starting in the kitchen, then around the table, then the couch and the television and the rug and Ilya's slippers and the coffee table and the —

"Wait, no." Ilya snatches the cookie box off the dog's nose. He doesn't think he'd left any crumbs but the cookies were chocolate chip and Ilya is pretty sure chocolate is not good for dogs. Or is that onions?

The dog’s eyes follow him as he puts the cookie box out of reach and sits down on the couch with his phone. Sveta will know. Does Hollander have a dog? he sends. Also can dogs eat chocolate?

The dog puts a paw on Ilya's knee.

"What is it?" Ilya asks. The dog tips his head to one side, then the other, and makes a little whining sound. "Do you need to go out?" Ilya had been worried that the dog might pee on the furniture. They were just outside, though, so hopefully the dog did its business in Hollander's yard earlier.

The dog puts a paw on the couch cushion, then back on Ilya's knee.

"Ah. You want to come up? Okay. Come." Ilya pats the couch next to him. The dog jumps up, curls into a C with his nose tucked over his back legs, and promptly closes his eyes.

Good boy. Stupid Hollander probably doesn't let him on the couch at his stupid house.

His phone vibrates. Sveta. I have no idea.

Hm. Ilya snaps a photo of the dog curled up next to him and sends it to Sveta. Found in backyard. Came through a hole in fence. Hollander's dog?

Sveta: Looks like Hollander. Probably his.

Which is — hmm. The hair colour is similar, and the dog has a few spots over his nose that look a little like freckles. Ilya watched a show once about people who look like their dogs. The pugs were great. Also the bulldogs.

Why don't you ask him? Sveta sends.

Tried. Not answering door.

He can almost feel Sveta's eye roll across state lines. Call him.

Do not have number.

Of course Sveta's reply is just Hollander's phone number.

I could just keep the dog? He is good boy.

He waits two minutes but Sveta doesn't send anything else. Fuck. The dog whuffles a little and his paws twitch like he's dreaming.

Ilya saves Hollander's contact and opens a new message. No way is he going to let Hollander make fun of his spoken English; texting will be bad enough. Have you lost dog? I have found.

He sends that, then attaches the picture and sends that too.

Then he remembers Hollander won't have his number.

This is neighbour. Ilya.

And then, in case Hollander thinks he means the neighbour on Hollander's other side, Live with Svetlana.

Still nothing.

What if it was an emergency? What if Hollander's dog was hurt, and no one could get hold of him? Hollander should not be allowed to have a pet if he is so irresponsible.

Ilya is not irresponsible. Ilya will sit right here with Hollander's dog, keep him safe.

Also, Ilya did not sleep so well last night and he is tired. It's warm inside, and Hollander's dog is sleeping, and if Ilya gets up it might disturb him, so Ilya will just stay here until the dog wakes up, or Hollander finally gets his stupid freckled head out of his ass and answers Ilya's texts.

It's dark when Ilya wakes up to a wet nose in his face. The groggy feeling of being roused from a nap is familiar, but the paws on his chest are not.

"What?" he mumbles.

The dog sniffs his nose and licks his chin.

Oh. Yes. Hollander's dog. "You are still here," Ilya tells him, and scratches under his chin.

But of course the dog is still here. The doors are all shut. He could not get out. Ilya has kidnapped him. Dog-napped him?

The dog jumps down and runs to the back door, back to Ilya, back to the door, nails clicking on the floor. Finally he sits down by the door and whines.

Right. Ilya blinks away sleep. "You need to go out?"

The dog whines again.

"Okay, okay. I am coming."

The dog races out of the door the second it's open wide enough.

"Wait," Ilya calls, belatedly, but the dog is already off the back porch and into the garden. Ilya thinks maybe he sees movement near the hole in the fence, but it's too dark to make out properly. Fuck.

Ilya stands in the doorway long enough for his toes to go numb. He would call for the dog, but he doesn't know its name.

Ilya turns the lights on when he comes back inside and picks up his phone. Still nothing from Hollander. His hands are a little shaky. Probably from the cold. He manages to tap out Dog left. Is back with you?

He puts his phone down, takes a piss, and when he sits back on the couch there is finally a reply from Hollander: Yeah. He's home.

No apologies for ignoring Ilya's texts. The manners robot must be broken. Why did you not reply for four hours?

I do silent meditation. Sometimes I go for longer than I plan to.

Ilya snorts. Of fucking course Hollander does. Robot hockey monk.

What if dog had problem?

He's a smart dog. He can look after himself.

I know he is smart, he found hole in fence and came to see me.

Thanks for looking after him.

What if someone steal him. Or hurt him

The only person he can get to is you. Are you going to hurt him?

Hurt, never. Steal, yes, if he can get away with it. But Hollander does not need to know that.

Of course not, I am not horrible person. Then: What is his name?

It takes a few minutes to get a reply. Then, I just call him Dog.

Fucking hell. Ilya types out Are you most boring person alive? but then deletes it because he doesn’t want Hollander to hate him so much that he withholds access to his good dog.

I will call him, he types instead, and then has to stop and think. Vesnushki, for his nose? No, he needs a boy name. Chernysh.

Okay? Ilya gets back.

He should have collar and tag, Ilya sends.

He just gets out of them if I put them on, I don't think he likes them.

He is good dog. Can he come visit again?

Sure. I'm home a lot this week, he'll probably wander over.

Good, Ilya texts. He puts his phone down, scratches his balls, picks it up again. Thank you

Don't thank me, he does his own thing.

Who let Hollander adopt a dog, seriously. Chernysh will be much happier when he is Ilya's.

Ilya sleeps late again the next morning, and the weather is cold but clear when he drags himself out of bed.

There's no special reason that he chooses to have his first cigarette of the day in the backyard. Maybe he is just taking Sveta's advice to get out of the fucking house, Ilyusha.

There is no sign of Chernysh. That is also fine.

He smokes his first cigarette down to the filter and lights a second. It is no one's business if he wants to spend time in his own backyard.

He is worrying at a hangnail on his left thumb when he finally hears movement in the bushes.

"Is that you, Chernysh?"

It is. Chernysh comes a little way into the yard but stops a few metres away, cocks his head and whines at Ilya.

"What is problem?" Ilya crouches down and holds his free hand out, palm open, for Chernysh to sniff. "We are friends, yes? From yesterday?"

Chernysh whines again and keeps his distance. Fuck. Ilya should have bought treats. Maybe there is people food in the house that Chernysh can eat. Probably not though, almost everything Ilya has bought recently is deep fried or processed cheese flavour or both, probably as bad for Chernysh as it is for Ilya.

"Come," he tries again. "Say hello."

Chernysh does move this time, but just bumps his nose quickly into Ilya's hand and then backs away again, wary. It almost seems like he's watching — Ilya's cigarette?

Ilya moves his hand out, in. Yes. Chernysh tracks the movement. "You don't like cigarette? Okay. No problem." Ilya stubs it out on the ground, takes the butt to the trash can and comes back to Chernysh, crouching down again. "Now you say hello?"

Now Chernysh can say hello.

He is such a good boy.

Okay. Maybe he is not such a good boy. Because when Ilya tries to take up his usual daytime spot on the couch, patting the seat beside him for Chernysh to sit, Chernysh does not.

Instead, Chernysh goes and whines at the front door.

Ilya gets up. Opens the door. Chernysh goes two steps outside, stops, looks back at Ilya. Doesn't move.

"What is it?"

Ilya is not sure if he was actually expecting an answer. Chernysh is smart, but not so smart he speaks Russian.

Maybe Chernysh heard a noise outside. Maybe a car went past and he wanted to see. Dogs do this, right?

"Okay," Ilya tells him. "No one there. Come back inside."

Chernysh comes in. Ilya sits on the couch. Chernysh goes right back to the front door and whines.

The third time they repeat this, Ilya throws up his hands. "What? What do you want from me?"

He needs to stop talking to the dog like it understands him. But seriously. What the hell does Chernysh want?

Chernysh whines. Then he goes to the pile of shoes by the door, picks up one of Ilya's sneakers in his mouth, and drops it at Ilya's feet.

"Are you serious," Ilya says.

Chernysh brings him the second shoe.

Fuck.

It turns out there is a nature reserve two blocks down the street where dogs are permitted off lead. Chernysh leads him straight to it, waiting politely at every street corner. Hollander must bring him here all the time.

Fortunately, being a weekday in the middle of January, there is no one else at the reserve. Fortunate because Ilya probably looks like a drug dealer: a hulking, hairy, unwashed Russian man in this nice, clean, expensive Massachusetts town of white picket fences. Ilya should really have asked more questions when Sveta had said come to Boston, Ilyusha. Wellesley is hardly the city.

Chernysh doesn't seem content to let Ilya lurk on a bench while he sniffs around, either. Ilya knows because he tries to sit. Chernysh just puts his nose on Ilya's leg and whines until Ilya gets back up.

"Okay, I am coming, I am coming," Ilya tells him. "Be kind. I have not had breakfast. Or coffee."

There are several gravelled paths through the reserve. Chernysh takes him along one of the loops. Chernysh keeps stopping to sniff every few metres, so Ilya can keep up. When they make it back to their starting point Chernysh must decide he’s finished, and leads the way back home.

"Is enough now?" Ilya asks him when they're through the front door. "I am allowed to sit?"

Ilya is feeling hungry, though, so he makes himself breakfast first. He is pretty sure Chernysh is judging him for the frozen waffles. And they are chocolate chip flavour, so Ilya can't even bribe him with table scraps.

Chernysh showed me park today, he texts Hollander that evening. Chernysh had barked at the back door around three o'clock and took himself off through the fence after Ilya let him out. Ilya guesses he'd had enough couch and television time.

Oh yeah? Hollander texts back. It's a nice park. He likes to run.

No running. Just walking.

He was going easy on you then

Hmph. Ilya thinks for a minute. He doesn't want to show his hand here, but also he doesn't want to make Chernysh sick, so. What does Chernysh eat?

The reply comes quickly. Don't feed my dog.

Serious. What does he eat?

Serious, please don't feed my dog.

Is important. In case of accident. Does he have allergy?

No allergies.

So what does he eat?

Human food, healthy food. Same as me.

Poached chicken. Brown rice. Vegetables.

Of course robot Hollander feeds his dog robot food. Still, Chernysh seems healthy, so maybe Hollander does know what he is doing.

No peanut butter? Ilya may have been doing some googling.

No. Then: Seriously, don't feed my dog peanut butter.

Ilya is making no promises. He does make a grocery order.

The second day after he meets Chernysh it snows. Ilya stands at the back door, looking out, and drinks a mug of thick, sweet coffee. Then he texts Sveta: Is OK if I get someone to put a dog door in the laundry room?

Sveta: You are getting a dog?

No

Then why do you need a dog door

Is okay or not?

It's your house too, Ilyusha

It really isn't — he’s pretty sure Sveta’s father bought it sometime in the nineties — but okay. Ilya looks up pet doors and finds a company that will arrange installation, too. He can put all his information and payment details in on the website and doesn't have to talk to anyone on the phone. They will come the next day.

Can Chernysh come for visit tomorrow afternoon? he texts Hollander.

Probably. What time? You want to take him to the park again?

Ilya cannot tell Hollander about the pet door. 2?

OK. Hope it's not still snowing.

Ilya’s groceries arrive after lunch. He puts them away methodically. The fridge is almost full when he finishes, even though it's one of those giant double door American monstrosities. Maybe Ilya overdid the order a little.

He stands there staring into its depths for long enough that the door alarm beeps at him, then takes some chicken back out. It will go bad if he doesn't use it and wasting food makes him think of his mother. Eat up, Ilyushenka, not everyone is so lucky.

He bought pasta and tomatoes too, and he's used this kitchen a little before, in his first couple of months in America. Before Sveta left for New York. Sveta has never learnt to cook as a matter of principle. So Ilya knows where the pans are and how the stove works. It's just — well.

The internet tells him dogs shouldn't eat tomato, so he cooks the chicken separately and puts a little aside as treats for Chernysh tomorrow. He eats his pasta on the couch and does the dishes and goes to bed early.

He doesn't feel any better, which doesn't seem fair.

The pet door installation man loves dogs, and agrees that Chernysh is a very good boy. This means Ilya doesn't have to do anything more than point at where he wants the door to go, tell the man Chernysh's name, and leave them to it.

Maybe he should get a dog of his own. But that would not be fair to the dog, if —

When —

Anyway. After the pet door is installed and the man is gone, Chernysh goes to the front door and whines, and Ilya had sort of let Hollander think that he was going to take Chernysh for a walk, so he guesses that's what he's doing. There's more snow on the ground, after yesterday. When they get back home, Ilya googles is it OK to walk dog in snow and then orders boots for Chernysh's paws, and a jacket to keep him warm, express delivery.

The fourth and fifth days, Chernysh comes in through the dog door late morning, takes Ilya to the reserve and keeps whining at him until Ilya walks round and round with him. Chernysh is fast. Ilya has to sit on one of the benches and catch his breath before he can walk home.

Your dog is thief, he sends Hollander the second evening.

What did he do?

Stole cigarettes out of my pocket

You shouldn't be smoking, it's bad for you

I know this, I am not idiot. How Chernysh knows?

He's smart, Hollander texts back. Obviously. But also, thief. And please don't smoke around him, it's not good for his lungs.

Ilya hasn't, actually, after that second day. But that's none of Hollander's business. He can come again tomorrow? Ilya sends instead. Ilya has been giving Chernysh bits of chicken every day when they get home, as part of his master plan. Then Chernysh sits with him on the couch and they watch some television and have a nap. It is worth the going outside and the walking and the cigarette theft, Ilya thinks.

Yeah but might be last day for a while.

Why?

I have to go back to work day after tomorrow. Then, I play hockey. Training in mornings. Games in the evenings.

So he can come over when you are at practice and games?

No, I take him with me.

This is allowed? No way would it have been allowed at the rink in Moscow.

Not normally but they make an exception for him

Hm. Ilya maybe saw a TV program about this. Lots of cute puppies being trained as… assist dogs? for soldiers and things. Dogs that can go where animals are not usually allowed.

Chernysh is assist dog? You have been in war? Ilya sends.

Feels like it some days, he gets back.

Ha. Hollander thinks he is funny.

You should leave Chernysh with me, Ilya texts. Not take to rink.

Stop trying to bogart my dog.

Ilya has to google that one. English slang is stupid.

Whatever. Chernysh can still come in afternoons? Between practice and game?

Maybe.

Ilya can work with that.

The third week of January passes. The fourth.

They have a routine, now. Most days, Chernysh lets himself in and they go for a walk if the weather is not too bad. Chernysh tolerates the snow boots but not the jacket — he had looked at Ilya with betrayal and sat on his haunches until Ilya took it off again — so they can't stay out too long, now that winter has properly started. Sometimes Ilya will cook, and offer Chernysh little bites. Then they sit on the couch together and watch TV until Chernysh decides to go.

Ilya presumes Chernysh is making it back in time for Hollander to get to the rink on game days, but it is not his problem either way. Ilya is not going to look at Hollander's season calendar.

This backfires spectacularly when he looks out of his bedroom window one day and sees Hollander out the front of his house with a suitcase. Ilya is wearing his usual mess of sweatpants and four hoodies and doesn't stop to change his shoes on his rush out the door and over to Hollander's driveway.

"Uh, hi?" Hollander says, when Ilya staggers to a halt in front of him. Hollander looks taken aback. This is probably fair. Ilya is not fit for human consumption.

"You are going somewhere?" Ilya demands.

"Yeah, road trip. For hockey?"

Ilya does not care about hockey. "Where is Chernysh?"

"He’s gone to, like, a dog hotel?"

Ilya frowns. He knows those words but they don't usually go together. "What is this?"

"A place for dogs to stay if you're away or whatever. There's people there to look after them, walk them, feed them."

Ilya's frown is now more of a glare.

Hollander tugs on an eyelid and avoids eye contact. "Come on, don't look at me like that. He likes it there. They're really nice, lots of hockey players use them."

Because hockey players are stupid. "Why you send Chernysh to dog hotel," Ilya says, finally. "Why you not ask me to look after him."

"I didn't — think you would want to?"

Ilya just keeps glaring. Stupid Hollander. Idiot Hollander. Now Ilya won't get to see Chernysh again until —

"When you will come back," Ilya demands.

"Tuesday?"

Idiot. "Next time you tell me," Ilya tells him. "I will look after here. I look after better than stupid hotel. Better than you."

He leaves without wishing Hollander a good trip. Hollander deserves no such thing.

It turns out six days alone is a long time when you have gotten used to company.

The first day Ilya spends the afternoon smoking his way mechanically through two packets of cigarettes, staring out at the empty garden. His stomach hurts, and without Chernysh to feed scraps, what is the point in cooking. He eats a chocolate bar in the evening for something to do and because he doesn't have to worry about Chernysh getting crumbs.

Maybe the nicotine messes with his head, or maybe it's just the change in routine, but he doesn't fall asleep until five the next morning, so the second day is a write off, too. Ilya stays in bed until evening.

Day three, he thinks about Chernysh coming home and snuffling his way through the detritus of cigarette butts, chip packets and discarded sweaty clothing all over the floor. He thinks about how Chernysh will put his head to one side and rest a paw on Ilya's knee and whine at him. How a dog can look so disappointed is beyond Ilya, but Chernysh has it down to a fine art.

This is assuming Chernysh will come inside at all, given the smell.

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

Okay.

Ilya gets out of bed, leans against the wall for a moment until his balance returns, and makes it into the shower. He puts a load of laundry on. Empties the ashtrays. Takes out the rubbish. Makes soup out of the odds and ends left in the fridge, and eats it for a late lunch. Orders some groceries: he will need food for Chernysh when he comes back. Then he stares at the television until it's time to go back to bed.

Day four, he opens the door for the delivery man and unpacks the groceries into the fridge. The weather is bad. He watches television and tries not to think about the feeling of Chernysh's heartbeat under his hand. He makes pasta for dinner, with a bit of plain chicken put aside for Chernysh. It will still be good in two days.

Day five the weather is clear and Ilya takes himself for a walk, so he doesn't get too out of practice. It is cold and he hates every second of it, but it does not feel so bad when he is sitting on his couch in the afternoon.

He wakes up on day six and realises he doesn't know what time Hollander will be back. And will Chernysh come home straight away?

Fuck it. He opens a private browsing window so he's not haunted by hockey ads for the rest of his life, and pulls up the Raiders' schedule. Boston have lost both their away games so far. They have one left to play tonight, against Montreal.

You are coming back tonight? Ilya texts. He doesn't offer his commiserations on the lost games, because Hollander is a dog thief. You said Tuesday.

Yeah, he gets back.

When you will get home?

Late, like 11? 12?

You pick Chernysh up on way? Or he is not back until tomorrow?

I'll bring him home tonight.

Okay. Good. Ilya chews the toggle of his hoodie absently. He knows this is pushing it, but the way Ilya sees it, Hollander is a thief who needs to make reparations. Can you send Chernysh over for visit when you get home?

I just said it'll be really late

I don't mind late. I want to see him. You let him come?

He doesn't get an answer straight away. Ilya wonders what Hollander is doing now. Lying on a bed in a hotel room in Montreal, maybe, trying to nap before the game. Or having team lunch? Somehow Ilya can't imagine robot Hollander socialising with his teammates, but Hollander must do it. He has been with Boston since he was drafted, he would be one of the longest-serving players on the team by now. Did they make him captain yet? But would anyone want to be captained by a robot?

Okay, Hollander sends, eventually. If you don't mind late, I'll send him over.

Thank you, Ilya sends. Good luck for Montreal.

Wednesday is one of the strangest mornings of Ilya's life.

Perhaps he is drunk? Though he does not remember drinking.

No. He did not drink last night, because Chernysh was coming home. Ilya does not know if Chernysh dislikes vodka the way he dislikes cigarettes, but Ilya was not going to risk it.

Anyway, there are no glasses or bottles anywhere. Ilya has looked.

So. Not drunk. Sober.

Dreaming?

He pinches his thigh. It hurts. Closes his eyes. Opens them again. Chernysh's blanket is still in disarray on Chernysh's side of the couch. Ilya's neck still hurts from having fallen asleep tucked against the armrest.

Okay.

He can figure this out.

So, these are the facts:

One. Boston had lost in Montreal.

Two. Ilya had heard a car just before midnight, and a few minutes later Chernysh had come in through Ilya's dog door.

Three. Ilya and Chernysh had fallen asleep on the couch.

Four. Ilya had woken up on the couch at sunrise to find a naked Shane Hollander next to him, rolled up in Chernysh's blanket. Also, a total lack of Chernysh.

Five. Ilya and Hollander had both screamed like little girls. Ilya is not proud of this, but he includes it in case it is important. Maybe screaming is some kind of magic trigger.

Six. Naked Hollander had vanished into thin air, and Chernysh had reappeared.

Seven. Chernysh had run out of the dog door.

Okay. Put those facts all together, and…

Do people often turn into dogs in America?

While he waits for Sveta to answer, Ilya changes his sweatpants and hoodie and finds some socks.

It is not even nine o'clock in the morning, Ilya. How much have you had to drink?

Okay. Probably not normal then.

There's no answer the first time Ilya rings Hollander's doorbell, so Ilya props himself up against the wall, shoulder holding down the button. He can hear it chiming over and over inside the house. That's okay. Ilya can do this all day. He has nowhere else to be.

It's a good five minutes before Ilya hears the lock turn and the door opens. Hollander still looks about as freaked out as he had on Ilya's couch. He is now wearing clothes, though, so that is something.

"You," Ilya says.

"Uh," Hollander says. He runs a hand through his hair. "Hi?"

"You," Ilya says again. "You are dog. You are Chernysh."

Hollander closes his eyes and his whole body sags. "Fuck."

"I am right, yes? I saw." Ilya is more and more confident the longer he stands here. Chernysh has freckles, for fuck’s sake. What kind of dog has freckles?

"Fuck. Okay." Hollander opens his eyes and steps back. "I guess you'd better come in."

Hollander’s house is nicer than Ilya expected. Modern, clean lines. Much newer than Sveta’s. Hollander looks uncomfortable in it, though, or maybe it's just having Ilya here. Hollander leads them through a brightly lit hallway and past the kitchen, then gestures to a glass-topped dining table.

"Uh, do you want to sit down?"

"You will explain?" Ilya demands.

Hollander isn't meeting his eyes. "I can — try. But. It's complicated?"

"Yes." Obviously. "Try."

Hollander is still dithering by the kitchen. "You want coffee or something? Tea?"

"Explain first."

But Hollander's explanation starts with a lot of long words that are definitely not in Ilya's English course.

"Hollander. I speak Russian. Learning English only. Use little words."

"Shit." Hollander looks appropriately guilty. "Sorry. Maybe — do you want to ask questions instead? What you want to know?"

It's a good idea. Hollander cannot be trusted to know what is important. Like, for example, telling your neighbour that you can turn into a dog.

"Okay. You are Chernysh. Chernysh is you."

Hollander nods his agreement. Ilya swears. At length. It feels good.

Hollander blinks at him. "You know I don't speak Russian, right?"

He even blinks like Chernysh. Fucking hell. Ilya makes himself take a breath. Concentrate on English, and on not sounding like a crazy person, even though this whole idea is crazy. "So you can, what. Just change? Between?"

Hollander nods again. His hands are fisted, white-knuckled. Maybe Ilya should have let Hollander make coffee for something to do, before he sprains something.

"You are oboroten? Uh." He pulls out his phone for Google translate. "Werewolf?"

Hollander almost cracks a smile at that. "No! Fuck, no. Just a dog. Not a wolf."

Well, Ilya guesses it's nice to know he didn't spend the night on the couch next to a rabid supernatural beast. "Okay, not werewolf. Then how come you can change?"

"I don't know. It's —" Hollander looks like he's about to start in with the big words again, but catches himself. "I just can. Since I was a kid. My parents don't know why."

"Did they not try? To find out?"

Hollander shrugs. His death grip on his own hands has relaxed a little. "I guess. But they didn't want to take it too far in case it caused trouble for me." He must notice Ilya's raised eyebrows. "You know, like, get me taken away to a secret laboratory for experiments or whatever."

Ilya has to pause to look up ‘laboratory’ and 'experiments', but then he's good. "Okay. And you just change? When you like?"

"I think so, yeah. I hadn't really — I hadn't changed at all for a few years, but the past few weeks I've — I don't know." He rubs at his knuckles. "Maybe it fucked something up? Cause this morning, I didn't mean to change back. Like that."

"You did not mean to be naked."

"No, I mean, I'm always, when I — it's not like I wear clothes, as a dog, so." The tips of his ears are turning pink. "I meant, I didn't mean for you to see me. Like that."

"Naked," Ilya says again, to watch the colour spread further.

"Fuck off."

Hollander is no fun. Fine. "I still want to know how come you can do this. Maybe is, what is called. Come from parents?"

"Uh, genetic?" Hollander offers.

"Da. Parents can do too?"

Hollander shakes his heads "No, just me."

"Then is magic?"

"I don't know."

"From witch?"

"I don't know."

"Bitten by spider?"

Eye roll.

"Bitten by dog."

"Jesus, I said I don't know!"

"How can you not know?" But Ilya is forgetting that Hollander is the most boring person in the world. Of course he is even boring about being able to do the most interesting thing Ilya has ever heard of.

"I told you, I haven't changed for a while," Hollander says. "My parents thought maybe I'd grown out of it. I guess we kind of stopped trying to find out."

So Hollander’s whole family is boring and lacking imagination. Ilya stares at him for a long moment. Hollander is staring at the table. "Okay. Then I want to see," Ilya says, eventually.

That gets him a quick glance. "What?"

"I want to see," Ilya repeats. "You show me again. Become Chernysh.’

"Like, right now?" Hollander glances around wildly.

"Is problem?"

"I —"

Hollander looks about two seconds away from running out of his own house. Ilya relents. "Fine. You show me later. Yes?"

"Do I really —"

"Hollander. You can turn into fucking dog. Yes, really."

Hollander runs a hand through his hair again. It really does look a lot like Chernysh's hair. Ilya wonders if it's as silky. "Okay. Okay." Hollander abruptly stands up, chair legs squealing on the tiles. "I'm gonna make coffee. You want one?"

Ilya doesn't need coffee. He needs vodka.

"You shouldn't be drinking, it's like nine in the morning," Hollander says.

"What would you know," Ilya shoots back. "You are a dog."

Ilya feels like he's actually taking this very well. It is not every day you find out the dog you have been trying to lure away from your hockey robot neighbour with pats and chicken is not, in fact, a dog at all. Is really your neighbour.

Your human neighbour.

Your human neighbour who has, at least some of the time, human ears.

Oh, fuck. And Ilya has been letting Chernysh into his house for the best part of a month now. Ilya has been talking to Chernysh. Mostly in Russian, sure, and presumably Hollander doesn't speak Russian in dog form either, but — fuck. Fucking fuck fuck. Ilya has been practising his English, sometimes, too.

"Hollander," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "When you are dog. What is it like."

"What do you mean?"

"Is same as human?"

Hollander switches on a complicated looking machine. It makes a horrible whirring noise. "Kind of? I'm still me, so like, I can remember some of what I've done, after? But dogs are different, so it's mostly, like, smells and stuff."

Now Hollander is messing about with some coffee beans, oblivious.

"Hollander," Ilya says, loud, so it's clear over the machine. "I want to know if Chernysh can understand. If you know things I said to Chernysh."

"Oh. Oh!" Hollander finally stops with the coffee stuff and looks at Ilya, who clearly did not manage to hide the panic in his voice. "Right. Sorry. Uh, no. I just get, like, tone of voice, I guess? So if someone's angry or happy or whatever."

"But not words," Ilya says. Insists.

"No, not really. Other than, like, commands or whatever." Hollander looks a little embarrassed. "You know. Sit. Walk. That kind of thing."

Jesus Christ, what a relief.

"I do remember stealing your cigarettes, though," Hollander says with a smirk.

He is an asshole. Why do people think Hollander is nice? He is an asshole.

"Anyway, did you want a coffee?" Hollander asks. He pulls two mugs out of a cupboard. Maybe he is not a complete asshole.

"Okay," Ilya says. "Two sugars."

"Sorry. Don't have sugar in the house. It's not good for you."

Wait, yes he is. Complete.

"So, uh," Hollander says, when he has sat back down and pushed a sadly unsweetened mug over to Ilya. "This is awkward, but. I don't really know you?’

Ilya shrugs and takes a sip of coffee.

"And I know Svetlana is good people, and you're married to her, so I'm assuming you're good people too. But."

Hollander seems to have run out of words. Ilya raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Okay. Uh. The thing is. I really need you to keep this a secret. Like, really really need you to. So I don't get taken away by big men in unmarked vans."

Hmm. Ilya takes another sip of bitter coffee.

"So. Can I, you know. Trust you?"

Ilya runs a finger around the rim of his mug. Then, because he is not a complete asshole, he says, "Svetlana married me for passport."

Hollander blinks. "What?"

"We are not really couple. Me and Sveta. We are friends, yes, but marriage was just for American passport. So that I can leave Russia, come and live here."

Hollander exhales heavily. "Fuck. Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Wow. Okay. You know, you really shouldn't tell people that."

Ilya rolls his eyes. Idiot. "Of course I don't tell."

"No, seriously. Or, like, scary dudes from immigration will come and take… you. Away."

Ilya looks at him steadily over the rim of his mug.

"Oh," Hollander says.

"Yes," Ilya says. "But, now you know."

"You keep my secret, I'll keep yours?"

"Yes. So no one is taken away."

"Okay. That sounds. Good." Hollander turns his mug around once, twice. He glances at Ilya then back down at his coffee and mumbles, "Fuck, this is weird."

Ilya does not think Hollander deserves to be the one having a crisis here. "You think is weird? I fell asleep next to dog and woke up with naked hockey player."

"What, do you normally do it the other way around or something?"

Ilya looks at Hollander. Hollander looks back. Hollander's lip twitches, and then he breaks, little sniggers growing into full on laughter. "Holy fuck. Sorry. I — holy fuck. What an end to a shitty week."

"Yes," Ilya says, because for once Hollander has gotten something right. It has been a shitty week. Ilya is not laughing.

"You too?"

"Yes. Worse."

Hollander frowns. "What — come on. We just lost three games in a row. I scored literally zero points. You think you've had a worse week than that?"

Hockey. Who gives a fuck about hockey. "Obviously."

"How?"

Ilya considers not answering. But Hollander should know what he has done.

"Chernysh is good dog," he says, eventually, because this at least is true. "He was very good for naps. But he was not here all week, and now you are back and have told me truth, I am thinking, that."

"That what?"

"That there will be no more Chernysh."

Fuck. He brings his mugs to his lips, takes two big swallows. Clears his throat and puts the mug back down.

Hollander is looking at him. Ilya is not sure about the expression on Hollander's face. He doesn't think it's pity, which is good, because Ilya does not want to have to punch him. It would be a little too close to hurting Chernysh.

Eventually Hollander looks away. "You really liked him, huh?" he asks the window.

"He is good dog," Ilya says stubbornly. Use present tense, idiot Hollander. Even Ilya knows that and he barely speaks English. Chernysh is not dead. Just not here.

The silence stretches out.

"Listen. I, uh. I should take a shower, get unpacked and stuff," Hollander says finally.

Of course, Hollander had barely arrived home before Chernysh came over last night. He probably has many things to do. But this also sounds a bit like Hollander is trying to get rid of Ilya. It is not going to make anything any easier, seeing Chernysh one last time, but Ilya is allowed to make stupid decisions that hurt him if he wants to.

"You have food here?" Ilya says, abruptly.

"What?"

"You were away. Just came back. You have food to eat?"

Hollander shrugs. "I guess? I've got stuff in the freezer, for smoothies."

Ilya makes a farting noise. Hollander looks appalled.

"Smoothie is for old people with no teeth," Ilya says. "You come to Sveta’s, one hour. I will cook real breakfast. You show me change, I can see Chernysh."

"I'm not really sure," Hollander starts, then his brain apparently catches up to his mouth. "Wait. What do you mean, real breakfast?"

Hollander is probably thinking of the pop tarts. Or the frozen waffles. "I can cook. What do you eat? Eggs, toast?"

"No, I. I mean, eggs, sure. But I'm on a. Uh. Macrobiotic diet?"

Stupid English, so many words. "What is macrobiotic?"

"Health food? Like, for athletes."

Ilya looks at him.

"It means I don't eat bread."

"You do eat bread."

"Not for, like, a year."

Hah. That's what he thinks. "You ate bread last week."

"What are you talking about?"

"Last week." Ilya gestures in the direction of Sveta's house. "I was on couch, watching TV, eating tuna melt. Had to go piss."

"O…kay?"

"You were there also. Being Chernysh." He waves his hand irritably at Hollander. Still so unfair. "And when I came back from bathroom, you had stolen tuna melt. All gone."

Hollander is frowning. "Maybe you ate it and forgot. The way you are with food."

"What way I am?"

"Like, all." Hollander mimes someone frantically gobbling up their food, two hands working imaginary forks. "Like you're starving."

Huh. Rude. "Anyway I know you ate it."

"How?"

"Because you licked me after. On face." He mimes a big sloppy Chernysh kiss. "Breath smelled like tuna."

Hollander blushes. Interesting. "You're such a dick. I can't believe you made me break my diet."

"I did not do anything. You are one who stole tuna melt."

"You shouldn't leave food around when there are animals in the house."

"You should not follow such a stupid diet. Bread will not make you play bad hockey."

"How would you know?"

Ilya shrugs. "Is, how you say. Everyone knows."

"Common sense?"

"Sure, probably." It is something that Hollander is sorely lacking in, anyway. Ilya swallows the last of the bitter coffee and pushes his empty mug over to Hollander. "Okay. No bread. Omelette is okay?"

"Uh. Yeah? Just egg whites though. But you don't have to —"

Ilya stands up. "Good. See you one hour."

"I —"

"And do not chicken out, or I will find you." Ilya winks at him, because it turns out flustering Hollander is fun. "I know where you live."

If Ilya thought Hollander looked uncomfortable in his own house, it's nothing compared to Hollander on Ilya's front porch.

"Uh, hi?" Hollander says. "Did you still want —"

He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances back toward his own house like he's planning his escape route.

Ilya is not going to let him go that easily. "Yes. Good." He stands back. "Come in. Take shoes off."

Hollander toes his sneakers off obediently and adds them to the pile by the door, then follows Ilya down the hall.

"I have made things for omelette," Ilya tells him over his shoulder, as he returns to his chopping board and knife. "But I did not know what you like, so you choose."

But Hollander has stopped by the kitchen island and is staring at the couch with a very strange expression on his face. Which is stupid, because he has slept on it many times. Once as a human, even.

"Hollander? You have seen this couch before. Yes?"

Hollander shakes his head like he's trying to clear water out of his ears. Or, Ilya supposes uncharitably, a little like a dog drying off after a bath. "Yeah. I know. Sorry, I." He does the shake again. "It's not the couch really, it's the smell? In here?"

Ilya does not know why Hollander keeps phrasing things as a question. Ilya has known that Hollander is a dog for two hours now. Hollander has known his whole life. Ilya should not be expected to have any answers for him.

"Is bad smell?" he asks. Possibly it is, Ilya has not exactly been a diligent housekeeper. There had been someone coming in to clean when he'd first arrived, but she had moved to Florida in October, and Ilya had not bothered to find someone new. He'd thought he'd been doing better these past few weeks, anyway.

"No, it's just. Super familiar, I guess."

Ilya resumes chopping mushrooms. Mushrooms do not change into anything other than a mushroom omelette. Mushrooms are good like that.

"You have been here many times," he says. "Of course familiar."

"Yeah, it's not that though, it's like — really familiar? Like, makes me feel nostalgic, or — I dunno, homesick but not in a bad way?" Hollander runs a hand through his hair and glances at Ilya. "I'm not explaining things very well today, sorry."

Ilya nods and moves on to rinsing spinach. Hollander huffs a laugh. "You were supposed to say something like, no, you're doing a great job."

"Is not true though," Ilya says. "Also you are using too many fancy words."

"Sorry." Hollander comes around the counter, hands still shoved in his pockets. "And I should have offered to help chop stuff, too, sorry."

"Now is too many sorrys," Ilya says. "Come, you choose."

"Wow." Hollander surveys the little piles of ham, mushroom, onion, cheese. "This is. I mean." He looks over at Ilya. "Thanks."

Ilya shrugs. "Is better to cook for two than one. Yes?"

Hollander meets his eyes for a second. "Yeah. I. Yeah."

"So, choose."

Hollander's omelette is the most boring omelette that ever omeletted, but Ilya supposes that is not his problem. He loads his own up with all the delicious fillings Hollander declined, and when they are both ready, he points Hollander to a place at the table.

"There, sit." It's next to Ilya's usual place. Chernysh would sit by his chair and Ilya would offer pieces of chicken while he ate. Fuck. Ilya swallows and pushes the thought away. "Try again now. To explain smell thing."

"Huh?"

"You came in and had panic attack. What is problem?"

"Oh." Hollander takes a forkful of omelette and chews thoughtfully, swallows. "Well. I've always had, like, a really good sense of smell. I guess maybe because of the dog thing? I don't know." He smiles, wry. "I used to be super picky with food as a kid, drove my parents mad."

"Ah yes," Ilya says. He looks pointedly at Hollander's miserable egg white and spinach omelette. He wouldn't even let Ilya put any cheese on it. "And now you are so relaxed, eat anything. So much better."

Hollander rolls his eyes. "Fuck off, it's an athletic performance diet. I'm trying to say that smells tend to be really strong for me, and like, good or bad, too? So the smell of marshmallow used to freak me out when I was a kid, even though it's sweet or whatever. It just smelled really wrong to me."

"You do not like marshmallow." Of course Hollander does not. Probably he also does not like kittens and puppies and rainbows.

"I can't help it, it's just how it works for me."

"Okay. So what has this got to do with couch?"

"It's not just the couch, it's this whole place. And, you, maybe, I think?" Hollander hurriedly shoves another forkful in.

"Me?"

"Yeah, I." Hollanders cheeks are tinged with pink. "I came over a few times when Svetlana was living here, and it never felt like that before, so. I'm guessing it's at least partly because of you?"

"Huh." Ilya is not sure what to make of that. "And is bad?"

"No. That's what I'm trying to explain. It felt, like. Right?"

"Right," Ilya repeats.

"Yeah. A good smell, anyway. Like home, almost? I think maybe — maybe that's why I came through the fence, the first time." Hollander is now pretending to be very interested in the remains of his boring omelette.

"Because of smell?"

"Yeah." A quick glance up at Ilya, then back to his plate. "I guess since you were out in the yard, I could smell you."

That settles it. "Nose is broken," Ilya says firmly. He knows what he smells — smelled — like. Vodka and cigarettes and not showering. "Was bad smell."

"I didn't say you smelt good, exactly. Just. Right."

Hollander is definitely blushing now. It is tempting to push, but Ilya still wants to see Chernysh again. He had better not scare Hollander off before that happens.

"So you do have magic power," Ilya says instead, between mouthfuls. "Not just turning into dog sometimes. Super smell always?"

Hollander looks surprised. "I guess? I never really thought about it like that."

"No?"

"It's a pain, more than a help, usually." He pulls a face. "So many things smell bad."

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Poor Hollander, only having unhelpful magic power."

"Fuck off. At least it's not an unfair advantage for hockey."

Ilya can't help laughing. "Of course you say that."

"What?" Hollander looks confused.

"Anyone else would say, so sad my magic power will not help me win hockey. But you don't want magic to help, because it would not be fair for other team."

"I don't want to win if I haven't earned it."

"Of course not." Ilya herds the last bits of ham and mushroom around his plate. "I looked up on internet, you know," he says conversationally. "Just now. About man turning into black dog and back again."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Is lots of information."

"Really?" Hollander looks suspicious. As he should.

"Yes." Ilya taps the side of his nose with one finger. "Don't worry, I will not tell."

"Tell what?"

"That you are wizard. From Harry Potter. What is name? Sirius Black?"

"Fuck off," Hollander says, but his lips are twitching.

"You have magic wand too? You will take me for ride on broomstick later?"

"Seriously, fuck off," Hollander says, and now he's biting his lip to stop the smile spreading, and Ilya does not have any feelings about that at all.

The awkwardness is back when they have cleared their plates away. Ilya thought he had made himself pretty clear about wanting to see Chernysh again, but Hollander hasn't said anything about it, or offered to get on with it. Instead, Hollander is just standing, hands in pockets again, frowning at the countertop like it holds all the answers.

Ilya gives up. He may have all day, but he does not have all patience. "You will show me now?" he prompts. "Change to Chernysh. Yes?"

Hollander is still hesitating. Ilya frowns. A thought occurs to him — something he'd read in the stuff about Harry Potter, though obviously that was not real, but still. "It hurts you? To change?"

"No, it's. No."

"So what is problem?"

Hollander is biting his lip. "I've just never, uh. No one has seen before? Apart from my parents?"

Ah. "I already saw, here," Ilya points out. "In morning."

"But you weren't really looking."

Yes. Which is why Ilya wants Hollander to do it again, where he can see.

"And there's the, uh. I have to take my clothes off to change, or I get all tangled up. And. When I change back, I'm. You know."

"Naked. Yes. I noticed."

Hollander is blushing again. How does this man survive in a locker room? Ilya can't imagine it.

"Could I — would you mind if I, like, changed in the bathroom? And come out when I'm done?"

Seriously, how does he survive.

"Okay," Ilya says. Hollander nods and starts toward the bathroom, but Ilya interrupts him. "Wait. How long will you stay Chernysh?"

"Oh." Hollander looks at him quickly, then away. "I was — just a few minutes. I've got to go in for video soon."

Ilya can't say anything for a moment. Hollander must interpret it as confusion, because he adds, "That's, like, watching tape of the games and figuring out what we did wrong?"

"Okay." Ilya has to force the word out, but he supposes there was no guarantee he could even have this. They shouldn't have wasted time on the stupid omelettes. "If you have to."

"Okay," Hollander echoes. "So." he runs a hand through his hair. "I guess I'll see you in a minute?"

Hollander seems to know where the bathroom is without being shown. Ilya hopes that's from visiting Sveta. He tries to remember if Chernysh ever followed him into the bathroom, before. He does not think so. Naked is one thing, but even Ilya draws the line at watching someone on the toilet.

There is no sound from the bathroom. It seems to Ilya like there should be a noise to announce the transformation — a whoomph, perhaps, something to accompany the displacement of air as an adult human turns into a medium sized dog — but there is nothing, and then Chernysh is just there, in the hall, tail low and uncertain but looking at Ilya with bright eyes.

Ilya makes himself move, makes himself push the bathroom door open and look inside. There are Hollander's clothes, folded nearly on top of the closed toilet, and no sign of Hollander himself. Hollander really is Chernysh. There is no way this could be an elaborate prank that Sveta has orchestrated long distance.

He turns back to Chernysh. Chernysh looks just the same as before. Of course he does. Ilya is not sure what he was expecting.

Ilya can't help it. He crouches down and holds out his hand for Chernysh to sniff. "Hi there," he says softly, Russian rolling so smoothly off his tongue after struggling with English all day. "Hey, my good boy, my lovely sweet boy. So good to see you again."

Chernysh pushes his head into Ilya's hands wanting scratches, and Ilya obliges. Chernysh feels the same as before as well, fur soft and silky with smooth muscle underneath.

Ilya gives in and sits on the floor, lets Chernysh lay his head in his lap, pats and strokes him, buries his face in Chernysh’s neck, presses kisses into his fur. Hollander can be horrified if he wants. Ilya has been telling Chernysh how much he loves him for weeks. What is the point of stopping now?

Too soon, Chernysh stretches and stands up. He presses his nose into Ilya's chest, then trots back into the bathroom and noses the door closed.

Ilya did not cry at his father's funeral. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, once, then again. This close, he can hear the rustling of clothing behind the bathroom door. Hollander must be getting dressed. He will be coming out in a second.

Ilya tells his legs to stand, and after a moment they obey him. He tells them to take him into the kitchen. He rests his hands on the cool countertop.

The bathroom door opens and Hollander is there. He doesn't look entirely collected either. He’s rubbing the back of his neck as he comes into the kitchen, then seems to realise what he's doing and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"So, uh." Hollander clears his throat. "Was that. Okay?"

What does Hollander mean, okay. How was saying goodbye to Chernysh going to be okay.

"I mean, like. You believe me?"

"I believed you before," Ilya manages.

"Okay. But you still wanted to, like. Okay. "

Ilya is waiting for Hollander to make his excuses and leave. Ilya is pretty sure there is a bottle of not terrible vodka left in the freezer. But Hollander is shifting his weight and rubbing the back of his neck again. Then he says, "Okay. So this is. I get this might be too weird. But I was thinking that, like. If you wanted? We could maybe keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

A brief moment of eye contact. "Uh. Hanging out. Like, I could come over in the afternoons, when I can. Like before."

"Be Chernysh?"

"I thought — yeah."

Ilya swallows. He has been doing his best not to think about everything Hollander has seen, as Chernysh, but it's getting harder and harder to avoid. Lonely smelly sad Russian man, no friends, no job, sits around watching daytime television, talking to himself. No. Even having more time with Chernysh is not worth that humiliation.

"You feel sorry for me," Ilya says finally. "No. I don't want." He can't think of the word in English.

Hollander shakes his head. "No, that's not it. I don't, uh." He exhales heavily. "Look. I know you're not into hockey or whatever so you probably don't know, but it's been a shitty month for me. Season. Year?"

"Okay." This is still not Ilya's problem. His vodka is not getting any colder.

"I've been — not good," Hollander continues. "Not sleeping well. But I think maybe it was helping, coming over here?"

The silence stretches out. Ilya is trying to work out if Hollander is calculating enough to have come up with this story on the spot. To make it feel like Ilya is the one doing Hollander a favour. Judging by the deepening flush in Hollander's cheeks, Hollander either means it, or is a very sophisticated actor. And this is robot Hollander. Ilya cannot imagine him winning an Oscar anytime soon.

"You want to come here," Ilya says eventually. "Because it will help you sleep."

Hollander shrugs uncomfortably. "Maybe. So. Would you mind if I came over? Sometimes?"

"You don't think will be weird."

"I — maybe. I hope not. But, maybe worth it anyway?"

Ilya thinks about what he has been doing with Chernysh. Sitting on the couch together; this is okay. Hollander says he needs the sleep. Ilya can still talk to Chernysh in Russian, no way for Hollander to understand, Ilya just has to be careful not to use English. Going for walks? Maybe, maybe not, but it's too cold most days now anyway.

"Okay," Ilya says. "We will try."

"Yeah?" Hollander looks so pleased. No way he is this good at acting.

"But," Ilya says, because he has just thought of something. Hollander’s face falls immediately. "No, is not bad problem, just. Sometimes I make food while Chernysh is here."

"Yeah, I know?"

"So, when I make food, you have to change." Because Ilya is not going to hand-feed Chernysh-Hollander chicken scraps. That really would be too weird.

"You mean, go?"

"If you want. Or you can stay. Like today. Eat real food."

The pleased look is back. "Okay. Yeah. That would be — uh. But I only eat, like…"

"Yes. Yes." Ilya shakes his head. "Special terrible diet. I know." No wonder Hollander was so freaked out at the thought of Ilya giving Chernysh peanut butter. "You can give me list, what is okay for you."

"Yeah. Thanks. I. " Hollander glances at his watch and winces. "Fuck. I should really go. Video in an hour."

Ilya is not sure how he ever thought Hollander was a robot. His face is an open book. "It will be bad?" he asks. Cherchesov would have shouted himself hoarse after a three game losing streak, but maybe Boston's coach is not like this.

Hollander shrugs. "Probably. After last week, yeah."

Ilya nods. Then he hears himself say. "Okay. You want to come back here, after? I can cook again. Have lots of food."

Hollander blinks at him. "You — really?"

"If you want," Ilya says. "Yes. Would be okay for me."

"Okay," Hollander says. He's smiling again. "And then, I can, uh." He hesitates, like he's not sure it's allowed. "Change? After? If you want?"

"Okay." Ilya thinks he might be smiling back.

The empty house after Hollander has gone leaves space for Ilya's thoughts to crowd back in. He has already spent more time with another human today than he has in months. And he has invited Hollander back again later. What the fuck was he thinking? He is an idiot.

No. He knows exactly what he was thinking. That look on Hollander's face: Ilya has seen that in the mirror many times these last few years.

So.

He stares into the refrigerator for several minutes, Googles ‘microbiotic diet’, then realises that can't be right and tries ‘macrobiotic’ instead. Then he stares into the fridge again.

He texts Hollander: you do not eat meat?? For special diet? Because this is what the internet says, but Hollander has not complained about Ilya feeding Chernysh chicken. Also, Hollander ate eggs this morning. Also, Ilya has never heard of a hockey player who doesn't eat meat, what the fuck.

No red meat, he gets back half an hour later. He wonders if Hollander is at the rink now, surrounded by teammates, waiting to be yelled at. Chicken is okay, and fish. Not strictly macrobiotic but I try to avoid processed foods if I can.

Ilya has to do some translating, some more googling and some more staring into his fridge. Eventually he sends salmon, brown rice, broccoli. OK?

He gets a thumbs up.

Hollander comes for dinner in a hoodie and sweatpants so worn even Ilya would be proud to wear them, holding a six pack of Coke and one of… ginger ale?

He shoves them at Ilya as soon as he's in the door. "Here. I stopped at the store on the way home. Thanks for having me."

Ilya frowns. "You did not have to bring anything."

"It's rude to come to dinner without a host gift," Hollander says. "Anyway, the ginger ale is for me, but you like Coke, right?"

Ilya wonders if it will stop being weird, that human Hollander knows things from when he is Chernysh. He thinks probably not.

In the kitchen, Ilya finds room for the cans in the fridge, but takes out a Coke and passes a ginger ale over to Hollander. "How do you drink this but worry so much about food?"

Hollander shrugs. "I don't drink it all the time. Just sometimes. Anyway, it's this or alcohol tonight, so."

Ilya pauses with his finger through the ring pull and looks at Hollander. "Was very bad?"

"Can we, like. Not talk about hockey stuff?"

Ilya would be delighted.

Soon the rice cooker pings and the salmon comes out of the oven. Ilya microwaves the broccoli, over Hollander's protests, and then dinner is ready.

They sit in the same places they did at breakfast. Hollander drinks his ginger ale and looks less and less like he's going to run away every second. It's nice.

Ilya asks about where Hollander grew up, and Hollander tells him about Ottawa. It sounds about as idyllic and boring as Ilya would have imagined for him. Better is hearing about Hollander turning into Chernysh as a boy, a tiny puppy digging up his mother's garden.

Hollander asks about Russia, once, but tentatively enough that Ilya wonders if Sveta has warned him. Anyway, it’s easy enough to put Hollander off with a shake of the head, and Hollander doesn't bring it up again.

Afterwards, Hollander insists on helping clean up. Ilya is starting to suspect that Hollander falls back on manners when he's at a loss for what to do with himself. But there are worse coping strategies, Ilya supposes. Vodka and cigarettes, for one.

The other thing Hollander does is avoid any contact with Ilya.

It is very strange, because Chernysh is always nudging into Ilya's hand for pats, or pushing up against Ilya's legs. Hollander keeps a half metre clear radius around him at all times, even when they're both in the kitchen. If Ilya comes closer, Hollander will step back.

Maybe Hollander can't touch another man unless they're on the ice. Ilya has played with guys like this. Ilya does not think that is it, though. And Ilya is usually right about these things.

Also, Ilya is a curious person, and he has been wondering about Hollander’s hair all day.

Now the dishwasher is full. Hollander's hands are in his pockets and he's biting his lip. "So, uh. Should I change? Like we talked about? Or."

"Change," Ilya says definitely. "But before, I want to do —" But he can't think of the word, even though Hollander had said it this morning and he’d had to look it up. Fuck. How young can dementia start? He pulls his phone out, opens Google translate. "Ah. Experiment. For science."

"Okay?"

"With you."

"O… kay?"

"Yes. Come here."

Hollander takes a tiny step.

"Closer."

Hollander flinches as Ilya's hand comes near his face, but tries to hide it. Then Ilya plucks out one of his hairs and Hollander flinches for real.

"What the fuck?"

"I needed hair."

"You could have fucking asked!"

Ilya gets one of Chernysh's hairs off his blanket on the couch, and holds them both up to the light. "I was right," he declares. "Is same."

Hollander is still in the kitchen, rubbing his head like a baby and frowning at Ilya. "Of course it's the same, it's me, you dick. You didn't have to pull my fucking hair out."

Ilya tests the hairs between his fingers, one in each hand. They feel the same, too, both silky. "We should look at with — thing. Makes bigger. Scientists use." He mimes looking down the lens.

"Microscope?"

"Sure, probably. We can buy from internet, you think?"

Hollander has stopped running his head now and is giving Ilya a look that is impossible to interpret.

"What?" Ilya asks.

Hollander shrugs. "Nothing. You're just. Not what I expected, I guess?"

Ilya is not sure how to take that. He makes do with a shrug. "You also. I thought you are boring hockey player, did not know you can turn into dog, so. All surprises today."

Hollander laughs. "I guess so."

One more surprise is how normal it feels to wait for Hollander to change. Hollander goes into the bathroom and comes out as Chernysh, tucks himself into Ilya's side on the couch and closes his eyes. Ilya can't stop the hand that settles over Chernysh's chest, or the way he strokes softly over Chernysh's head while he sleeps.

Ilya turns on the television for form’s sake, but mostly he breathes and feels Chernysh breathing next to him and that's enough.

What is not the same is that around nine o'clock Chernysh stirs, yawns widely, and jumps off the couch. He pads into the bathroom and comes out again a minute later as Hollander, looking tired but not unhappy.

"I should head home," he says. "Training tomorrow."

Ilya nods. Hollander's hair is sticking up at the back. Is that from Ilya playing with Chernysh's hair while he slept? "Okay."

He walks Hollander to the door and waits while Hollander puts his shoes on.

"Thanks again for dinner," Hollander says in the doorway. The half-metre bubble is back. Ilya has to resist the urge to break it, see what Hollander would do.

"Thank you for coming," Ilya says instead. See, he can play the manners game too.

"I'll, uh, text you tomorrow maybe?"

Ilya nods solemnly. "You have filled fridge with terrible ginger ale, now you have to come and drink."

"It's not terrible," Hollander protests. "You should try it, it's —" he breaks off when he notices Ilya laughing. "Oh, fuck off. Okay. I'll. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Ilya says back.

Hollander does not text until mid afternoon the next day. Sorry, shit morning. And I forgot I have to go to a stupid fundraiser thing tonight.

Ilya turns his phone over in his hands, once, twice. Then he texts back: does Chernysh have time for a nap in between?

Chernysh does.

The Raiders have an evening home game the day after that. Chernysh comes for a short nap in the afternoon, arriving and leaving in dog form. It's okay, it's what Ilya expected — or more than he had any right to expect, really. But it means he hasn't spoken to person-Hollander for almost two days now. It's odd that it feels like a long time, since Ilya had gone months without speaking to him before.

Not that Ilya cares. And he is still not going to watch a hockey game. He calls Sveta instead.

"Good evening, darling husband," she answers cheerfully. "Seen any werewolves lately?"

"Fuck off," he replies, without any heat. He had texted her back, eventually, the day he'd found out that Chernysh was Hollander. Ilya had told her he'd woken up, drunk and disoriented, midway through an episode of Teen Wolf. He's not sure Sveta had found that reassuring but it's better than the truth. "Remember I also have many stories about stupid things you do when drunk."

"Not at nine in the morning," she says, and her tone has turned serious. "Ilyusha. Are you sure you don't need me to come home. I can be back for the weekend, just let me —"

"No. No, I am fine. I promise."

"Really?"

"Really." Fuck, he is going to have to give her something, isn't he. "I promise. Listen. You will be proud. I have been playing nice neighbours with Hollander."

"You what?"

"He came over for dinner. Few days ago."

"And it didn't end in murder?" Ilya hears rustling on her end of the line. "No, I can see it didn't. He is not looking great again tonight, though. Probably poisoned from your cooking."

"You are watching the game?"

"Of course."

"Who is winning?"

"You have a TV there also, you know. It will not explode if you put a hockey game on."

"I don't want to watch." He just wants to know whether Hollander will be upset, after. And will maybe want to come over and sit on the couch together. Pathetic.

"No," Sveta says. "Boston is not winning."

Ilya shouldn't feel good about that. And he doesn't exactly want Boston to lose, but if they do, it won't have been his fault, and there will be a silver lining. So.

"Did you tell him who you are?" Sveta says, after a minute.

"He knows my name."

"Ilyusha."

"Svetka."

"Ilyusha."

"Sveta."

"Ilya."

"Svetlana."

Sveta’s patience does not match his. "Seriously, Ilyusha. If you are going to be friends, you should tell him."

Ilya closes his eyes. "No. He probably does not remember me from before, anyway."

Sveta makes a disbelieving noise.

"It was a long time ago, we only played each other one game." They maybe would have played again, in Sochi, if the Games hadn't been such a shitshow for Russia. But then 2014 had been a shitshow for Ilya all round, really. At least he had been playing so poorly that they had not made him captain. Also, that his father had been too far gone to know what was happening.

"Yes. One game, when you beat him to the gold medal at world juniors. I think he will remember."

"Was only juniors. He has probably never thought about it ever again."

Another disbelieving noise. Then, "I am glad you are making friends."

"I am not making friends. It was one dinner." And breakfast, before that. And three naps, although they possibly don't count since Hollander was Chernysh at the time.

"It's good, Ilya." The television noise in the background increases in volumes then settles again. "And I'm sure you don't care at all that your new friend is on the ice right now."

"You are right, as always."

"Ilyusha. Do yourself a favour."

"What is it now?" Stop drinking so much, stop smoking so much. Stop sulking.

"Don't fuck this up on purpose, okay?"

Ilya doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to do things on purpose; that is the problem.

Another roar of sound from the television. Sveta says, "Huh."

Ilya lets the hoodie string fall from his mouth. "What happened?"

"What did you feed Hollander when he came over?" Sveta asks.

"What did I —? Just food. He is on a stupid diet, hardly eats anything. Why? He is not really sick?"

"No."

"Then what is the problem?"

"Well, Ilyusha. Shane Hollander had not scored any points in like six games."

"Yes." Hollander had said as much; that he'd been having a bad month.

"But he has just made a beautiful goal."

"Oh." Ilya loosens his grip on the phone.

"And now Boston are 3-2. Not that you care."

"No."

"Maybe you should invite him for dinner again. For Boston, Ilyusha."

"I don't care about Boston."

"Invite him for dinner. Tell him who you are. Then remind him where to find the net. Maybe he will listen to you."

In the end, it's the US Postal service that does Ilya in, and only two days later. Ilya had been expecting Chernysh to arrive through the yard for his afternoon nap. Instead, there is Hollander at the front door. He looks angry.

"You."

"Yes? What is now?" Fuck, it is cold outside.

"You are Ilya Rozanov."

Fuck. He keeps his voice level. "Yes. So what?"

"Don't you fucking so what me."

"Is not a secret," Ilya lies.

He's figured out what Hollander is holding. It's an envelope, presumably with Ilya’s name on it. It wouldn't be the first time mail’s been misdelivered on this street. Ilya once got a letter for the family down the road, but he had just dropped it off in their mailbox.

What he had not done was shout at them and then barge into their house. Uninvited. Without taking his shoes off.

Ilya sighs. "Shoes, Hollander." He shuts the front door behind them.

"Fuck you it's not a secret." Hollander does come back and toe his sneakers off, though. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Ilya shrugs. "What should I say?"

"That you're a fucking professional hockey player!"

"Is not true."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not professional hockey player. I quit. I am not anything."

"You. What?"

"You think I have been secretly playing hockey all season and you did not notice?"

"But you were, before you left Russia, which is the same —" Hollander breaks off, shaking his head. "I can't believe I didn't recognise you." He's staring at Ilya like he's trying to develop x-ray vision. "I guess you do look really different, with the…" He waves a hand over his head.

"What. Hair? Beard?"

"I guess."

The beard is just since the funeral, because shaving is a lot of effort. The hair has been around for longer: his father had stopped recognising him anyway, the last year, so it hadn't mattered.

And now Ilya is thinking about Russia. Fuck it.

He should kick Hollander out.

He is not going to kick Hollander out.

"So, you are here," he says. "You want to shout some more? Or I already ate, but there are leftovers."

"No. I'm okay, thanks."

Ilya opens the fridge. "Drink? Ginger ale?" He is pretty sure Hollander does not have a game tonight. He pushes a can across the counter to Hollander, then pulls out a Coke for himself and cracks it open. Hollander opens his own can and takes a seat on one of the stools. He looks less angry now and more — bewildered. A little lost.

"Sveta said I should tell you," Ilya says, after a moment, when the guilty feeling in his throat doesn't pass. "So. Sorry?"

"I mean, yeah," Hollander says. He spins his can around. "I just feel like such an idiot. You let me explain hockey stuff to you."

"Not really. We did not talk about hockey." Ilya had liked it that way.

Hollander looks up at him. "Seriously, though. Why didn't you say anything?"

Ilya shrugs. "Did not want you to know."

"But why?"

Ilya shrugs again. He does not have words to explain the feeling of being scraped out, emptied, when he'd left Moscow. How any mention of hockey or Russia fills up the empty space with everything he's trying to forget.

"Oh, shit." Hollander's earnest eyes go wide. "You're not, like, in hiding from the mob or something, are you? Is that why you grew the beard, and like, never leave the house?"

Even with Moscow in his head, Ilya can't suppress his smile. "Oh my god Hollander."

"What?"

"You are so dramatic." Hollander's expression starts to resemble a pout and Ilya relents. "No, I am not on run from Russian mob. Anyway, would be stupid place to hide."

"Because…?"

"Svetlana is daughter of Sergei Vetrov. He was famous goalie. Everybody knows him. Many Russians know I married Svetka, came to Boston. I am very easy to find here."

"But no one does find you."

Ilya raises his eyebrows.

"I mean, I've never seen you have anyone over, other than me. And you don't go out."

"Where should I go."

"I don’t know, restaurants? Bars? Clubs? Fucking Walmart? Anywhere!"

"You do these things, yes?"

"I mean, I should. Probably."

"Hm." Ilya is pretty sure Hollander doesn’t. They are two little neighbour hermits. "I went out, before. When Svetka was still here. She can drive, help with English. Is easier."

"But then she left."

"Yes."

"New York, right? For work?"

"Yes. They asked her. Is very good, ah, opportunity."

Hollander nods and takes a drink. "Did she ask you to go with her?"

Ilya shrugs.

"You didn't want to go?"

"So many questions," Ilya says.

"Sorry."

Hollander looks abashed. This should be a good thing. Finally he will stop. But Ilya finds himself explaining, "She thinks she is responsible for me. Better she is far away, does not worry."

I would not have brought you here if I knew you you would sulk like a child, Sveta had said in July, when Ilya had declined another invitation to go out with her friends.

I didn't ask you to, Ilya had snapped back, but he had. The morning after the funeral when he'd woken up in Sveta's bed, stale mouth, hands still shaking with the echoes of trying to wring Alexei’s neck. I don't know what to do, he had said. Tell me what to do. And she had told him to marry her so he could come to America, and there had been nothing left for him in Russia, so he had. He would say it had been his first mistake, but that would be a lie, too.

"So you're just gonna — what," Hollander says. "Wait here until she comes back."

Ilya shrugs. "I can't drive car. Don't want to talk in English. What else to do."

"Go places anyway? Take the train? Get an Uber?"

Ilya grimaces. "No. Besides, I am not doing nothing here. I watch TV, I am practising English."

"With who?"

Ilya looks pointedly at Hollander.

"Apart from me."

"Your English is not good enough?"

"You know what I mean." Hollander is playing with the ring pull on his can, bending it back and forth. Ilya wonders if he ever stops fidgeting. He glances up at Ilya, then looks back at his can. "You know, if you ever want to go anywhere, I’d be happy to take you."

This is an easy one. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"Okay." Hollander nods. "Just. Keep it in mind, okay?"

Hollander must finally bend the ring pull too far, because it pops off the can. He looks at it, confused, like he didn’t know they could do that. Ilya rolls his eyes and holds his hand out for Hollander to drop it into. "Uh. Thanks. So, anyway, I guess we're properly even now, right?

Ilya tosses the ring in the bin, and follows it with his own empty can. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean I didn't tell you about the dog thing, but you didn't tell me who you really are."

This is easy too. "I am really just Ilya. From Russia. No job. Nothing."

Hollander shakes his head. His gaze is steady. "I don't think that's true at all."

Probably Ilya should have expected it. Now he knows why Sveta likes Hollander so much, even though he has been playing like shit this year: neither of them can leave well enough alone.

Hollander has another home game the next day. Ilya doesn't watch. Sveta texts him that Boston wins and Hollander gets two assists. Maybe it is all the ginger ale Hollander is drinking, not Ilya's cooking, that is making the difference. Probably his poor deprived body is desperate for sugar.

The day after that, Hollander texts Ilya mid morning to ask if he can come by. Ilya expects Chernysh, but it is Hollander at the front door again.

"Hi." He is fiddling with his keys. "I'm, uh, going for a haircut this morning. And. I wondered if you wanted to come?"

Ilya doesn't say anything.

"The place I go is super chill." Hollander babbles when he's nervous; this is already familiar. "Like, they don't expect you to talk or whatever."

Hollander dresses terribly, but his hair is okay. Boring, but okay.

"Okay, never mind. No pressure. We can go another time. I'll just —"

Somehow that makes it possible for Ilya to say, "Okay. Yes. I will come."

The barber is a short drive away. Hollander taps his fingers on the steering wheel the whole time, out of sync with the bland song playing from the stereo.

It must be months since Ilya was last in a car. As they leave their quiet residential area there are more signs by the side of the road, advertisements, shop names. Ilya is surprised to realise he is not having to translate them in his head to know what they say.

"So," Hollander says, when he has parked. "I guess we’ll just — go in?"

It's like Hollander is nervous too. On Ilya's behalf? Or maybe Hollander just really hates getting his hair cut. Ilya unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out.

There is no queue. Ilya is shown to a chair straight away. They have some posters on the wall of models with different styles, so Ilya can just point to one with a simple cut, on a man with a curl to his hair not unlike Ilya's own. "Like this. Please."

When Ilya was a very small child, his mother had cut his hair for him at home with the kitchen scissors, punctuated by Ilyushenka, be still! and Stop moving about, do you want me to cut your ears? But the little hairs that dropped on his neck were so itchy and she would take so long. She would save one of his curls each time in a piece of folded tissue paper, kept in a lacquer box with his first tooth, the hat he had worn home from hospital. He has not seen that box since — since. His father probably threw it out.

He has no trouble sitting still now, eyes closed. Hollander is in the chair next to him. He is not talking either. Clippers buzz. The barber moves around Ilya's head, fingertips brisk and professional as he lifts the hair section by section and snips away — six months? Longer? Ilya has lost track.

Finally he stops, and whisks away the loose hairs with his little brush. The back of Ilya's neck feels cold.

"Okay?" the barber asks.

Ilya opens his eyes.

The haircut is fine, probably, but he looks terrible. The beard and hair together had not been a good look, exactly, but at least it had been a coherent mess. Now — no. And he does not have a razor at home.

"Please can you." Ilya points to his beard. "Get rid of it."

Hollander is finished well before Ilya is, waiting on one of the chairs and concentrating on his phone. Ilya pays, and it is done.

In the car, Ilya can't stop his hands wandering to his chin. It feels cold. Naked. If he had thought, he might have brought a scarf. Also, Hollander keeps sneaking looks at him. He's a cautious driver, so it's only at stop signs and traffic lights, but still.

"There is problem?" Ilya says eventually. He doesn't think the barber cut him while shaving, but if Ilya is bleeding he would like to know.

"Sorry, no."

"I look stupid," Ilya says. Hollander's cut does not look stupid. Boring, maybe, but Ilya cannot say that the style doesn't suit him.

"No! No. Uh. You look good. I was just." Hollander's cheeks are tinged pink under his freckles. "I guess now you look a lot like I remember from Saskatchewan? I don't think I'd have trouble recognizing you any more."

Ilya grimaces.

"No, I don't think — I mean, you look older. Obviously. And I don't think anyone else at juniors paid as much attention to you as I did."

"Yes." Even now, he can remember Hollander's eyes on him on the ice. Hollander watching from the stands, sitting with his perfect parents. Hollander introducing himself, you’re an awesome player to watch. "I remember."

"I guess you made a pretty big impression on me. Well. You beat us, so."

"It was many years ago," Ilya says. Though he does like the idea that Hollander has not forgotten either.

"So, uh." They pull up at a traffic light and Hollander glances across at him again. "I was wondering. Why did you quit hockey?"

Of course it would be too much to ask that Hollander would let this go. "Is complicated."

"Did you get injured, or?"

"Hollander. I don't want to talk about it."

The light goes green and Hollander turns back to the road. "Do you still skate?"

Hollander and Sveta, two boots make a pair. "How would I skate."

"Go to a rink? I don't know. There are public rinks around, you could —"

No, Hollander is worse than Sveta. Ilya does not bother to keep the frustration from his voice. "I told you. I do not drive. I do not know anyone here. And I do not want to skate with stupid American babies at stupid American rink."

"Okay. It was just a thought."

A stupid thought. "I do not even have skates." Ilya does not imagine this will be the clincher, but Hollander seems to accept it.

"Anyway," Hollander says, "thanks for coming with me. I used to hate getting haircuts before I found that place." They have made it back: Hollander is turning into their street, then his driveway, then his garage. "Hey, maybe next time we can go get our nails done."

Hollander is looking over at him, bright eyed and hopeful. It takes Ilya a minute to parse the English and then to realise — thank fuck — that Hollander is not looking at him like that because he actually wants to get manicures together, but because he's trying to make Ilya laugh.

To his surprise, Ilya does.

Hollander says he is busy that afternoon — having his picture taken for something — but he is free in the evening.

"You want to come for dinner?" Ilya asks, before he can think better of it. "Sveta's orders," he adds quickly. "She is Boston fan. She thinks you play better after I fed you, last time."

"Oh," Hollander says. There is a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Well. If it's Svetlana’s orders, sure."

"You are still not eating real food?"

"It is real food. Just healthy food."

"Boring food," Ilya counters.

Hollander rolls his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Yes I am still eating boring food. Is that a problem?"

"No, no problem." Ilya smiles innocently. "Seven o'clock?"

Dinner is okay. Ilya makes liberal use of barbecue sauce on his plain chicken and ignores the faces Hollander pulls at him.

Afterwards, they do the dance around the kitchen again while they clean up, Hollander's half-metre bubble of personal space carefully preserved. It's more frustrating than last time. Ilya thinks the people must have put some makeup on Hollander for the photo shoot, and Hollander has not washed it off completely. There is something different around his eyes, or maybe it's his eyelashes, a shade darker even than usual. Hollander does not let Ilya get close enough to look properly.

"Okay if I change and stay for a bit?" Hollander asks when the dishes are done. As if Ilya would say no.

Later, when Hollander is back as himself and putting his shoes on in the hallway, he says, "So, uh. We're playing in New York tomorrow night. Flying out in the morning and back late, after the game."

"Okay." No Chernysh tomorrow, then. Annoying, but better than last time. "At least is short trip."

Hollander sighs, more deeply than Ilya thinks is probably warranted. "I guess. There's still so much hanging around, and I'm sick of watching dumb movies." He glances up at Ilya. "I was thinking, uh. Maybe I might get a language app, try learning some Russian?"

That is not at all what Ilya was expecting him to say. "Why?"

"I kind of like the way it sounds when you talk to Chernysh."

Huh.

"And I know it’s probably really hard, but I could learn, like, basic stuff, right?"

Why is Hollander talking in questions at him again. Ilya shrugs. "Probably, sure. Anyway, I already taught Chernysh most important Russian."

"Huh?" Hollander blinks at him.

"He knows sit, and shake. Also I taught him ‘give me kiss.’"

It's hard to tell in the dim hallway light, but Ilya is pretty sure Hollander's cheeks are dark red. Together with the remnants of eyeliner or mascara, he makes a pretty picture.

"Right," Hollander says hurriedly. "Anyway, maybe if I stick with it you can help me sometime? Like with pronunciation and stuff."

"Okay. If you want."

"Okay. So I'll see you day after tomorrow, maybe." Hollander seems reluctant to go. It's not that Ilya would mind if he stayed, exactly. But it feels like that would be crossing a line somehow, and Ilya does not know what would be on the other side.

Ilya opens the door for him and the cold air floods in. "Let me know when you are back." Ilya says. "Good luck for game."

Ilya is getting better at finding things to occupy himself on days when Chernysh — and Hollander, he supposes — are not around.

It helps that Chernysh sheds a lot of hair. Ilya does laundry, he vacuums. He makes lunch and it even includes two vegetables, though he suspects Hollander would not count one slice of tomato and a lettuce leaf in a bacon sandwich.

After lunch he realises he has run out of cigarettes. It is harder to keep track, now he is not smoking so much.

He could get a delivery. Or — he glances outside. It is not so bad outside today. If he goes down the hill from Chernysh’s park, there is a little row of shops about ten minutes’ walk away.

The man behind the counter at the convenience store does not even look up from his phone when Ilya asks for cigarettes, just reaches into the cabinet behind him and puts the packet on the counter. "Nine forty," he recites, bored, with an accent that Ilya can't place but is almost as thick as Ilya's own. Ilya pays and leaves.

The shopfront next door is shuttered, and on the other side is a nail salon. Ilya wishes there was some sort of fruit and vegetable shop here, but it does not seem to be a thing in America. Hollander has strong feelings about fresh produce, and the stuff Ilya has been getting delivered is apparently not up to his standards.

Ilya has seen people on American television shows going to farmers markets. Is that where people get fresh produce here? But maybe not in winter. Anyway, the crowds would not be good. But maybe it would be okay to go with Hollander, bundled up in a scarf, pink cheeked from the cold. There might be a bakery stall where Ilya could buy a pastry or a donut and tear a piece off for Hollander to try. Hollander would argue, of course, but that would make it all the sweeter to watch him lick the sugar off his fingers.

Or not. Just because Hollander took Ilya for a pity haircut one day, it does not mean he would want to go with Ilya to a fucking farmers market. Stupid.

By the evening, Ilya has run out of things to do. He messages Sveta but only gets back: not now Ilyusha, I am watching your new friend play.

Of course she would be at the game.

Fine. Okay. It is just a stupid hockey game. What harm could it do.

Ilya pours himself some vodka and turns the television on. It is the beginning of the third period. Boston are up by one. He lights a cigarette for something to do with his hands. He will just watch like Sveta does, stop thinking about it like he is a player. This is not his game anymore.

The resolution lasts right until Hollander goes over the boards for his first shift.

By the third time Hollander hits the ice, Ilya has his phone back out to text Sveta: does he always play like this?

Without the name on the jersey, Ilya is not sure he would have been able to identify Hollander. In Saskatchewan, Hollander was fast, but also smart. Always one move ahead, clever with the puck, making space where there should not be space. Ilya had beaten Canada to the gold medal in spite of Shane Hollander, not because of him.

And now this. Stupid, choppy play. Passing when he should take the shot. Teammates out of position.

This is not Hollander from Saskatchewan. This is just an average MLH player. Hollander should not be average.

On the bench, Hollander's face is carefully blank.

Yes, Sveta sends back. Nothing else.

How long has Hollander been playing stupid?

Hm.

Ilya loves YouTube. Some nice person has made highlight reels for each of Hollander's seasons. Rookie year is the most fun to watch, baby-faced Hollander practically bouncing on to the ice. But the bouncing stops pretty fast. By his fourth season he is barely looking up at the crowds.

There are plenty of goals, of course. A few fights, in his third and fourth seasons, which Ilya would not have predicted. And more and more, Hollander looks like he does not want to be there.

Boston wins. Hollander is not interviewed after the game. Ilya is not surprised; nobody would want to talk to such a sad sack.

Ilya's alcohol tolerance has probably fallen recently, and maybe that's what has him texting Hollander: Why do you play stupid hockey

It takes Hollander a while to respond. Showering, maybe, then on the bus back to the airport. It's literally my job.

No, I mean why bad hockey.

Fuck you

Fuck, Hollander is annoying. Am not trying to be asshole. Trying to understand. You are a very good hockey player.

Yeah, we did win

But you hate it, you are not playing right, not having fun

If it was fun all the time they wouldn't pay me to do it.

Ilya supposes that's true. He runs a few words through Google translate and back again, trying to find the right words. Eventually he gives up and just sends: Do they pay you to be miserable

He doesn't get an answer.

Ilya is not sure what to expect the next day. The morning passes, then the afternoon. No Chernysh, no messages. Maybe Hollander has training all day, even after returning from an away game. Or maybe Hollander just doesn't want to talk to him.

Then his doorbell rings at six o'clock.

"Hi," Hollander says. Now the dark circles under his eyes are just from fatigue, not makeup. He holds up a grocery bag. "Have you eaten?"

Hollander has brought quinoa. Stupid English, so many different sounds for each letter. It tastes okay though.

Hollander is clearly determined to make small talk while they eat. He asks what Ilya got up to while he was away. It's hard to spin an entertaining story out of ‘went down the street and bought cigarettes,’ so instead Ilya asks Hollander about farmer's markets. Hollander has thoughts about food miles and how vitamins are lost in cold storage. Then Hollander fiddles with his fork, turning it over and over, tines up then down again, before he finally pushes his plate away and looks at Ilya.

"Hey, uh. Can I tell you something?"

Ilya shrugs. "Sure." Probably not even Hollander with his Canadian manners would consider it necessary to make Ilya dinner before telling him he doesn't want to hang out anymore. Probably.

What Hollander says is, "I hate playing for Boston."

Ilya snorts.

"What?"

"I don't think it is big fucking secret, Hollander. I watched you play for five minutes, already I can tell."

"Fuck." Hollander’s head drops.

Ilya takes pity on him. He taps his fingers on the tabletop. "Hey. Is not so bad. I will tell you secret back."

"Yeah?"

"I hated playing in Moscow."

That gets Hollander's head back up. "You did?"

"Yes. I wanted to come to America, play here."

"Why didn't you?"

"Is long story." One that Ilya is not going to tell. "So is why you play bad hockey? Because you hate your team, want to lose?"

Hollander looks properly offended. "No! Fuck, no. That's not — no."

"So why?"

"I thought it would be different."

"MLH would be different?"

"No, like. I thought I could do what the team needed me to do. And I…" he trails off. Looks at Ilya, then back down at his hands, resting on the table. "You know I went first in the draft."

Ilya knows. He has not been smart enough, then, to cut himself off from American hockey news. He had watched the clip, Hollander pulling on the Raiders jersey, and thought it should have been me. He nods.

"Yeah. Well Boston needed a center. But I was maybe not as aggressive as they were hoping for, or — I don't know. I just, I've never, uh. Fit? The way they needed me to. And then."

"And then what."

"I, uh. Can I tell you something else? Like, really a secret. You can't tell anyone."

"How many secrets you have, Hollander?"

Hollander has the grace to look embarrassed. "I mean, this is the last one, probably."

"Sure, okay. Tell me."

Hollander is chewing on his lip. He glances at Ilya then away. He doesn’t say anything.

"Is hard to explain? Here." Ilya opens his phone to Google translate and slides it across to Hollander. "Write down. Make sure I understand."

It takes Hollander a long time to type not very much. But eventually he slides it back. He's not looking at Ilya.

I'm gay, it says, in English and in Russian.

Ah. Okay.

Ilya nods to himself, considers for a moment, then clears the text and types I am bisexual. He's pretty sure he has the English spelling right for this one, because it comes up a lot on daytime TV, between things like "Am I the father?" and "I caught my husband cheating with the nanny!" but he translates it anyway to confirm, then slides his phone back to Hollander.

Hollander looks at the screen. Looks at Ilya. Looks at the screen. Looks at Ilya.

"Are you serious?" he says eventually.

Ilya snorts. "No, Hollander, is joke. Very funny, ha ha."

Hollander is still just looking at him.

"Yes is serious!"

"Is that — I mean, like. Allowed? In Russia?"

"What is they say here? Do not ask, do not tell. I played hockey for Moscow, I did not say on television about sucking cock. Good deal for them."

"Is that why — I mean, did they find out and kick you out, or?"

"We are not talking about me. We are talking about you playing shit hockey."

"Great," Hollander says, hand in his hair. "Love it."

"You do not love it. This is problem."

Hollander makes a dismissive noise. Ilya, despite his best intentions to be patient, is starting to get annoyed. Sure, Hollander has to play hockey for a team he doesn't love and he likes to fuck men. Ilya can see him that, and raise him a dying father, an asshole brother, a dead mother. "So what has gay got to do with bad hockey? You get fucked too hard all the time, you can't skate?"

Hollander’s face goes in his hands. The tips of his ears are red. "Oh my god."

"Oh, maybe you suck dick so much you hurt your knees?" It is not kind, maybe, to enjoy this. But Ilya has never pretended to be kind.

"Shut up, oh my god."

Ilya leans back in his chair. "I just don't see problem."

"It's not — fuck." Hollander takes several slow, deep breaths. It looks practiced, like he has to do it a lot. "Okay, so. Some of the guys on the team found out. My third year in Boston."

"Found out that you are gay?"

"Yeah."

"So?"

"So it, I dunno. Changed things, in the room or whatever."

Ah. "They are bad to you because you are gay?"

"No."

"I thought was allowed here. Sveta told me, Boston is first to let men get married."

"Yeah, I mean. They weren't bad. But just, different. And management — I dunno."

"They were bad to you," Ilya repeats.

Hollander shakes his head. "No. It was never, like, anything that I could call out. Just. I wasn't as important to them any more. They hardly wanted a gay guy to be the face of the franchise, or whatever." He scrubs a hand across his forehead. "Also I was probably playing like shit because my worst nightmare had just come true, so there's that, too."

Ilya is not sure he got all the nuance of that, but he is not about to ask Hollander to repeat it. He thinks he has got the general idea right, anyway.

"So why you keep playing for Boston?"

"You think it would be different somewhere else?"

Ilya shrugs. "Maybe."

Hollander shakes his head again. "I doubt it. News gets around, you know. I'm not, like, out, I'm not doing interviews about it or anything, but I think it's pretty common knowledge in the league by now. So."

"Other teams have been dicks?"

"A few guys have said things, on the ice, you know. Not so much lately, but a few years ago, yeah."

Ah. That would maybe explain the fights Ilya had seen on YouTube. "So you are just going to keep playing bad hockey for team you hate forever?"

"I guess so."

"You are twenty four, Hollander. You will play maybe ten, fifteen more years like this? Hating it?"

"Unless I get injured, yeah."

He almost sounds like he wouldn't mind. Which — what happens to Chernysh when Hollander gets hurt? Chernysh better not have to suffer for Hollander being an idiot.

"Is very stupid idea."

Hollander shrugs. "What else am I supposed to do?"

"How long is left in contract? You go somewhere else. Go to shit team, they will be so happy to have you, they will be very nice to you. They will not care if you like to suck dick."

"I don't want to play for a shit team. I want to win a cup."

"You have not won a cup with Boston," Ilya points out. "Besides, you go to shit team, team is not shit any more."

That gets him eye contact. "Oh yeah? How does that work?"

"They will have you."

Hollander snorts. "I thought you said I'm playing badly."

"That is not same as being bad player."

Hollander shrugs and looks away. "Or I could just quit."

"Why would you do that? Is waste."

"You quit."

"Is different."

"How?"

"Is complicated."

"You said that last time."

"Yes."

"Did you get injured?"

"Hockey was not problem."

"So what, then. Was it the bisexual thing, or — like, your family, or?"

Ilya shakes his head and looks blindly away from Hollander.

"Ilya."

In the corner of his vision, Ilya sees Hollander make an abortive movement with his arm, like he was going to reach out and touch.

Ilya swallows. "I haven't said. Before. To anyone."

"Do you want to?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Probably I should." He takes a breath. Shakes his head. "But English is hard. And — not today."

"Okay." After a moment, Hollander clears his throat and pulls his plate back toward him. "We should clean up."

They clear the plates away in silence. "Do you want me to go?" Hollander asks, afterwards. "Or."

Ilya is not sure whether Hollander means staying as Chernysh or himself. He is surprised to realise he doesn't mind which. "Stay."

Hollander changes in the bathroom, and then Ilya sits with Chernysh through an episode of a cooking show. Ilya is hoping maybe it will be like subliminal messaging: if Chernysh sees enough real food, maybe Hollander will relax a bit.

Afterwards, when Hollander has changed back, he hovers by the TV with his hands in his pockets.

"So. Uh. I had an idea. About what we were talking about before?"

"About you hating hockey."

"No, about — if you ever wanted to tell me about whatever happened in Russia. I mean, if you don't want to, it's totally cool, but. What if you told Chernysh?" Hollander still stumbles over the Russian name, his accent terrible. "You could say it in Russian."

Ilya frowns. "Then you still don't hear."

"No, sure, but. It would be, like, practice? Or you could use the translation app. The one you can talk to. Leave it open, I mean, and tell Chernysh, and then I could read it when I've turned back. If you wanted me to."

Could he?

"It was just an idea. You don't have to tell me. I'll just mind my own business."

But to be able to tell someone. To get it out of his head. For Hollander to just know, to stop asking about it, without Ilya having to say it to his face. And maybe it will get easier, once he has done it the first time. "Sveta says it is better to talk about it."

"Svetlana is a smart woman."

"Too smart for me." Ilya takes a breath. "Yes. Okay. Can we — tomorrow."

Hollander pulls a face. "Game in the afternoon tomorrow. But I'll come after?"

The minute Hollander has gone home, Ilya almost texts him to say he has changed his mind. But Hollander has a game tomorrow and needs to sleep. Ilya can text him in the morning.

It takes Ilya a long time to fall asleep, and he wakes close to midday. Hollander is probably already at the arena. Ilya doesn't want to disturb his pre-game preparation. Hollander will have a complicated routine with meditation and special rituals for taping his stick and all sorts of things. He does not need Ilya interrupting him. Also, Ilya does still want Hollander to come over after the game. He is just not sure he can follow through on telling him anything.

He texts Sveta instead: Hollander keeps asking me about Russia

Probably he is trying to be your friend, Sveta replies, too quickly. Are you going to tell him?

Ilya does not know. That is the point. He has told me some things about himself. I think maybe they were not easy for him to say

Were you an asshole to him?

Ilya hadn't meant to be, anyway.

Tell him, Sveta sends. You think he will keep hanging out with you when you are always a moody asshole for no reason?

Who says I want him to

She has known him for twenty years; she doesn't bother to reply.

Hollander comes over after the game; another win for Boston. He doesn't say anything after dinner, but he opens his phone to Google translate and leaves it on the coffee table before he goes to the bathroom to change.

Ilya leaves the TV off so the sound doesn't interfere with the translation. It's quiet. Chernysh’s chest is warm under his hand.

So Ilya tells Chernysh about coming home from Saskatchewan with a gold medal to find his father in hospital with pneumonia.

About the doctors pulling him aside to ask if he's noticed anything different about Grigori's memory lately.

About Alexei, insisting nothing is wrong, even when their father does not know the day, or the year, or where Ilya's mother is.

About his father being discharged into Ilya's care, a little weakened by the chest infection but still such a large presence, dominating the house with his voice and his demands.

About those first few months, playing for Dynamo, when his father was — proud. Almost kind. Would put a hand on his shoulder when he came home from a winning game, and say well done, my son.

About the slow decay, one step here, another there, then a rapid slide, a little recovery.

About coming home after training one day to find his father alone, disoriented, with a lit cigarette smouldering in the rug at his feet.

About Alexei saying no, you are such a big shot, you look after him if you're so worried. I have a wife, a child, a real job.

About hockey, always hockey, games punctuating his days so he could pay more and more for carers to tolerate his father's abuse. Hating his asshole coach, but unable to leave.

About his father not knowing Ilya for two days in a row. Then five. Then greeting him at the door by name, slapping him on the back with an arm still so strong, you will show them how real men play.

About the slow grind of the last year, his father's mind gone, body taking so long to catch up.

About his father back in hospital.

About the funeral, and going home with Sveta afterwards, feeling as ancient and whittled down as his father in his last days, nothing left but a heart stubbornly beating and lungs stubbornly drawing air.

Ilya taps the screen to stop the translation. He doesn't look at the English on the screen. He has lived it, he does not need to see it in black and white.

He can feel Chernysh's heartbeat under his hand, faster than a human’s. The gentle rise and fall of Chernysh's chest. "Can you stay like this," he asks. "Don't change." He speaks Russian like Chernysh can understand him.

But maybe he can. When Ilya gets up, finally, Chernysh follows him into his bedroom and waits by the bathroom door. And when Ilya lies down on his bed, Chernysh jumps up next to him, gives him a lick on the cheek, and curls up next to him, nose to tail, and goes to sleep.

Chapter 2

Ilya sleeps late again the next morning. There is no sign of Hollander or Chernysh or Hollander's phone when he wakes, but Hollander probably has optional skate this morning, and Hollander always goes, always gives everything, even though he should not.

Ilya sits on the couch and stares at the TV until Hollander texts around lunchtime: Can I come over?

OK.

As me or as Chernysh?

OK.

Hollander rings the doorbell. Human, then. He's carrying a grocery bag.

"I brought lunch stuff. Have you eaten?"

Ilya shakes his head.

"Do you mind if I use the kitchen? I just need to heat up some stuff."

Ilya watches Hollander move around the kitchen like it's his own.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hollander says finally, when he has piled things into a pan to heat.

"No."

Hollander nods and pokes at some pasta with a spatula. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. About your dad. And everything."

"Hollander."

"Okay. Sure. Sorry."

Ilya should let it go, but he can't, not with that expression on Hollander's face. "I do not want your pity," he says. He had looked up the word this morning, so he could be sure. There had been pity, after his mother, from some of his teachers. It had almost been worse than his father's denial.

Hollander half turns away from the stove. He looks surprised. "It's not pity, Ilya."

"No?"

"No. It's not pity to be sorry that a — that a friend went through something awful. That's just being a human."

"And you would know this. Because of being full time human."

"Fuck off." Hollander turns the stove off and scrapes the pasta into two bowls. "Okay, done. Can you grab forks?"

They take their usual places at the table. Ilya is hoping the change of scenery will mean a change of subject, but Hollander pauses with his fork mid-twirl and says, "Do you miss it?"

"Russia? No."

"No, hockey."

Ah. The harder question. "Yes. And also no," Ilya says finally. "It was — an escape. From everything else. Then I could not escape even on ice, so."

Hollander nods.

"Anyway, is nice feeling to win, yes?" Not that there was much of that, the last few years in Moscow.

"Guess so."

Ilya gets a forkful of pasta and shovels it in. Since Hollander made fun of his eating he has tried to be as obnoxious about it as possible. But this is — he has to force himself to swallow it. "Hollander. What the fuck is this? This is not pasta."

"It's, uh. Zucchini noodles?"

Ilya puts his fork down. "Zucchini. Noodles."

"Yeah, you can make them with a spiralizer," Hollander says, like that makes any sense at all.

Ilya frowns at him. "Why would you do this."

"They're super low carb?"

At least now he knows Hollander can't be feeling too sorry for him. No one would bring fucking zucchini noodles as comfort food.

"You are a terrible person," Ilya tells him. He tries another mouthful. Now that he knows they're vegetables and not pasta it's not quite so horrible, but still wrong.

"They're good for you," Hollander says. He's smirking a little. "You need to eat more vegetables. Hey, d’you mind if we watch the game later?"

He should never have let Hollander in.

It’s Buffalo playing Toronto at home. Ilya has no interest in either team. Hollander says Boston will play them both in the next few weeks, so he needs to pay attention.

Hollander turns out to be good to watch hockey with. He knows many of the players and knows stories about the rest. Some are more fun than others: Dallas Kent just gets a closed-off expression and a shake of the head.

"He's just an asshole," is all Hollander will say, when Ilya persists. "Him and his buddy Troy."

Ilya is distracted by one of Toronto's defensemen anyway. "Who the fuck is that?"

"Huh? Oh. That's Pricey. Ryan."

"He is huge." Ilya won't bother asking if Hollander has fought him. Price would squash Hollander like a bug.

"Yeah. He’s, I dunno."

"What. Terrifying?"

"Yeah, but. He played for Boston last year, and he's not what you'd expect? Really quiet. Still waters or whatever, I guess."

"Hollander. Maybe this is English but you are not making any sense."

"Sorry. Still waters run deep. It means like — there's a lot going on underneath the surface?"

"Ah. In Russian we say, still waters are where devils live."

On the screen, Price has dropped his gloves. The Buffalo player looks like he is regretting choosing hockey as a career.

"Sounds right," Hollander agrees. "But Price is… I think he has some stuff going on. Like, I’m pretty sure he’s scared of flying."

"He is in wrong job then."

"Yeah."

"And he was — I don't know. He wasn't a dick to me, when some of the other guys were? So."

Price and the Buffalo player are now in their respective penalty boxes.

"Buffalo are not very good," Ilya observes. "You will not have problem beating them."

"Probably not."

"Is a pity Kent and Barrett are assholes."

"Why do you say that?"

On screen, Kent scores again off an assist from Barrett. "They are really good at hockey."

Toronto beat Buffalo 6-1. Hollander is restless after the game, like he wants to take Toronto on immediately and personally wipe the smug smile off Kent's face. Ilya can sympathise. There is a reason he had not been watching hockey before Hollander came and ruined everything.

"I wish the weather wasn't so shit," Hollander says abruptly. He's looking out the window.

"You want to go for run? Now?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Is meant to be afternoon off for you, yes?" Hollander nods and Ilya snorts. "You are very bad at relaxing. First you watch game, now you want to go running. Coaches must love you."

"Some of them, maybe." He’s looking at the TV like the commercials are fascinating. "I don’t know. Running gets me out of my head sometimes."

"Yes." Ilya misses that feeling too, when there is nothing to think about but the next breath.

"Hey, uh. I was wondering," Hollander says. He’s still staring at the TV. "Would you ever want to skate again? Just get out on the ice, mess around, whatever?"

This again. "I told you, is too hard to do here."

"What if I could make it easier."

"What do you mean?"

Hollander glances at him and then back at the TV. "I can get private ice time, at the rink? It'd have to be in the evening, but if you're cool with that then I can definitely make it happen. And it would just be us, or, like I don't even need to be on the ice I guess, you could skate by yourself if you prefer?"

"You would get ice time. So I can skate."

"If you wanted, sure."

"Why."

"Why what?"

"Why would you do that."

"Because I can?" Hollander says, like that’s any sort of explanation at all. "Anyway you don’t have to say yes or no right now or whatever. Just let me know if you’re interested."

Hollander is insane. Is Ilya supposed to say thank you? He should probably say thank you. But if you say thank you to an insane person when they have insane ideas, will it not encourage them?

"Thank you," Ilya says eventually, when Hollander still hasn’t broken the silence. The MLH coverage is back on the TV, commentators going on about the chemistry of the Kent-Barrett pairing. "I will let you know."

"Cool," Hollander says. "Okay. So, I guess I'll get out of your hair now. Maybe I’ll get on the treadmill for a bit."

Oh. Ilya hadn’t exactly thought, but he’d sort of assumed Hollander would stay for a Chernysh nap. "Okay."

"But text me if you decide about ice time, yeah? We’re playing in Buffalo tomorrow, then at home to Florida two days after that, but I might be able to set something up later this week."

Hollander takes his disgusting zucchini noodle leftovers with him when he goes, at least. Ilya waits a whole five minutes before he texts Sveta: Hollander says he can get private ice time for me if I want to skate

Good afternoon to you too, Ilyusha, he gets back. New York is good, thanks for asking

Sorry. But what the fuck?

Yes. He asked me a few days ago if I thought you would like to skate

He did what?

He wanted to know if you'd been injured or if you'd just had a bad breakup with hockey

Wow. A bad breakup. Americans are terrible

Lucky he is Canadian, Sveta replies. Then, Are you going to go?

Ilya doesn't respond.

You should go, Sveta sends a minute later. Ilyusha. Tell him yes.

He is insane, Ilya texts back.

Obviously, because he has put up with you this long. Tell him yes or I will do it for you.

Ilya tells Hollander yes, but that he does not have any skates. Or gear. Or anything.

He should have known better than to have thought this would put Hollander off.

The Raiders win in Buffalo and lose to Florida. Ilya watches both games as penance. Desjourneys is playing Hollander on the second line and his wingers can't match his speed. Ilya supposes there aren't many MLH players who can: surely all the more reason to find them, and put them on a line with Hollander.

Then the Raiders have a day off. Hollander says he will pick Ilya up at seven and not to worry about bringing anything other than himself. Ilya would like to ask if he's allowed to worry about bringing himself, because what the fuck he is doing.

At least the rink smells familiar, ice and sweaty gear.

There are a couple of people around who say hi to Hollander, but they don't seem to expect him to talk, or to be particularly curious about Ilya. There is also a room to change in, and Hollander has provided everything Ilya needs, even new skates with stiff laces.

"They fit okay?" Hollander asks. He changed at the opposite end of the room to Ilya. Ilya did not look around even once, because he is trying to be a better person. "I checked your shoe size at home."

"You have been spying on me," Ilya says, because it is better than saying why are you doing this, what do you want from me, what the fuck.

"Your shoes are literally in a giant pile by the door, Ilya. It didn't take much spying."

"They are good," Ilya says, trying not to sound grudging. The rest of the gear is probably second hand — Ilya fucking hopes it's second hand, Christ — but it's clean and fits him, too.

Then they are dressed, and Ilya can't think of anything to delay them further. Hollander leads the way through the tunnel and on to the ice. Ilya pauses at the gate. Hollander looks back. "You okay?"

He has done this a thousand times. Ten thousand times.

Hollander skates back to the boards. "What’s the problem, forgotten how to skate?"

Ilya shrugs. "Maybe."

"Yeah right. When did you start skating, like, two, three years old?"

"Yes."

"And the last time you were on the ice was, what, March last year?"

"April."

"So you've known how to skate for like ninety nine percent of your life. But you're suddenly going to forget. Sure."

"I think your numbers are wrong."

Hollander shrugs. "Math was never my strong suit. I'm better at hockey." He skates backwards, towards center ice. "Coming? I don't think we have those penguin things here for you to hold on to."

"You are an asshole," Ilya tells him. But he pushes the gate open and steps out, and he's — fine. It's fine. Hollander is right, it's just skating, and he could do this in his sleep. Has almost done it in his sleep. Certainly hungover, sometimes drunk.

The ice is a little smaller than he's used to from Moscow, but not too bad. When he was a child, Ilya skated on anything that stayed frozen long enough. He is adaptable.

He makes a few circuits, getting the feel of the skates and the ice. Every time he looks over at Hollander, Hollander's eyes are on him, even as Hollander is going through some warm ups himself.

"They'll murder me if I pull a muscle fucking around," Hollander says finally, coming up from a deep stretch. "You good? Skates feel ok?"

"Yes."

"Awesome." Hollander grins. "Wanna race?"

Stupid to race Hollander, who is built for speed. But Hollander looks happier than Ilya can recall ever seeing him. It would be churlish to refuse, after Hollander has done this for him. "Only if I can have head start."

"You want to cheat?"

"Is not cheating, is making fair." They are skating together toward the far end of the rink. Ilya guesses they're racing. "You are professional hockey player."

"Like you're not."

Ilya raises his eyebrows.

"Come on, I've watched your tape from Moscow."

"You did." Ilya hopes he went back a few years at least.

"Of course. You're really good." Hollander loops around the back of the goal and skates to a stop in the crease. "Not as good as me, though, obviously."

Where is this confidence coming from, and where does Hollander put it when he is not on the ice?

"Ten second head start," Ilya says. "I have not been on ice in nearly a year."

"Two seconds."

"Four."

Hollander nods. "Okay."

Ilya is not sure if Hollander does give him the full four seconds, but he is too busy sprinting to look back. Hollander catches him halfway through the second lap anyway, and then they’re elbowing each other and trying to shove past each other as much as they are racing, and they end up skating into the boards.

"Okay, fine. Call it a draw?" Hollander offers. He is flushed, a little sweaty, laughing. It's hard for Ilya to look at him and harder to look away. For one long moment, Hollander looks back, then he breaks eye contact and waves a hand toward the benches. "I've got, uh. Sticks and pucks, if you want to?"

Right. They are skating. "I am out of practice."

"I know. We can just mess around."

Of course it is nothing like a game, or even a proper training session; there are only the two of them on the ice. But it’s good, being there with Hollander: the sound of the skates and the puck on the ice, the feel of the gloves and stick. Easy. Right.

Yes. He does miss it.

"Fuck, what I couldn't do with you on my wing," Hollander says, skating to a stop next to him.

"On your wing? You think you are center?"

"I mean, yeah."

"I am center."

"Not on my line you're not."

"Who made you boss?"

"Well, I'm faster, so…"

"You said was a draw!"

"Only because I gave you a head start."

Ilya folds his arms. "Rematch," he demands.

Hollander grins. "You're on."

Their hour passes too quickly. There's a moment of awkwardness, afterwards, when they are on their way back to the locker room, but then Hollander says, "You go ahead, I forgot I have to talk to Jeff," and Ilya has time to get dressed before Hollander returns.

"So," Hollander says on the drive home. "I checked with Jeff. Thursday evenings are usually good. We're away a bit anyway the next couple of weeks, but he thinks could get us some ice time again when we're back from the roadies. If you want?"

Why are you doing this, Ilya thinks desperately. His new skates are in a bag by his feet. The rest of the car interior is empty, no coffee cups or receipts or detritus rolling around as Hollander takes the turns, carefully, both hands on the wheel of his boring, sensible car. What the fuck does Hollander want with a mess like Ilya. "Yes," he manages to say. "Thank you."

Usually it is winning games that makes Ilya want to fuck, and this was not a game, he did not win anything. But in the shower at home, washing off the smell from the rink, he finds himself getting hard anyway, hand sliding back down to his dick, stroking himself slowly. Enjoying it.

He has not bothered to jerk off in — in a while. Since it stopped helping him sleep.

It is just being back on the ice, probably. What is the name of the dog. Pavlov? He is like that. That is all.

The Raiders are going south: Tampa, Sunrise, Dallas, St Louis. Hollander comes for dinner the night before they leave. Ilya doesn’t invite him, exactly, but Hollander comes for a nap in the afternoon and then Ilya’s stomach is rumbling non-stop, so he gets off the couch and starts cooking.

"What are you making?" Hollander asks when he comes out of the bathroom. He always folds his clothes so carefully that they are never rumpled after he changes, but his hair is a lost cause.

"Pasta. Don't worry, is whole wheat." Ilya points the spatula at him. "It will not make you skate bad, so no complaining."

"I wasn’t complaining," Hollander says. He sits at the counter.

"But you were going to." Ilya is restraining himself with the sauce: he would like to put some parmesan cheese in, but he will put it just on his own after. "So I tell you to shut up in advance."

"Hey, I wouldn’t insult the food," Hollander says. "I have manners. Unlike some people."

Ilya sticks his tongue out at him.

"Thanks for proving my point," Hollander says. He is smiling again.

They eat on the couch because there is a game on, Dallas playing in San Francisco.

"Sveta thinks they have chance to win cup this year," Ilya says when San Francisco makes it 3-1.

"Western conference, maybe," Hollander says. "I think Toronto will get the cup."

"Not Boston?" They are good, even though they are wasting Hollander.

"Nah." He glances at Ilya. "Oregan’s hip is fucked. Don’t — I mean, obviously you can’t tell anyone that."

"Who would I tell?"

"Svetlana?"

Ilya snorts. "You forget we are not really married, Hollander. I don’t tell her everything."

Hollander has eaten all his pasta. He is also sitting a little closer than usual. Well, he probably doesn’t want to be on Chernysh’s part of the couch, which is completely covered in dog hair. Although it is Hollander’s own hair, so maybe he shouldn't be bothered?

Hollander isn’t so careful as they tidy up the kitchen afterwards, either. He doesn’t touch, but he seems less tense when Ilya has to move past him to get a tea towel, or put a saucepan away.

"I should get going," Hollander says. "Early flight tomorrow."

"Six days, yes?" Ilya follows him to the front hall.

"Yeah."

"At least will be warm."

Hollander has put his shoes on. He does not usually bother with a hat or scarf when he comes over, since he is only going next door, so there is nothing to cover the mess of his hair, sticking out in tufts over his ears. Ilya’s eyes keep getting drawn back to it. He did that to Hollander. Because Chernysh has a sensitive spot just behind his ear, and at the nape of his neck.

And Ilya has a theory.

"Wait," Ilya says. "I want to do experiment."

Hollander holds his hands up. "Woah. Last time you said experiment you pulled out my hair."

"I'm not going to pull hair. Already did that one."

He goes slow, so Hollander could stop him if he wants to.

"What are you." Hollander stops. His tongue darts out over his bottom lip.

Ilya's fingers make contact. Hollanders' flinch is so tiny Ilya would have missed it if he wasn't watching so closely.

Ilya runs his fingers through the hair just above Hollander's ear. He curls his hand around the back of Hollander's skull, and scratches very gently at the nape of Hollander's neck.

Hollander's eyes are shut. His lips have parted. There is a flush on his cheeks under his freckles.

Ah, Ilya loves being right.

He drops his hand. Hollander’s eyes open for a moment. Hollander blinks at him, then rocks forward, weight coming onto his toes, and his eyelids flutter closed again as he presses his lips against Ilya’s.

What the fuck. What the fuck.

Hollander makes a noise and stumbles back, almost tripping over the pile of shoes. "Oh, shit. Fuck. Sorry, I — fuck."

"What," Ilya says, blankly.

Hollander has regained his balance and is rubbing the back of his wrist over his mouth. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to — I really didn't mean to do that." Ilya abruptly wishes Hollander’s face wasn’t so easy to read. "Sorry. Can we, uh. Pretend that didn’t happen?"

Yes. Forget Ilya is an idiot who doesn’t know when to leave things alone. "Of course," he says. He needs to get that look off Hollander’s face. "Was my fault for stupid experiment. Should have known, is probably reflex for you."

"What?"

Ilya shrugs, casual, and takes a step back. "When I pat Chernysh there." Ilya mimes scratching an ear. "He licks me if I stop."

"Oh. Really?" Hollander is starting to look a little better. He shakes his head. "It’s so fucking weird that you know this stuff about me."

"Try being on the other side, mister ‘here is drink you like.’"

That earns him an eye roll. "Sorry for bringing a thoughtful host gift. Also — I really am sorry. About that. Just then."

"I already forgot," Ilya says.

"We’re okay, yeah?"

"Of course."

Hollander shoves his hands in his pockets. "Because I need to not have fucked things up."

"Hollander. Is not a big deal." If he says it with enough conviction, maybe he can convince his own stupid brain.

"Okay." Hollander sighs. "Fuck, I wish we weren't flying out tomorrow."

"It is Florida. Will be good. Go to beach. Have drink with umbrella in."

"I think you're forgetting ‘play hockey.’"

"I know you will not forget that."

"No. Okay. So I'll, uh. See you when we get back?"

"Yes."

The hallway is not large. Hollander is careful not to make any contact with Ilya on the way out the door.

Sleep takes a while, but maybe regular habits are helping, because Ilya does manage it before morning.

He lasts all of five seconds after waking before he remembers.

Hollander had kissed him. By accident. By reflex. Because Ilya had been an idiot and had not been able to leave well enough alone.

Ilya hasn't kissed a man since — well, since Sasha, at Sochi. And Ilya had been so angry then: at himself, the team, his father, Sasha, Sveta, everyone. It had been a mistake to go near Sasha in that state. They had been trying to hurt each other almost as much as they had been trying to fuck.

Nothing at all like the cautious brush of Hollander's mouth on his.

Fuck.

And now Hollander will go back to his personal half metre forcefield. If Ilya has really fucked things up, maybe even Chernysh will not come near him.

Ilya has been in Sveta's home gym several times since he moved in, mostly to sit and stare at the walls at night, during those first few months, but he just hasn't used any of the equipment. Now he approaches the treadmill like it's going to hurt him.

Who is he kidding: it will. He has barely done any exercise for months. But maybe if he runs hard enough he can stop thinking.

He does not hear from Hollander at all on the first day of the Raiders' road trip. Of course, Hollander has to fly to Tampa, get to the hotel, nap, play a game. Hollander is busy.

Ilya can keep himself busy, too. He has spent his entire adult life, with the exception of the past nine months, working out at a professional level. He should know better than to push himself until he throws up. He does know better, but he does it anyway. At least it makes him tired enough to sleep.

The second day he is too sore to run, but Sveta also has a stationary bike.

He is not expecting the text from Hollander in the mid-afternoon: so Duolingo is teaching me how to ask for bread and water. Why does it feel like training for Russian prison?

Okay. So they are going to pretend nothing happened. This is good, Ilya can work with this. He thinks for a few minutes, then texts back, You forget you do not eat bread.

I don’t think that would be my biggest problem in a Russian prison.

Ilya taps out Yes you are too pretty, then deletes it. He is trying to think of something safe to reply when Hollander texts again:

Anyway I had pancakes for breakfast this morning.

I don't believe you

They were buckwheat pancakes.

Ilya has to look up buckwheat. Then it does not count, he sends.

I put syrup on?

Congratulations on being almost real human

Fuck off. I needed something to wake me up.

Too busy partying on beach to sleep?

I wish. They’ve changed room assignments, put me in with one of the rookies. He talks non stop until he falls asleep and then he snores like a fucking freight train.

You should ask for new roommate

Yeah right, that would go well.

Ear plugs?

Can't sleep with earplugs, I can hear my own breathing too much. Wish I could just be Chernysh.

Good idea, maybe roommate will die from shock if you change in front of him

I wouldn’t be too upset.

Ilya is trying to think of something helpful to reply with when Hollander texts again: We are okay right?

So Hollander is lying there in a dark hotel room, listening to his asshole roommate snoring away, torturing himself by overthinking. Fuck. Yes Hollander we are good. I told you is not a big deal

Probably happens to you all the time huh

Well you are only dog person I have met so no

You know what I mean, Hollander texts. Which — Ilya is not sure he does, actually. Hollander is much harder to figure out, over texts.

You should try to sleep, Ilya sends. This is definitely true. Hollander has another game tonight.

Think I've forgotten how to nap without you talking Russian at me

Practise saying bread and water until you fall asleep

And dream of Russian prison, sounds awesome

Sleep, Hollander. Good luck for game.

Ilya can get off the bike after that.

Maybe Ilya jinxed them by saying good luck. Oregan goes down midway through the second period after a misjudged attempt at a toe save, is stretchered off the ice and doesn't come back. Lower body injury, the commentators say, as usual. Hollander looks grim. The Raiders lose in overtime.

I guess Oregan’s hip is not a secret anymore, Ilya texts.

Hours later, Hollander texts back, Guess not.

Boston is playing in Dallas next, but it looks like they have a day off in between to travel. Ilya gets back on the treadmill and doesn't feel quite so much like dying afterwards. On the couch in the afternoon, he googles Russian talking to help sleep.

Wow. The internet is great.

If asshole roommate is still snoring, try this, he sends to Hollander with the link to the top video. He doesn't understand what ASMR stands for, but it mostly seems like a lady talking softly in Russian while playing with someone's hair. Which, apart from not being a woman, is what Ilya has spent the last two months doing with Chernysh.

What the fuck is ASMR, Hollander texts back. But then, in the evening: Thanks.

Even without Oregan, the Raiders beat Dallas. The morning after, Hollander texts I am blaming you for the fact that I dreamt about getting a haircut last night.

Ilya is running, but he is not so sweaty he can't text back: Was better or worse than Russian prison dreams?

More scissors, less knives, probably.

Better then. Ilya is sure there was a time, not so long ago, when he didn’t know the Raiders' calendar by heart. You have flight today yes? You will learn some more Russian?

Da, Hollander replies. Ilya is going to have to show him how to get the Cyrillic keyboard on his phone.

Boston lose in St Louis.

Was not your fault, Ilya texts him. You played well.

Not well enough.

You are flying tonight?

Won't get home until like 3am. Hollander doesn't say anything about coming over. Probably a 3am arrival means it is not a sensible thing to ask for, but Ilya has felt off all week. If he can just be in the same room as Hollander again he'll at least know how much he has fucked things up.

You have training tomorrow?

Video review in afternoon.

OK. Let me know if you want to come over

Hollander does not text. He does come over as Chernysh, in the late afternoon. It has been weeks since he's come through the dog door — he has had Chernysh-naps, yes, but only after turning up as himself first.

Chernysh curls up on the couch as soon as he comes in. Ilya guesses he needs to sleep.

Ilya sits with him through an episode of a travel show about Thailand. There is a lot of food: noodles, rice, soup. It is making him hungry. He is not sure whether it is better to stay on the couch and not disturb Chernysh, or get up and start cooking and hope Hollander decides to make an appearance for dinner. But Hollander probably won't turn back without having clothes to change into, so —

Chernysh stirs, jumps off the couch and trots out through the laundry room door.

Okay.

You were not hungry? Ilya types out, but deletes it again. He can take a hint.

Sorry about yesterday, Hollander texts him the next morning. Wasn't up to human company

Is fine, Ilya replies. He is not going to complain about Chernysh time, if that's all he can have. You looked like you needed sleep. Game tonight?

Buffalo

Good luck

In the game against Buffalo, Hollander gets a hat trick, and the Raiders win, 5-2. Hollander is interviewed after the game. Ilya thinks that people who don't know Hollander would believe he is happy.

Congratulations on hat trick, Ilya texts him when the press coverage ends, because that seems safe.

Hollander's reply comes quickly: More to do with Buffalo's goalie than me

You are still one who scored

I guess. But now I'm going to have to go out with the team

You don't want to go?

They're gonna make me do shots. I hate shots

Ilya can't imagine Hollander drunk, all those careful layers of control stripped away. It does not seem like something that should be allowed in public.

Just do shots and leave?

Maybe.

Ilya goes to bed at midnight, but he is not asleep when the doorbell goes at quarter to one.

It is Hollander. He is in shirtsleeves and suit pants, no tie. Ilya wonders where his jacket has gone — maybe in the backseat of the car that is driving off down the street. Despite the cold, Hollander’s cheeks are pink.

"Privet," Hollander says. His eyes are a little too bright. "Privet, Ilya. Did I say it right? I've been practising."

Ah. "You are drunk," Ilya tells him.

"A little," Hollander agrees. He shivers, as if suddenly realising he's dressed totally inappropriately. "Fuck it's cold. Can I come in?"

Ilya stands back so he can come in, even as he says, "You know this is not your house, Hollander."

"But I don't like my house. Your house smells good." He starts off down the hallway, then turns an elaborate pirouette that almost ends in a collision with the coat rack. "Wait! Don't forget, shoes off!"

It would probably not go down well with Sveta if Ilya let one of her team's top six forwards get injured taking his shoes off. That's the only reason Ilya catches Hollander around the waist, steadying him.

"Woah," Hollander says. He sags into Ilya's side. Ilya manages to brace just in time to stop them both falling. "Fuck," Hollander says. "You're really."

"Really what?"

"Mm," Hollander agrees. He has got his shoes off. His hair is tickling Ilya's nose. "Yep. Really." He tilts his head back to look at Ilya. "Hey, can I stay here tonight?"

Drunk is an unfairly good look on him. "You want to stay here."

"Yep." He frowns suddenly. "Oh, fuck. Wait. I meant to say I lost my keys so you'd have to let me stay."

"You are very bad liar."

"Sure am. 'Cause I've got ‘em right here." He slaps his hand over his pants pocket. They are still standing in the hallway. Hollander's eyes fall shut. Hollander looked a bit like this last week, right before he kissed Ilya.

Don't think about that.

"How much did you have to drink?" Ilya asks. Hollander smells like beer, and something sweet and artificial.

"Can't remember," Hollander tells Ilya's shoulder.

"You are going to feel very bad tomorrow."

"Mmhmm." He turns a little more so his nose is pressed into Ilya's collarbone. "I know." He inhales deeply.

Fuck. Ilya needs to get Hollander off him before he does something even more stupid. Hollander is drunk.

"Come. You need to go to bed."

"Don't want to go to bed." But he doesn't pull away when Ilya guides him down the hall. Possibly because he would fall over if Ilya let go. Ilya will take him to the spare bedroom behind the lounge, there is a bathroom close by and they won't have to navigate stairs.

"Your teammates let you get in cab alone like this?" Ilya’s opinion of them had not been high before, but fuck. Hollander is lucky he got home — got to Ilya's — safely.

"I snuck out," Hollander says. "They didn't notice I left."

"They should have been paying attention." He manages to get them both through the bedroom door with only a little stumble when Hollander’s foot catches on the carpet.

"Don't want them to. Don't want them to look." He flops back onto the bed. He blinks at Ilya and then smiles. "Don't mind if you look though."

What is Ilya supposed to do with that.

"Do you need to go to bathroom?" Probably he should have asked before Hollander lay down.

"Nope." Hollander is still smiling at him.

"Okay. I will get you water. You should get undressed."

Hollander shakes his head. "Too hard."

"Hollander."

"Want you to do it."

"I will come back in one minute. Get undressed."

Ilya is gone for a little more than a minute, because he detours to find a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt for Hollander, as well as going to the kitchen. When he gets back to the spare room, Hollander's shirt and trousers are in a rumpled pile on the floor. Hollander is in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin, eyes closed.

"Hollander."

"Mmm?" He is still smiling, even half asleep.

"I have brought water. You should drink." Gatorade would have been better. Ilya will buy some.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes. Sit up."

That was a mistake. Hollander's chest is smooth, almost hairless, his nipples dark. Ilya drags his gaze back to Hollander's face. Hollander is watching him. "Want you to look," Hollander says, like they're still in the middle of a conversation.

Ilya shoves the glass in front of him. "Drink. Then sleep." He puts the spare clothes on the edge of the bed.

Hollander obediently drinks the water and gives the glass back to Ilya before shuffling back under the covers. "Thank you," he says, eyes already closed.

"You know where bathroom is," Ilya reminds him. "Try not to throw up in bed." But Hollander is already asleep.

Despite Hollander's snoring, Ilya sleeps solidly until his alarm wakes him at eight. He can almost hear Sveta's smug I told you so all the way from New York: it is absolutely appalling, but it turns out regular exercise really does help him sleep.

He changes into workout gear and gets on the treadmill.

The thing is — no. The question is.

Who the fuck is the man snoring in Sveta's spare room.

Because there is the Hollander who was on the ice with Ilya. Confident. Playful.

There was Hollander last week, when Ilya accidentally made him drop his guard: Hollander who had kissed Ilya.

There was Hollander last night, drunk. Leaning in. Touching. Looking. Asking to be looked at.

There is Chernysh. Always wanting contact.

And then there is Hollander everywhere else, with Ilya and everyone else, every other hour of the day. Hesitant. Avoidant.

Why?

Hollander was not like that in Saskatchewan. Polite, yes. But he sought Ilya out to introduce himself. Shook Ilya's hand, twice.

What have they done to Hollander in Boston?

Put him always in locker rooms with asshole hockey players, maybe. Sent him out to bars, to clubs, with asshole hockey players. So he has learned not to let himself look too long at anyone. To avoid being looked at. He has had to listen to assholes talking about him like did something wrong. Has had to put up with their eyes on him, watching to catch him out again.

Ilya is halfway through his run. He hits pause and steps off, then makes his way down the hall.

Hollander is asleep on his back, still snoring quietly. Ilya watches in silence for a moment. Then he crouches and extracts Hollander's keys from his suit pocket, and leaves the room.

He gets back on the treadmill and finishes his run. Maybe running can be good for thinking, as well as not thinking.

When he comes out of the gym he runs into Hollander in the hall. Hollander has put his crumpled suit pants and shirt back on. He looks rough.

"Sorry," Hollander says, like it’s automatic. It probably is. "I was gonna go, but I can’t find my keys? Do you —" he stops suddenly, eyes tracking down from Ilya’s face, over his bare chest, down to his shorts. Back to Ilya’s face. "Are you — have you been running?"

"Sveta has treadmill too." Fuck, this could be fun. If he is not wrong. And if he doesn’t scare Hollander away. "Hollander. You have somewhere to be today?"

Hollander shakes his head, then nods. "No, I mean. Yeah. Later. Not first thing."

"Good." He nods at Hollander’s rumpled clothes. "You were going to run away."

"I. Yeah?"

"I have stolen your keys. So no running away."

"You. What?"

"You run away too much."

Hollander closes his eyes. "Fuck. I am never drinking again."

"You should take shower. Then I will make breakfast, we will talk."

"Look. If this is about last week — or last night — if I said something stupid —"

"Yes. Also no. Shower first, then food. Then talk."

"I —"

"Stop!" Ilya holds his hands up. "Smell is important, yes? And you smell like floor of bar. Go and shower."

Hollander goes.

Possibly Hollander is trying to drown himself in the shower, because the water is still running when Ilya has had his own shower and come back downstairs. Ilya considers the contents of his fridge.

Yes. Today is a day for bacon.

He has got it nice and crispy when Hollander finally comes out. Ilya's sweatpants are a little too big for him; Hollander has done what looks like a double bow with the drawstring but they still sit low enough to show the tops of his hipbones.

"I should really go," Hollander says. His hands are shoved in his pockets. He has dark circles under his eyes. Ilya is going to kiss his idiot face until he stops frowning. If Hollander will let him.

"Sit." Ilya points to the counter stool with his spatula. "You want toast?"

"You know I don't eat bread."

"You are hungover. Maybe is allowed, today."

"It doesn't work like that."

Hm. "Maybe it should." He scoops some scrambled eggs onto a plate for Hollander. "You have many rules for yourself, yes?"

"Yeah, sure, I guess."

"Do they make you happy?" He adds two slices of bacon.

"They're not meant to — I don't follow them because they make me happy. I follow them because they make me better."

"Do they?" He slides the plate across to Hollander, and follows it with a knife and fork. "There. Eat. You will feel better."

Hollander is staring at his breakfast. "This is bacon."

"Yes. Well done."

"I don't eat bacon."

"This is religion thing?"

"No, I don't have a problem with it, I just — "

"Hollander. You got hat trick last night, your asshole teammates made you do shots, and now you are hungover. Eat the fucking bacon."

Hollander eats the bacon.

Ilya eats his own eggs straight out of the pan while standing in the kitchen. It earns him an eye roll from Hollander. This is already an improvement on Hollander looking like he wants to be sick.

"You want coffee?" he asks, when Hollander has stoically worked his way through the eggs. Ilya had left the yolks in, too, another little victory.

"Yes. Please. Uh, black, no sugar."

"Oh, I know."

Ilya puts two sugars in his own mug. He pushes Hollander's across the counter. Hollander wraps his hands around it like it'll hold him up.

"So," Ilya starts.

"Look," Hollander interrupts, "I'm really sorry if I said, or, like, did anything that made you uncomfortable last night."

"No. You did not."

"So then what's with the —" he gestures between them.

"You have problem with me making you breakfast?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes. Okay. I have been thinking."

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"Funny. No. I am thinking, you are gay."

"Yeah, I think we established that."

"But you do not want any more people to find out. And you play hockey with horrible team."

"Are you just planning on listing everything you know about me, or?"

"No." Ilya leans back against the counter, casual. "I want to know, when was last time you had sex."

"What?"

"When was last time you had sex," Ilya repeats. Then, because Hollander probably has weird ideas about what counts as sex, he adds, "When was last time you came, not from own hand." He mimes jerking off.

"Oh, my god."

"Was this year?"

"Fuck off."

"Hollander. This year?"

A tiny head shake.

"Last year? Come on, you did not forget."

Hollander stares into his mug. "Maybe, uh, around this time last year. We had a roadie to California."

Ah. "This is what you do? On road trips?"

"Not often." Hollander takes a sip of coffee, shrugs, puts it back down. Doesn't look at Ilya. "And only in California. It's not — it's not a good idea, but. Safer than at home."

"Hm."

"Hm, what." A half-second of eye contact, then back to the mug.

"You like sex?"

"I mean, sure." There is a flush creeping up Hollander's neck. Of course he is bad at talking about sex. "Don't you?"

"Yes. Also I am very good at it."

Hollander finally looks directly at him. "You're such an asshole."

"Yes. Listen. I have idea."

"Not another experiment."

"No. Better than that. But I need to do another experiment first."

Hollander watches warily as Ilya comes around the counter, but he turns to face Ilya and his knees are spread enough on the stool so Ilya can step between them. Ilya puts a hand on Hollander's knee, steadying.

"I am going to kiss you now. Okay?"

Hollander's eyes are wide and he is barely breathing. If he was Chernysh right now, Ilya would say he was about to run.

But Ilya is a cheating cheater who cheats. He brings his hand to Hollander's face, curls his fingers behind Hollander’s ears, then cups the back of his neck. It works just like before, tension melting out of him, only to spiral back up again when Ilya leans in. Hollander is a little shorter than him on the stool; probably Ilya should have planned this better.

"Wait, wait," Hollander says, though his head is tipped back, ready to meet Ilya's. "I haven't brushed my teeth."

Like this is important. "You lick me with dog breath all the time. Is fine."

"But —"

Ilya straightens up. Maybe he has got this wrong after all; his brain can be stupid sometimes. "You don't want?" He brushes a thumb over Hollander’s cheekbone. "Hollander."

Hollander makes a frustrated noise, grabs Ilya by the back of the neck and pulls their mouths together.

It is awkward for a moment, their noses bumping from Hollander's urgency, the kiss close-mouthed and dry. Then Hollander makes that noise again and shifts against him, opening his mouth —

Hollander tastes like coffee and bacon and eggs, and the ghost of whatever he drank last night. He kisses like nothing Ilya could have imagined: open mouthed, deep, like they're already mid-fuck and he's desperate to come. His hands are on Ilya's face, his neck, sliding over his shoulders, grabbing at his waist to pull him closer.

It's ten o'clock in the morning and they're both fully dressed in the kitchen. No wonder Hollander doesn't let himself off the leash very often if this is what he's hiding.

"Hollander."

Hollander has moved on to kissing his neck, under his jaw. Hollander's hands are on his chest, then sliding under his sweatshirt, his t-shirt, touching his bare skin, fumbling with the waistband of his pants. Ilya is not entirely confident that Hollander isn't about to drop to his knees. Holy fuck.

"Hollander, wait."

He gets a hand to Hollander’s jaw, tilts it up and brings their mouths together again, does his best to slow things down, answering Hollander's urgent demands with a little less each time until he can break away and kiss Hollander's cheekbones, rest their foreheads together.

"Fuck," Hollander breathes into Ilya's mouth. His eyes are still closed, his hands back safely on Ilya's hips. "Sorry, I. Sorry."

"You always say sorry after you kiss someone?" Ilya maybe shouldn't tease, but. He softens it with another kiss, close mouthed. "That is twice now. Maybe is special Canadian tradition?"

"Fuck you." Hollander opens his eyes and Ilya pulls back, gives him space, though he keeps a hand on the nape of Hollander's neck, fingers carding gently through the short hair.

"What the fuck are we doing," Hollander says.

Ilya shrugs. He feels like he's been swimming through deep water for months and his toes have finally found the sand. This is something he knows how to do; something he can do, for Hollander. "Is just kissing."

"Just — what the fuck kind of experiment is kissing."

"I needed to know if you wanted it." Ilya lets his hand drop and sits on the stool next to Hollander.

Hollander picks up his coffee and brings it to his lips. Maybe to stop himself kissing Ilya again; Ilya hopes so. "Last week wasn't enough for you?" He takes a sip.

"You said was mistake. Last time."

"I thought you were, like, testing a theory, or whatever."

"Yes. But does not mean I would have had problem with kissing. If you wanted."

Hollander snorts like Ilya's being stupid. "Wanting is not the fucking problem here."

Ilya reaches for his own coffee and takes a drink. "Okay. Good. So what is problem then?"

Hollander is looking at him like he's crazy. "You think people should just go around doing what they want all the time?"

"If it does not hurt anyone else."

Hollander shakes his head. "Fuck."

"And now I know." He drinks again; he makes good coffee, and it seems like Hollander's crisis might take some time to resolve. "We both want, so no problem."

"I really don't see how that helps."

"Because you don't have imagination, and you do have stupid rules."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean."

"Always you are so careful. You don't let yourself have what you want."

"Yeah. Obviously." Hollander puts his coffee down and runs a hand through his hair. "I mean, I can't just — it's not safe."

"But is safe here. Yes? And I will not tell anyone." Ilya can't resist. He leans in and kisses Hollander again, and Hollander opens for him, warm and yielding. "I am not sorry," Ilya says when he pulls back. "You should not be sorry. Is not hurting anyone."

Hollander shakes his head. "Fuck. I can't think straight when you do that."

"Is okay. Because you are not straight. I am also not straight."

"Such a comedian." Hollander sounds frustrated. He picks up his mug again and stares into it like it has the answers. "But I don't. What are you even suggesting."

"We are friends, yes?"

"Yeah. I mean, I hope so. Yeah."

"Now we are friends who kiss sometimes. If you want, we can be friends who fuck sometimes."

A startled look. "You — what?"

Ilya shrugs. "You should fuck more. Is not good for you to be all, I don't know. Apart, all the time."

"And you're just volunteering to help me out with that. Out of the goodness of your heart."

"Because would be so difficult for me." Hollander still looks dubious. Ilya throws his hands up. "Hollander. You must have mirror somewhere in your fancy house. Yes? You are hot."

"You. Uh. Really?"

"Also you are very good at hockey. That is also hot."

"So are you."

Ilya will let that one go. He knows what he is. "Okay. So then is good deal for both of us."

"But won't it make things — weird?"

Ilya shrugs. "Has been fine for me before."

"You've done this before?"

"Yes. Few times."

"With —"

"Svetlana, yes. Also my coach's son, back in Russia." He will not mention that he hasn't spoken to Sasha, since Sochi.

Hollander is still frowning. Ilya wants to poke his forehead until he stops. "Seriously, though," Hollander says. "This, coming over here, I mean, has been like the one not shitty thing in my life this season. I really don't want to fuck it up."

Ah. Ilya shrugs again, deliberately casual. "So we don't. Is just sex. Does not have to be a big deal."

"But we’re neighbours!"

"Yes. Is convenient."

"But if it does get weird." He's fiddling with the handle of his mug. "I don't want to stop being able to hang out over here."

"Then you come as Chernysh instead. Like before."

A mistake to mention that. Hollander almost curls in on himself. "I said I was sorry about that."

"Is fine. Chernysh is good dog. Also, Hollander." Ilya has his arguments prepared; the treadmill was very helpful that way. "Already is beginning of March."

"So?"

"You have only few months of hockey left, and then you will go home for summer, yes? You were not here when I came, last year." Ilya had not been keeping track of the days so well, but he is pretty sure it was September when Hollander came knocking to introduce himself.

"Yeah, no, I — I usually spend a couple of weeks at this cottage I own? And then I go home to Ottawa for a bit, do my pre-season training there."

"So. We have few months only. We can spend them making each other come, or pretending we don't want to make each other come. Which you think is better idea?"

"I really don't think it's as simple as you're making it sound."

"I think you like to make things complicated."

Hollander is still closed off, avoiding Ilya's eyes, turned a little away on the stool. Fuck. Ilya really should have thought of somewhere better to do this than the kitchen counter.

"Hollander." Ilya gives in to temptation and runs his thumb along the line of Hollander's frown, eyebrows to hairline. At least Hollander doesn't flinch at his touch. "Stop thinking so much."

Hollander huffs out a laugh and turns a little back toward Ilya. "Yeah, that's — not a thing that I can do."

"No?" Fuck it. Ilya gets off his stool. Hollander's knees fall open for him again. Ilya takes Hollander's jaw in his hand and tips his head back and kisses him.

There's a moment every time when Hollander just gives, and the feel of it under Ilya's hands, his mouth, is intoxicating. Addictive. Moderation has never been one of Ilya's particular strengths.

But the angle is frustrating. Hollander is still sitting and the stool is too low. Ilya slides his hands down Hollander's sides to his hips, his ass. The countertop is right there. Ilya hasn't been training all year but he's not weak, if he can just get his hands under, there, and lift —

"Fuck." Hollander breaks the kiss, wild eyed. "Did you just —"

Hollander's ass is about to knock over his coffee cup. Ilya rescues it, then leans in again. Yes, this is much better. He can get his mouth on Hollander's neck, now, kiss him just below the angle of his jaw where his pulse is beating fast under Ilya's tongue. Hollander shivers and his head falls back. His fingertips are digging into Ilya's shoulders.

"Oh, my god," Hollander breathes. Ilya has put him right on the edge of the countertop. Hollander’s dick is starting to get hard. "Ilya. Ilya. Fuck. Wait."

Ilya sucks Hollander's earlobe into his mouth because he can. "What is problem now?" he murmurs into Hollander's ear.

"Can you just —" Hollander pushes ineffectually at Ilya's shoulders. "Stop for a second."

Ilya reluctantly steps back, though he leaves his hands on Hollander's waist. Oh. Ilya hasn't shaved today. Hollander's lips and chin and neck are pink.

"What is problem," Ilya repeats. Other than that you are going to kill me when you look in the mirror.

"Okay, so, I was thinking — "

"Oh my god Hollander."

"What?"

"I am trying to make you stop thinking."

"Just, hear me out, okay? So. I guess you can't go around hooking up here, either, right? I mean, since you're meant to be married."

Ilya has not even thought about it, but probably Hollander is right.

"Yes."

"So this would just be like — helping each other out. Good for both of us. Right?"

"Yes."

"Just for a few months."

"Yes."

"And you really want to — "

"Yes."

"Will you stop saying yes all the fucking time?"

"Is better for you if I say no?" Ilya kisses his stupid frustrated pout. "Hollander," he says, when Hollander has gone gratifyingly quiet. Probably it's the way Ilya is running his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "You ever think, maybe you have more sex, will make you better at hockey?"

Hollander’s eyes blink open. "I don't think it works like that."

"You have never tried before, so how would you know. Makes as much sense as stupid diet."

"My diet is not stupid. It's a performance diet, from a qualified sports nutritionist."

Ilya waggles his eyebrows. "You know there is lots of protein in come."

Hollander puts his face in his hands. He is pink all up his neck now, not just where Ilya has been kissing him. "Oh my god. Are you going to be like this all the time now?"

"Probably yes. Is problem?"

Hollander looks at him through his fingers. "No. Maybe? I just —"

But Ilya does not find out what Hollander just, because Hollander's phone starts buzzing in his pocket. Ilya raises his eyebrows at it even as Hollander is wriggling to extract it. "You have vibrating dick, too, Hollander? You should have said."

"Fuck off," Hollander says absently, swiping to cancel the call. Then, "Oh, fuck. It's already — I've gotta — shit."

There is a disappointing lack of kissing in the next few minutes as Hollander rushes around collecting his discarded clothes, and insisting that Ilya stop holding his house keys hostage.

"I think I will only give keys back," Ilya says thoughtfully, "if you will come for dinner."

That gets Hollander to stop flapping. "You mean dinner, or, like?"

"Yes," Ilya says. Let Hollander make of that what he will.

When Ilya insisted that Hollander come for dinner, he had forgotten that he had not made such an effort with groceries this week, since Hollander was away.

He is going to have to go and buy something.

You want fish or chicken for dinner?

Either is fine.

He should let Hollander be. Hollander is at training. Ilya should behave himself.

OK will get fish. Also how many times can you cum in one hour?

This response takes a lot longer. Eventually: I don't know. Maybe twice?

You are really bad at sexting

Who taught you that word? Then: And I am at training right now, are you insane

Probably yes. See you at 7.

There is a Whole Foods in walking distance, down near the train station. Ilya rugs up against the cold and heads down the hill. He buys salmon, a strange looking wild rice mix that Hollander will probably love, and some greens.

Unfortunately, it turns out Whole Foods only stocks some ridiculous all-natural-ingredients lube, so then Ilya has to find a pharmacy too. He may not have too many standards but he definitely wants his lube to be created in a laboratory so that it works properly. He hopes Hollander's weird diet stuff doesn't extend to what touches his dick. Or his ass. Will he let Ilya fuck him? Fuck.

Between the whole foods and the pharmacy there is a gym, advertising ten percent off memberships in March. It doesn't look busy, just two or maybe three people inside.

Ilya pushes open the door of the gym and goes inside. They have four rowing machines lined up along the back wall. There are racks and racks of weights. And Hollander is not as heavy as Ilya, but he is not small. If Ilya is planning to be able to lift Hollander and put him where he wants him, Ilya needs to get back in training.

There is a blond woman behind the desk. She is chewing gum. "Is usually busier than this?" Ilya asks her.

She takes an earbud out of one ear. "Huh?"

"Is usually like this, here?" Ilya asks. "Or busier?"

She chews contemplatively. "I’d say this is about normal."

So Ilya joins the gym. When she gives him the membership card he has to shift the carry bags to his other hand and almost drops the lube and condoms all over the floor, which would have been a shame because maybe they wouldn't let him come back, and he finds he is looking forward to it. Looking forward to two things in one day. He had better not tell Sveta, she will start thinking he really has had a breakdown.

His good mood lasts right up until Hollander rings the doorbell that night. Then Ilya starts wondering how many times this week he can fuck things up.

Because dinner is bad. Terrible. Hollander is looking everywhere but at Ilya, barely talks, and is radiating a don’t-touch-me field that can probably be seen from space.

Fuck.

What is he supposed to do now?

There is a game on, of course, LA playing in Florida. Ilya puts it on and they sit on the couch, Hollander at one end, Ilya at the other. Hollander sits on Chernysh’s blanket and doesn’t even seem to notice all the dog hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

By the end of first period Ilya can’t take it anymore.

"So, you know we can just forget it," he says, when the TV goes to commercials. "If you have changed mind. Okay?"

"What?" Hollander’s eyes are wide when he glances over. For a moment Ilya thinks he’s going to pretend he doesn’t know what Ilya is talking about. But then he continues, "No, I. Unless. Do you not want to?"

Ilya really thought they had been over this this morning. "Yes, I want. But I am not one hiding in corner of couch."

"Fuck. Sorry." Hollander looks down, tugging on his eyelid. "I’m fucking this up."

"No, is my fault." Saying that was supposed to make Hollander look better. But for some reason he looks worse. "I did not want to make you feel bad."

"I just. Fuck." Hollander exhales heavily and rubs his palms on his sweatpants.

"Also you are not fucking up. Is hard to fuck up sitting on couch. And if that is all you want then we are good here."

"I told you this morning, wanting is not the problem."

"So what is problem?"

Hollander is staring at his knees. "I have no idea how to do this," he says finally.

Maybe Ilya has totally misread the situation. "But you have had sex before. With guys. Yes?"

"Yes! But I mean — I like you. I like hanging out with you."

"So, what. Usually you only do this with people you hate?" Weird, but okay.

"No, but normally it’s just a hookup, right? Not just sitting around eating dinner and watching TV. I don’t know how to go from, like, this to that, and I don't want to fuck it up."

Ah. Maybe this is something Ilya can fix after all. "Okay. This is not big problem," he tells Hollander.

"No?"

"No. Because already I know you have very good mouth. And we are both hot, and also I am very good at sex. So it will be fine."

Hollander is blushing and shaking his head. "How are you — how can you just say that? Like that shit you were texting me."

"Was too much?"

"I mean, I was at training, so." The blush goes all the way down his neck and disappears under his sweatshirt. Ilya wonders how much further down it goes.

"Mm. Did you get hard?"

Hollander ducks his head. It’s not a yes but it’s not a no, either. He did.

"Hollander."

"Fuck off." He’s smiling, though. Finally.

"I don’t think you want me to do that. Besides, is my house."

"I don’t even know why I like you."

Hollander likes him. It is so stupid to let that feel good. "Hey. Hollander. Do you want me to —" suck your dick. Fuck you. Make you come. No. "Kiss you again?"

A tiny nod.

"Then come here."

"Why do I have to move?"

"I am not coming there, you are on Chernysh’s blanket. You will be covered in hair."

"Urgh. Fine." Hollander gives in and slides across the couch. Still not close enough. Ilya pats the couch right next to him.

"No, here. All the way."

Now they are almost touching, Hollander’s warmth all along Ilya’s side.

"What now," Hollander says. He’s looking straight ahead at the TV.

"You need to watch this game?"

He shakes his head. "Not really."

"Okay." Ilya cups the back of Hollander’s neck and guides him over to rest his head on Ilya’s chest. Ilya can play with Hollander’s hair like this, stroke his fingers through and feel the bumps of Hollander’s skull underneath.

Hollander is stiff for a minute but then starts to relax. He even rests a hand on Ilya’s thigh, tentative but there. His knuckles are red. He’s right there and so warm and alive.

"Is okay?" Ilya asks, quietly. He does not want to get this wrong again.

Hollander nods, head moving on Ilya’s chest. "Yeah. But."

"But?"

Hollander’s hand shifts on Ilya’s thigh. "I thought you were gonna kiss me."

"Mm." Ilya presses a kiss into the crown of Hollander’s head. "There."

"You’re such a dick."

"Is not what you wanted?" Ilya kisses his hair again. "Chernysh likes."

"Okay, not the time to bring up Chernysh," Hollander says. Then he takes a breath and moves and suddenly Ilya has a lap full of Shane Hollander, who looks almost as surprised at himself as Ilya feels.

"Okay?" Hollander asks.

Ilya kisses him, on the mouth this time. And Hollander kisses him back.

Hollander’s mouth has none of the desperation from this morning: more determination, like he’s decided he’s going to do this, so he’s going to do it properly. It’s so Hollander that Ilya finds himself smiling into the kiss.

"What’s so funny?" Hollander murmurs, pulling back just a little. Ilya takes the opportunity to kiss his neck.

"You are very you," Ilya says eventually, when he can’t find better words. "All the time."

Hollander sits back further. His weight is heavy on Ilya’s legs. It feels good. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Ilya shrugs. "I did not say is bad thing."

Hollander is frowning at him suspiciously. But from this angle Ilya can also see that Hollander is already getting hard, obvious in his sweatpants. Does he always get hard so easily?

"You want some help with that?" Ilya asks politely, indicating Hollander’s dick. "Because I can help. I am very helpful person."

"You’re an asshole," Hollander says. "Yeah, maybe in a minute. First I want to —"

Oh. Wow.

What Hollander wants to do first is go to his knees, get Ilya's dick out and put his mouth on it.

He’s clearly not very experienced. He keeps accidentally trying to take Ilya down too far and having to pull back and cough. Ilya still barely lasts more than five minutes before he’s pulling Hollander off and coming into his own hand.

Fuck, Ilya needs to start keeping tissues near the couch.

"Was that okay?" Hollander asks. His mouth is red. His eyelashes are wet. He’s biting his lip like he’s waiting for notes on his performance. Shit.

"Ehh," Ilya says. He tilts his clean hand from side to side — so-so. "Not bad for first try."

"Fuck you, I’ve given blow jobs before, you —" Hollander starts, a picture of outrage on his knees, and Ilya cuts him off with a hand over his mouth. Definitely not with the hand full of come. Though Hollander would probably look good like that. Would he let Ilya come on his face?

Fuck.

"Hollander," Ilya says. "Was very good. You made me come. I was just being asshole." He takes his hand away. "I said before you have very nice mouth. Yes? Is true."

Hollander makes an annoyed grumbling sound. Ilya tries not to find it endearing. "Asshole."

"Yes. Is how I am." Okay, now Ilya really needs to do something about his hand. He tucks his dick back into his pants and stands, reluctantly. He can wash in the kitchen sink.

Hollander has picked himself up off the floor and is sitting back on the couch. Even from the kitchen, Ilya can see he is still hard. He must have stayed hard while sucking Ilya off, on his knees, Ilya’s fingers in his hair, even while he was accidentally making himself gag on Ilya’s dick.

Ilya might be in trouble.

"So what should we do now," Ilya says, casual, drying his hands. "Watch some more hockey, or maybe you want dessert? I will look in freezer, see if we have ice cream?"

"Fuck off," Hollander says. "You know I don’t eat ice cream."

"But I made you protein shake just now, you didn’t want."

Hollander looks confused, so Ilya mimes jerking himself off and catching his come, then licking it off his hand.

Hollander frowns. "You’re so gross."

Ilya goes back over to the couch. He stands between Hollander’s spread knees. Hollander is looking at him, has been looking at him, cheeks pink but gaze steady. Ilya could not have imagined, half an hour ago, that they would be here. "Gross, maybe, but very good at blow jobs. Want me to show you?"

Hollander does.

Hollander’s dick is just like the rest of him: smooth, elegant. Just the right size. He has no foreskin, which is maybe a shame, but Ilya can enjoy himself anyway, tonguing his slit and sucking just the head into his mouth while he plays with Hollander’s balls. When everything is nice and wet and Hollander has relaxed enough to rest a hand on Ilya’s head, Ilya goes for it properly, deep throating Hollander’s dick, listening to the little choked-off sounds of pleasure that are all Hollander seems to allow himself, feeling the tension in Hollander’s thighs wind tighter and tighter until he comes.

Hollander doesn’t last more than five minutes either, and Ilya swallows, so Ilya thinks he wins this round.

"Good idea, yes?" Ilya asks when he has flopped back on the couch. Hollander looks dazed. It is a good look on him. He should look like that more often. "You should listen to me always, I have best ideas."

Of course then Hollander has to go because he has a game the next day against fucking Toronto.

"At least it’s an afternoon game, so we’re back tomorrow night," Hollander says as he puts his shoes on. He looks miserable. All Ilya’s good work has been undone. "I just. Fucking Kent, you know."

Ilya does not know, not really. "Maybe I can sneak onto plane. Pretend I am equipment guy, they will not notice. Then I can punch Kent in face for you before the game."

"I’m pretty sure they’d notice you."

"I can be sneaky."

"Ilya. You’re, like, six three. And you look like — that." He gestures at Ilya. "I think they’d spot you."

"Also probably Ryan Price would murder me with his giant fists."

"Yeah, maybe." Hollander sighs. "Okay. I’m gonna go. But, uh. If we’re not back too late, tomorrow. Could I maybe come over after?

"Yes. I will be here."

"Okay."

Hollander sways forward for a second like he’s maybe thinking of kissing Ilya goodbye, but he doesn’t. And then he’s gone.

Ilya is not sure what Hollander had been expecting in the game against Toronto. He hopes it wasn’t this.

Toronto's play is dirty, aggressive, and maybe that is not so unusual, but it seems to Ilya like Hollander is targeted more than the others. Kent in particular never misses an opportunity. It’s constant, every time Hollander is on the ice.

Hollander keeps his head down and plays through it. Ilya doesn’t know where he gets his self control from. Ilya would have dropped his gloves ten seconds into his first shift. Maybe if someone could take Ilya’s lack of control and average it out with Hollander’s excess, they’d each have enough to be a regular person.

Toronto win, of course, but the Raiders make them earn it in overtime, so it’s not a total disaster.

Hollander’s face, when he knocks on Ilya’s door late that night, is the disaster.

"It’s not as bad as it looks," is the first thing he says, which is not reassuring.

Ilya can’t see anything, though. So what is Hollander talking about? Also Ilya had watched the game and there had been many little things, yes, but nothing that Hollander had had to leave the ice for.

"What are you talking about?"

"It’s just bruising." Hollander takes his shoes off and pushes past Ilya, into the house.

"What is just bruising." Ilya follows him down the corridor. "Hollander. What is just bruising."

"Just my ribs. Have you got an ice pack, or anything? I’m meant to be icing it."

It should be some sort of crime, Ilya thinks, that the first time Hollander takes his shirt off for him — sober, Ilya does not count the other night — is because of an asshole like Dallas Kent. But there it is: Hollander on his couch, sweatshirt half-off, pulled up over one shoulder. Dark bruise blooming over his right flank.

Ilya’s hands are fisted, he realises distantly. "When did this happen."

"End of the third," Hollander says. He yawns. "My fault, I should have been watching him better. Got distracted by Barrett." He yawns again. "So have you got ice, or should I go home and grab something?"

Ice. Yes. Ilya can do this.

Frozen peas are not a proper ice pack, but they are cold, and Ilya can wrap the bag in a tea towel and offer it to Hollander. Hollander presses it to the bruise with a hiss, then tucks his sweatshirt back down and sinks back into the couch. "Thanks."

Probably Ilya would get in trouble if he flew to Toronto and punched Kent. Probably there are laws about this.

"You have eaten?" he asks. He needs to do something. Making food would be something.

But Hollander nods, eyes closed. "Yeah, on the plane."

Fuck. Okay.

Hollander opens his eyes when Ilya pushes the coffee table out of the way and settles between Hollander’s legs. "What are you doing," he asks. But he doesn’t sound worried, so Ilya keeps going, nudging Hollander’s legs further apart, sliding his hands up from Hollander’s knees to his groin, cupping him gently through his sweats.

"What are you doing," Hollander says again.

"I think you know." Ilya leans in. He can feel Hollander’s dick starting to get hard through his sweatpants. He presses his cheek to it, breathes in, smelling airplane and soap.

Hollander puts a hand on Ilya’s head. "You don’t have to do that," he says. But his hand stays there, gentle, urging Ilya forward as he pulls Hollander’s sweats and underwear down and takes Hollander’s dick in his mouth.

It’s peaceful. Almost meditative. Ilya is careful not to work Hollander too hard, doesn’t want him to have to fight to keep still and make things worse. He holds Hollander’s hip down with one hand, uses the other to stroke over his thighs, his chest, though only the left side; to cup his balls, roll them in his hand. When Hollander is fully hard he takes him all the way down, swallows around him, bobs up to breathe and does it again, then again, and then Hollander is coming down his throat with a sigh and a moment of too-tight fingers in Ilya’s hair. So easy for it.

He looks better, when Ilya has tucked him away again and takes his place next to Hollander on the couch.

"That was," Hollander says. "Thanks?"

"You are welcome." They will be making Ilya an honorary Canadian next, his manners are getting so good under Hollander’s influence.

"If you give me a minute, I can," Hollander says. He gestures at Ilya, who is a little surprised to realise that he is, in fact, half-hard in his sweats.

"No, is fine."

Hollander frowns. "You shouldn’t just, you know. And not get anything in return."

"Because it is so hard for me to suck your beautiful dick."

"Heh," Hollander says. "Hard for you."

Ilya blinks. "Did you just make a sex joke?" Hollander has a little smile on his face, so pleased with himself. "Hollander. You did."

"Fuck off." He elbows Ilya in the side. Ilya would elbow him back, but. Ribs. "You say shit like that all the time."

"Yes. Because is me. You do not."

"Maybe I do, you don’t know everything."

"I know you do not make sex jokes. This is not a Hollander thing to do."

"That’s another thing," Hollander says. "Are you really going to keep calling me by my last name? Even though we’re, you know? Doing this?"

"What should I call you." Hollander has been Hollander in Ilya’s head for more than half a decade.

"I don’t know, maybe Shane? Like, my actual name?"

"Shane." Ilya tries it out on his tongue. It feels weird. "Shane. Shane Shane Shane. I don’t know."

"I don’t know why it’s a problem for you. It’s not that different from Chernysh."

"Chernysh is different. Makes sense."

Hollander adjusts the ice pack on his side. "What, does it have a meaning or something? In Russian?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Keep learning Russian, you will find out."

"Ilya."

"I would have called you Vesnushki, but is a girl word. Not right for a boy dog."

"What does that one mean?"

Ilya has not been able to touch Hollander’s — Shane’s — freckles as much as he would like. He reaches out and Shane lets him, lets him run a thumb over one cheekbone, then the other. "Is word for these."

"Freckles," Shane says.

Ilya nods. His hand is still on the side of Shane’s face. "Vesna is spring. Vesnushki is cute spots that come with spring."

Shane swallows. Ilya feels it under his hand.

"I should go," Shane says suddenly. "I need to ice my side again, and we’ve got practice tomorrow morning, since it was an afternoon game, so. I should go."

It seems like he is always saying that. Ilya would like him to stop saying that. But he is forgetting: this is just convenient, for Hollander. If Ilya makes it inconvenient, Hollander will not want to be here any more.

Ilya lets his hand drop. "Okay."

Ilya would think maybe he has fucked things up again, but Hollander texts him a few times the next morning, just odd thoughts, like I think our massage guy is a sadist, and Ilya has to look sadist up and ends up going down a rabbit hole, or I am so sick of my workout playlist, got any good songs to run to?

So Ilya texts him back with a link to his own playlist, and then goes to the gym himself. He spends most of his time with the weights, since he can run or use the bike at Sveta’s house. There is one other guy there today. He has maybe an Eastern European look to him, but they don’t talk, just nod at each other when they’re crossing paths. The guy is shorter than Ilya but strong. Ilya would not mind spotting him, if he needed it sometime.

When he’s finished, he gives in and texts Hollander. It makes sense, the gym is not far from Whole Foods. You want dinner tonight? I can get food.

Sorry. Shane texts back. Wish I could but I have a stupid sponsor thing.

Fuck. And Ilya is pretty sure Shane is playing away again on Tuesday and Wednesday. He gets confirmation a moment later:

And flying out again tomorrow but only one night.

Okay, Ilya texts. It should be okay. It’s just a few days. He needs to stop doing this. He puts his phone in his pocket and starts getting his stuff together to head home, but it buzzes again and he pulls it out.

You want to skate on Thursday night? Jeff says we’re good to go if you still want.

Thursday is three days. You will not be tired? If you have just got home?

You wish.

Why would I wish this?

It’s the only way you’re ever going to beat me in a sprint.

We will see on Thursday

It’s on like Donkey Kong.

Hollander is unbelievably uncool. There is definitely something wrong with Ilya that it has him smiling all the way back up the street.

Hollander’s road trip is Montreal then Ottawa, back to back. Ilya gets a few more random texts from him before the Montreal game. He is not sure what to do with the weird feeling in his chest every time his phone vibrates, knowing that Shane is at training, at the hotel, with his team, thinking about Ilya.

You are playing tonight? he texts back. Ribs are okay?

Hollander’s ribs are fine, Hollander promises. Watching the game, Ilya would not have been able to tell he'd been hurt. The bruising must have started to turn purple-green by now, two days old.

Hollander texts mid-afternoon before the Ottawa game. Hey, are you busy?

Ilya is on the couch. Always, he replies, because Hollander should have realised by now that Ilya does not exactly have a full social calendar. Then, You are okay? What is problem?

He is not expecting this: Can I call you?

OK.

Shit, maybe Hollander has hurt himself again, though Ilya didn’t see anything happen last night. But Ilya does not know why else Hollander would be calling. Ilya mutes the television, picks at his nails, chews on the toggle of his hoodie. The phone doesn't ring for long minutes, and then finally it does.

"Hollander."

"Sorry." Hollander sounds out of breath and a little echoey, but himself. Not hurt. "Can you hear me okay?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"Hotel. Stairwell. I'm sharing with Kane again. Had to get out of the room, he's got so much fucking energy."

Ilya forces his shoulders down. Hollander would not be in a stairwell if he was hurt. "You sound like old man."

"I feel like one."

A pause, stretching out. "Did something happen?" Ilya asks eventually. "Team are being assholes?"

"No. Morning skate was fine, the team's fine. I just, I don't know." Another pause, then, "I had lunch with my parents today."

Ah. "You do not get on with them?"

"No, I do. I mean, they're great, they're super supportive. They're coming to the game tonight, they always do when we play in Ottawa."

"So what is problem?"

"They're just — they want me to be happy."

"Sounds terrible."

"Yeah. I, sorry. I shouldn't be whinging to you about this. Not when — sorry."

"No. Hollander. I was being asshole. Tell me."

"There isn't anything to tell."

"They want you to be happy."

"Yeah."

"And you are not."

A pause. "No."

"Did you tell them this?"

Rustling noises, like Hollander is shifting position on the stairs. Then, "Mom keeps asking if I've met any nice young men in Boston lately."

"They know you are gay, then." Ilya has wondered.

"Yeah. They kind of found out, when. You know."

"So what did you tell her?"

"I didn't know what to say."

"Well. I am not a nice young man."

"Ilya."

"Also we met in Saskatchewan."

He can hear the smile in Hollander’s voice. "I guess so." Then a yawn. "Fuck. I should really be napping."

"Is just Ottawa. You will be fine."

"Yeah. Still." Another yawn. "I am tired, I just can't turn my head off. Tell me about your day? What have you been doing?"

"You know me, busy busy." Actually Ilya has been to the gym. It was satisfying. Maybe too satisfying. "Weather is not too bad today. Maybe I will go for a walk later. But I have not had lunch yet."

"You should eat."

"Yes." He can't resist. "I am thinking pizza pockets."

"Ilya. Don't eat that shit."

"You are going to stop me? You are in Ottawa."

"Make yourself a sandwich or something at least."

"But is effort, Hollander."

"But you'll feel better if you do."

"And you will feel better if you sleep."

"Yeah. Okay. Let's make a deal. You eat something decent for lunch, I'll go try and nap."

"I will have pizza with pineapple on. This counts, yes?"

"You know it doesn't." A pause. "Fuck I wish I was at home right now. I mean — not home, like. At your place. You know."

"Yes." Ilya pinches his thigh, then presses the spot hard with his knuckles until it hurts. "I know."

"Okay. I'm gonna head back. Hopefully Kane has stopped talking by now."

"If not, make him go sit on stairs and you stay in room and sleep."

Hollander ignores him. "I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We’re still on?"

Ah. "I don't think is good idea. You are tired, you will need to rest, not spend more time on ice."

"I didn't ask if you thought it was a good idea. I asked if we're still doing it."

Ilya pinches his thigh again. Maybe it will bruise. Maybe when Hollander comes home he'll take Ilya's pants off and ask what happened and Ilya will say you called me and said you wished you were here and I couldn't bear it. "Is not the same thing?"

"No. I want to skate with you again. Do you want to skate with me?"

"Yes, but —"

"So we're skating."

"What?" Who is this person and what has he done with sensible Hollander.

"Ilya, a wise man once told me that if you want something and it isn't hurting anyone, you should just go for it."

Oh, Jesus. "You should not pay attention to shit I say. I was trying to get you to let me touch your dick."

Hollander laughs. "I'll pick you up at seven."

Ilya should not let Hollander do this. Hollander looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept properly in days. But Ilya is selfish, so he does not say anything, all through the drive, and while they get changed. Hollander does seem to wake up a little, anyway, when they are on the ice, and even more when they have warmed up.

"Okay. I don't think I am imagining it," Hollander says, skating to a stop at centre ice.

"Imagining what?" Maybe Ilya sprays a little more snow than is technically required as he stops, but he doesn't get to do this very often, so.

"You're definitely faster than you were two weeks ago."

Ilya shrugs. "Maybe." He feels better, too.

"Like, you're not far off half the team in terms of speed now."

"Half the team," Ilya repeats.

"Well, yeah." Hollander skates backwards. "The slow half, obviously."

"So not you."

"No, not me."

Ilya wants to kiss that smirk off his face. Not here.

"I have been going to gym," he says, to stop himself from reaching for Hollander. "In mornings, past few days. Also Sveta has treadmill and bike, so."

Hollander's eyebrows are raised. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes. I was," he hesitates. "Lazy, for many months. When I came here."

"I don't think lazy is the right word," Hollander says.

Ilya shrugs. "Is what I am."

"Yeah. So lazy you could probably play major league hockey after like two weeks training. Sure."

"Are we here to talk, or skate?" It was a mistake to say anything to Hollander. He hadn't meant to.

"Okay, okay, fine."

Hollander lets it drop while they're on the ice. But in the car on the way home, Hollander says, "Have you ever thought about playing hockey again? Professionally, I mean?"

"No."

"No you haven't thought about it, or no you don't want to?"

"Both." The silence stretches out. Ilya sighs. "Is not going to happen, so is no point thinking about it."

"Why is it not going to happen?"

"I told you." Well, he'd told Chernysh. "I was not playing good hockey, in Moscow. Also I punched my asshole coach in the face and broke his nose. I don't think any teams will be in hurry to offer me contract."

"But there were extenuating circumstances," Hollander says.

How is he using words like that when he is so tired. "Ex — what?"

"Like, other stuff going on for you, you had good reason not to be playing your best. If you just explained —"

"No. Is not anyone's business."

"But if you told them —"

"No."

"Okay. Sorry, I. Sorry."

They don't talk the rest of the way home. It should be a relief, but instead it means there's nothing to distract Ilya from his head.

He had meant it, what he'd said. He does mean it. He can't see a way back to hockey. When he'd come to Boston he'd been sure he was done with it forever, and he'd been glad. Glad to be rid of dealing with an asshole coach, the injuries, the travel.

But he hadn't realised, then, how much he'd relied on it for everything else. He hadn’t been close to any of his teammates, but they had been there, every day: proof of life beyond the walls of his father’s house.

He had also forgotten that once it had been fun. That he had been good at it, before everything else got in the way.

He does not know how or where he will find anything else like it. He does not know how to do anything else, or even how to start to learn.

At home, Hollander parks his boring car in his garage. Ilya says thank you, because he can learn to be polite if nothing else.

"Wait, I'll walk you to your door," Hollander says. His idea of good manners is so weird. It's literally next door and Ilya is an adult. He thinks it is probably safe.

But when they get there, and Ilya has unlocked the door, Hollander says, "Would it be okay if I come in? Just for a minute?"

Ilya lets him in and closes the door behind them. He'd left the kitchen light on, and there is enough light filtering down the hallway to see Hollander’s face. Hollander is frowning. The house is quiet.

"Sorry about before," Hollander says, after a moment. "What I said in the car. I know it’s none of my business."

So Hollander is suffering from an excess of manners. "It is okay."

"I didn’t mean to — anyway. I like skating with you. So I still want to, again. If you want."

"Okay."

"Okay," Hollander says.

"This is what you wanted to say?" Ilya asks. "Because you are tired, you should be sleeping."

"Yeah. But also —"

It catches Ilya by surprise, every time Hollander takes the initiative like this. Hollander’s lips on his are cool and chapped. His hands are in Ilya’s hair.

Maybe Hollander had wanted to do this on the ice, like Ilya. Maybe Hollander had had to catch himself two, three, four times, stop himself from grabbing Ilya’s arm and pulling him in, skating him back into the boards, kissing him.

Now, in the cool darkness of the hallway, Hollander slides his hands down to Ilya's waist and guides him back until Hollander has his back to the door, Ilya in front of him; strange, like Ilya has trapped him there, when Ilya is doing nothing but following Hollander's lead.

"You should be sleeping," Ilya says again into Hollander's mouth. This doesn't feel real.

"I will. First I just need to." Hollander kisses Ilya's jaw, then his throat, and then he is sinking to his knees in front of Ilya.

Ilya puts a hand on the door in front of him, to stop himself from falling. The other is in Hollander's hair.

Hollander's mouth is warm, his hand on Ilya's dick more confident than last time. His eyes stay on Ilya's even as he sucks Ilya hard in his mouth.

Ilya is suddenly, irrationally angry that anyone else should ever have seen Hollander like this, that anyone else might know these bumps on the back of Hollander's skull, the way his eyelashes flutter when he pushes himself too far. Angry, and fiercely glad that they were too stupid to appreciate it; that they had seen it and let Hollander go, so he could be here, on his knees before Ilya in Svetlana’s front hall, improbable and miraculous.

Ilya's orgasm builds slowly. He warns Hollander, then again, tries to pull Hollander off, but Hollander is stubborn and stupid and he stays down and sucks Ilya harder and Ilya comes into that beautiful mouth with a groan.

Hollander’s expression is comical. He tries to swallow and coughs, gags, tries again. He sits back on his heels. There is a little bit of Ilya's come at the corner of his mouth.

He's such a ridiculous, beautiful, competitive, determined idiot.

"You can spit in sink," Ilya tells him. He puts a hand under Hollander’s elbow and helps him to stand. "Is okay, go and spit."

Ilya takes his time getting himself back together, then follows Hollander down to the kitchen. Hollander has gotten himself a glass of water and is leaning against the counter, taking little sips.

"You are an idiot," Ilya tells him, but he can't manage to make himself sound anything other than fond.

"You do it," Hollander says. He runs his tongue over his front teeth, winces, and takes another sip.

"Because I don't mind." Also, Ilya knows how to take Hollander deeper so the taste is not so much, but he is not going to tell Hollander that because he knows where that will end. "Anyway, swallowing is like, advanced dick sucking, yes? You are beginner."

"Fuck off," Hollander says, but the teasing has worked; his shoulders have relaxed.

"You want me to show you again, how to do it?"

To Ilya's surprise, Hollander shakes his head. "No. This was — I owed you one. From last time."

"That is not how this works. We are not keeping score."

"Maybe I am. You're not the only one who can decide on rules for this — thing." Making you not miserable. Making you stop hiding, from yourself, from me, from everyone. "Anyway I really do need to get some sleep. Early training tomorrow morning, so." He drinks the rest of the water and puts the glass neatly by the sink. "I should go."

Ilya walks him to the door, and manages to catch it this time: the brief moment of hesitation where a kiss could go. Hollander's mouth is cool and Ilya can taste himself there still, bitter and foreign; he puts his hands in Hollander's hair and on his face and kisses him until it is not so strong, until Hollander tastes like himself again, and then Ilya lets him go.

The days start going faster, somehow, like maybe time realised it had dragged too slowly in November and December and needs to make up for it now. It is already the second week in March and Hollander has another road trip, a longer one, to the west coast: Anaheim, Los Angeles, San Francisco.

It's stupid, but Ilya can't stop himself thinking about the last time Hollander was in California. The last time Hollander said he had let someone else touch him.

Maybe Hollander has a regular guy in one of those cities. Someone he trusts, someone safe. Someone who he would choose to be with, if the distance didn't make it too hard.

Stupid to be jealous. It would be a good thing, if Hollander already had someone. Ilya had started all this so that Hollander could learn it is okay to have what he wants.

Well. For that, and because Ilya is selfish.

Hollander calls him from LA. He doesn't sound like he's looking forward to a hookup.

"You ever just sick of being inside your own head?" he asks, when they have established that Los Angeles is still terrible, but not as terrible as Hollander's roommate.

All the fucking time. "Yes."

"Yeah." Hollander sighs. "Okay. Tell me something that's not terrible."

So Ilya tells him about Tomasz, from the gym. They have crossed paths often enough now to be nodding acquaintances, and that morning Ilya had seen him on the street, and Tomasz had been walking a dog.

"She was so cute, Hollander. She is brown and white, smaller than Chernysh, and very curly. She is only a puppy, 6 months, but already I know she is going to be a very good girl."

He can hear the smile in Hollander's voice. "What's her name?"

"She is called Zosia. Tomasz says this name means wisdom, so she will be smart also."

"Did she seem smart?"

"She gave me many kisses, so, yes."

"You really love dogs, huh."

Obviously. "Dogs are best. Better than people."

"Why don’t you get one?"

"Me? Get a dog?"

"Yeah."

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it. But. "I don’t know how long I will stay in Boston," he says, eventually. "Maybe I have to leave, so it would not be fair."

"Oh. I didn’t. Okay." A long pause. Ilya picks at a loose thread on his sweatpants. Then Shane says, "When I get back, I can — I know it's been a couple of weeks, since I came over as Chernysh. But we can do that, if you want."

Ilya would like to see Chernysh, but not if it means he can’t see Hollander. Only, this is meant to be about what Hollander needs. "If it will help you sleep."

"Might be a good idea." Hollander yawns. ‘I'm so fucking tired all the time, I'm sick of that too."

"You should be sleeping now?" Ilya isn't totally clear on the time zones, but Hollander's game is not on TV tonight until late, so he is probably on the phone to Ilya instead of trying to sleep. Again.

"Yeah." A hesitation. "You know, I still listen to that Russian lady you suggested, the ASMR thing, when we're on the road. It helps, sometimes."

"Good."

"Not as good as listening to you talk. But it's better than nothing."

"It would help more, if I talk to you in Russian?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Ilya thinks maybe Hollander is embarrassed; his voice has gotten a little tighter, or something else, something not quite right. And Ilya does not know when it became his life's mission to teach Shane Hollander not to be embarrassed about asking for what he wants, but here he is.

"I am just watching stupid movie on TV," Ilya says. "Nothing important. Do you want me to talk in Russian to you now?"

"You wouldn't mind?"

"I told you, I am not doing anything."

It does feel weird at first, talking to the silence on the other end of the phone, but Ilya pretends he is talking to Chernysh and that makes it easier. Also, when he pauses, if he listens carefully he can hear Hollander breathing, quiet and steady; then, after a while, it becomes slower again. Hollander is asleep.

Ilya stops talking, but maybe doesn't hang up straight away; maybe he keeps listening to Hollander's breathing for long minutes, television on mute, no other sounds in the house. Hollander will not know.

The Raiders have three nights in Los Angeles, then two in San Francisco. Hollander calls at least once every day, sometimes when he should be napping, once after the game against Anaheim.

Ilya starts collecting little good things he notices during the mornings, to tell Hollander when he calls: a good dog he saw in the park, the squirrel nest in the big tree on the corner.

"You have squirrels in Russia, though, right?" Hollander asks, when he calls before the final game in San Francisco. "I thought squirrels were everywhere."

"Yes. But Hollander, this is a nest. I have googled it. Right now the babies will have their eyes closed, but in a few weeks they will come out and then there will be baby squirrels."

"I can't believe you're this excited about squirrels. Most people think they're a pest."

"Most people are idiots. You know this."

"Yeah."

"Especially people who make you stay another night in California."

"It makes sense, though. No one wants to fly after the game and get home at like 4am."

Ilya is not going to concede this point. 4am would be fine, in his opinion. It does not sound like Hollander is sleeping properly anyway so he might as well not sleep on a plane, and then be at home.

"So when will you get home?"

"In the afternoon, sometime."

"Mm."

"I haven't — I didn't book ice time or anything, for tomorrow night. I know it's Thursday, but."

"I did not think you would." Not after such a long trip.

"I could check with Jeff, though, if you wanted?"

Ilya has been so good all week. He can't be expected to keep it up forever. "I think maybe we can find better things to do tomorrow night."

That little embarrassed half-laugh, half cough. "I — can we?"

"You have not had much privacy this week."

"No."

"My house is very private. So private maybe we could even try taking clothes off this time."

"Ilya."

"What?"

"I'm in a hotel stairwell."

"Is fine, I am not. I can say what I have been thinking about, no one else will hear. First, I will take all your clothes off, then —"

"Ilya."

"What is problem now?"

"Tomorrow, okay? Save it for tomorrow." He sounds embarrassed, but like he is smiling, too. Such a simple thing to make him smile: for Ilya to say he has been thinking about him. When it has been almost impossible for Ilya to do anything else.

"Fine." Ilya lets a little grumble into his voice. "You are no fun."

"I have a game in like two hours."

"If you can come twice in one hour then you could come four times before you have to play," Ilya says, very reasonably.

"Okay, I'm going to hang up now and go get ready to play hockey," Hollander says firmly. "And then tomorrow I will fly home, and I will see you tomorrow night."

"And then you will let me take all your clothes off?"

"Goodbye, Ilya. See you tomorrow."

Ilya has already sucked Hollander's dick twice. They have got this worked out now. So there is no reason for Ilya to feel weird about seeing him again. That is Hollander's job, anyway. Ilya's job is to know what he is doing, so Hollander will feel okay.

Somehow Ilya still can't settle. He spends the morning at the gym and is so distracted he almost breaks a toe tripping on one of the barbells. Then he changes his mind three times about what to cook before finally choosing something that can be mostly done in advance. He thinks maybe he shouldn't be using sharp knives with Hollander around. Not if the state of his toe is anything to go by.

Hollander texts to say he'll come over around six and is at Ilya's door at two minutes past.

"Hi," he says, and he's just the same as before, there was no reason for Ilya to spend the day being an idiot. "Here." He shoves a box into Ilya's hands. There is a picture of the Golden Gate bridge on the top, and a vaguely familiar name: Ghirardelli.

Ilya feels wrong-footed again. "Is this chocolate?"

"All the way from California," Hollander agrees, taking his shoes off.

"But you don't eat chocolate."

Hollander gives him a look like Ilya is the one doing weird things. "It's a gift, Ilya. For you. Because you eat chocolate."

Ah. Okay. This will be another of Hollander's strange etiquette things. Only Hollander must not have been able to find advice on ‘what gift to bring to the house of your reclusive foreign neighbour, whose dick you are sucking,’ and substituted, ‘what to do if you are a businessman returning home to your lonely wife’ instead.

"You're meant to say thank you," Hollander prompts, going down the hall.

"Thank you?" Ilya echoes. He shuts the door. Okay. Weird start, but he can recover. He had a plan, and it involved nakedness and orgasms.

Then he sees Hollander's face in the warm light of the kitchen. Hollander looks exhausted, wrung out.

"Did you sleep at all, whole week?" Ilya demands. He puts the chocolates down.

"You know I did." Hollander is surveying the mess on the kitchen counter, hands shoved in his pockets, but glances briefly at Ilya. "You were on the phone to me at least twice."

"Apart from that."

"Of course I did."

He is a liar. He is a lying liar who lies.

"Okay. I will tell you what is going to happen now." Ilya pokes Hollander in the middle of his stupidly attractive chest. He doesn't even enjoy the fact that Hollander doesn't flinch when he approaches. "You are going to go and change to Chernysh, while I put stupid boring food in oven for you. Then you are going to sleep until food is ready."

Hollander rocks a little on his heels. "Really? I thought you had a plan for no clothes and everything."

"Plan has changed." Ilya puts his hand in the middle of Hollander's back and gives him a push towards the bathroom. "Is rude to fall asleep while I am sucking your dick. I thought Canadian would know this. Now go."

Chernysh is asleep on the couch before Ilya has put the chicken and rice in the oven to bake. Ilya goes and sits with him. The oven timer beeps, Ilya gets up to take the food out, and still Chernysh doesn't move.

By eight o'clock Ilya is starting to wonder if he should wake Hollander. Surely it'll fuck up his sleep tonight if he naps too much longer? But finally Chernysh stirs, stretches, and jumps off the couch.

Ilya doesn't get up. When Hollander comes out of the bathroom, he hesitates for just a moment before he comes back to sit as well. Hollander leaves his half a metre of space between them, but he doesn't protest when Ilya moves closer, puts an arm around his shoulders, and guides Hollander to rest his head against Ilya's shoulder. Better.

Ilya had almost suggested, earlier, that Hollander to try to nap as himself, but he'd thought maybe Hollander would argue. Now he wishes he had asked.

"Thanks," Hollander says, quietly. His voice is rough from sleep.

"Of course." It is so familiar now, Hollander's quiet breathing.

"Food smells good."

"You are hungry? Is ready, we can eat if you want."

"In a minute."

Ilya is not expecting anything. Hollander is tired, hungry. Hollander should eat and then go home to sleep. But Hollander's hand is on Ilya's thigh, and Hollander is not good at being still unless he is asleep, so his fingers are tracing the inseam of Ilya's sweatpants, up and down. Then Hollander takes a deep breath, face turned into Ilya's chest, and he is nuzzling at Ilya’s sternum, his stomach, lower. Ilya's dick is getting hard. Ilya's dick is as selfish as Ilya. This is not the time, Hollander is tired, stop.

But Hollander does not stop. Hollander straddles Ilya's lap again. Ilya can't be expected not to touch, not with Hollander like this, knees bracketing Ilya's hips, eyes bright as he ducks down and takes Ilya's mouth with his own. Ilya puts his hands on Hollander's shoulders, his chest, his hips. Hollander is warm and soft with sleep. Ilya's hands find where Hollander's shirt is riding up and then Ilya is touching Hollander's skin above the waistband of his pants, smooth until it isn't, a little run of parallel lines near his hipbones on each side, stretch marks maybe. Ilya wants to put his mouth on them.

Hollander takes his mouth away and sits back. He has his determined look again. "Take your shirt off," he says.

Hollander is already pulling at the hem of Ilya's sweatshirt. Ilya helps and his sweatshirt and t-shirt come off together.

"You also," Ilya manages. He has seen before, yes, but that was Hollander drunk, Hollander hurt, not the same at all as Hollander choosing to let Ilya see.

Hollander is biting his lip but he lets Ilya push his shirt up, up, over his head, finally emerging with his hair in disarray.

The bruising to his chest is almost gone, just a faded greenish-yellow. Ilya traces the edges with his fingertips.

"You are okay?" He means the bruising, but also everything. He doesn't know what to do with any of this. He is meant to be the one in control, who knows what to do, who can give this to Hollander, but it feels like Hollander is giving him something instead and Ilya has no idea how to hold it, where to put it.

"Yeah," Hollander says. "Fuck, you're so." His restless hands are everywhere. "I want to —"

He gives up on words and they're kissing again. Ilya rubs his thumbs over Hollander's hipbones like he needs soothing, but Hollander is fine, Hollander is undoing Ilya's pants and pulling his dick out, then shifting his weight in Ilya's lap to shove at his own waistband, and then Hollander has both their dicks together in his hand.

"Okay?" Hollander asks. He squeezes, just on the edge of too much, his dick so hard against Ilya's. Ilya slides down the couch just a little, just so the angle is better and Hollander can — there, can jerk them off together in his beautiful, clever hand. "Oh, fuck, that's —"

They're both breathing heavily, though they're barely moving otherwise, just Hollander's arm working in the space between them. Hollander's open mouth drags over Ilya's forehead, his cheek, then they're panting into each other's mouths. Ilya doesn't want to blink, can't bear to miss the way Hollander’s eyes look so dark, pupils huge, his cheekbones flushed under his freckles.

Hollander might not have much experience with blow jobs but he is good with his hands, relentless and quick, thumb slipping over the head of Ilya's dick to catch the pre-come there and slick them both up. It's still just too dry and Ilya curses himself for putting the lube in the bedroom — how were they ever going to make it to the bedroom, for fuck's sake, he's going to start keeping lube in every room in the house — but then Hollander spits into his hand, and, oh, fuck, that buttoned-up Hollander could be far enough gone to want to jerk them off together with pre-come and spit —

"Are you gonna come for me," Hollander asks. His forehead is resting on Ilya's, noses squashed together. "Ilya. I want you to make you come."

"You are. You will." Hollander's hand is moving faster, frantic sounds in the quiet room. "Fuck, Hollander —"

"Shane," Hollander says, insistent, breathless.

"Shane," Ilya repeats. "Oh, fuck, Shane —"

Shane starts to come first and Ilya follows him over, inevitable with the way Shane's dick jerks against Ilya's, the way Shane's brow creases and his mouth falls open on a breathless gasp as he spills over his fingers, onto Ilya's chest.

Ilya still did not remember to put tissues on the coffee table.

"Jesus Christ," Hollander, Shane, says. "That was — fuck."

"Yes."

They have made a mess. Shane's forehead is still resting on Ilya's, mouth slack and open. Ilya kisses him to keep his own mouth busy, to stop him saying anything stupid. Then he releases Shane and grabs his discarded t-shirt, swipes at the come on his chest, offers it to Shane, who shakes his head.

"Thanks, but I'll just."

He pushes off Ilya's lap, wobbles for a second like he's having difficulty keeping his balance — Shane Hollander who could outskate Ilya at seventeen — and starts toward the kitchen to wash his hands.

"We did not even get undressed," Ilya says, a little sadly. There is definitely come on his pants. He likes these pants.

"But I did get you to call me Shane," Shane says.

"This is a thing for you, huh?"

Ilya's heartbeat is slowly coming back down. Probably he can stand up now himself.

Shane has put his shirt back on, hiding all that beautiful smooth skin. He's still flushed, freckles almost hidden in the colour over his cheekbones.

Ilya could get a clean shirt. Or, because Shane already thinks he has no manners, he could eat dinner like this and entertain himself by watching Shane drag his gaze away from Ilya's bare chest over and over again.

This is an easy decision.

Of course they talk about hockey while they eat. The Raiders had won in Los Angeles and in Anaheim, lost in overtime in San Jose. Now they are only two points away from clinching a spot in the playoffs, and they have home games this week.

"I mean obviously I want to make the playoffs," Shane says.

"Yes," Ilya says, just as deadpan. "I can tell by how excited you are."

The food is not Ilya's best effort, but it is okay. It is Shane's fault anyway for sleeping so long. Also because of the orgasms, though Ilya can't find it in himself to be upset about that part, even if the rice has gone too soft. Anyway, Shane eats two servings, which is the important thing, and then goes home to sleep.

Ilya puts tissues on the coffee table before he goes to bed.

Two days later, the Raiders play Tampa. Ilya calls Sveta while he watches. During the second intermission she is telling him about a bar she has been to with some friends when his brain suddenly registers a name that he has heard from her more than once, recently: James.

"This is same James from lunch last week?" he asks. But he already knows it is. "And same James that took you to Admirals game in February, because he had spare ticket. Yes?"

He should have noticed earlier. He has been distracted by Shane, probably.

"Same James," Sveta concedes. "But it is not anything, Ilyusha."

"No?"

"He is just a friend."

"You like him."

A long pause. That only makes it worse. If it was really unimportant she would not be hesitating.

"When we went to the game," she says, finally. "It was — he didn't try to explain anything to me."

"This is a good thing?"

"This is an unusual thing," Sveta corrects.

What kind of assholes has Sveta been putting up with, if she is so impressed by this.

"But it is not anything," she continues in a rush. "He is just less boring than the others. Anyway he thinks I am married." A short laugh. Not Sveta’s real laugh. "Well, I am."

They hadn't planned this far ahead, he and Sveta. In Moscow, Ilya had not been able to see beyond the end of the day, let alone a mythical future in another country.

"You should tell him," Ilya says. "Explain to him that you are not married, not really."

"He is a lawyer. I don't think it would be a good idea."

"So you are just going to do nothing, whole time while we are married?"

"I don't want to go out with men who think I am married and want to fuck me anyway, Ilyusha. And it's only for another two years."

"Two and a half. And then however long it takes for citizenship to happen. If they don't ask questions." Which they probably will, because so far Ilya and his beloved childhood sweetheart wife have been living in different states twice as long as they had been in Boston together.

"Say three years, then," Sveta says. "And it doesn't matter. James is just a friend. It's more important to me that you're okay." Another pause. Third period has started and the Raiders are up by one. Shane is not on the ice right now, so Ilya can concentrate. "And you are doing better, I think, yes?"

If the Raiders make the playoffs, Shane will be in Boston until the end of April. If they go beyond the second round, he might still be here in May. Six more weeks. Eight if Ilya is lucky. "Yes," he tells Sveta. "I am."

Boston's second home game is on Sunday afternoon, against Columbus. They win in regulation, 3-2, and Shane has a goal and an assist. Ilya texts him congratulations and doesn't expect to see him: the Raiders have officially clinched a playoff spot. They are not playing on Monday. Of course the whole team will be going out.

Then Ilya's doorbell rings, and Shane is standing there, not in his game day suit or clothes for going out, but in sweats and sneakers and with wet hair like he's freshly showered.

"Hi," he says. He's biting his lip, hands in his pockets. "Are you — can I come in? Sorry, I should have checked."

Ilya steps back. "Is fine. Come in."

Shane does.

"You are not out celebrating," Ilya observes, as Shane tucks his sneakers away neatly against the wall. He never forgets to take his shoes off, now.

Shane turns to face him. "No."

"Your teammates will not mind?"

Shane shrugs. He looks tired. Ilya is tired of seeing him so tired. "I figure they made up their minds about me a long time ago. Whether I go out tonight or not is not going to make a difference."

"Okay." So. Here is Shane. Ilya was not prepared, but this is okay. "Do you want something to eat? Drink? Some terrible ginger ale?"

Shane says no to the food, which is good, because Ilya doesn’t have anything ready that he would eat, but he accepts a drink.

They stay in the kitchen, Shane on his stool, Ilya leaning against the counter. It's been just over two weeks since Ilya kissed him on that stool and they started this — thing, whatever this is. Ilya no longer knows. Three orgasms each. Incredibly lame sexting. Ilya being excited to tell Shane about a fucking squirrel nest, what the fuck.

At least Shane isn't flinching any more when Ilya comes near him. Maybe Ilya can't do anything about the near-permanent look of exhaustion on Shane's face, but he has managed that.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Ilya says finally. He is probably the worst person in the world for Shane to talk to, but he gets the feeling maybe Shane doesn’t have too many other options.

Shane shakes his head. "No." But then he glances at Ilya, looks back at his drink, and continues, "I know I should be happy."

"You are in playoffs. Is meant to be good thing." And Shane is so fiercely competitive. Ilya can't imagine he would be happier if the Raiders were tanking.

"I know. And I didn't want us to miss the post-season. Not really."

"But?" There is definitely a but.

"But." Shane sighs. "I just. I don't think we're going to go all the way. We're not going to get past Toronto."

Ah. "You might."

Shane pulls a face. "Really? With Oregan only standing 'cause he's pumped full of cortisone shots?"

Ilya does not want to lie. Maybe if Kent or Barrett get hurt. But if they keep playing like they are now, if Toronto's defence stays strong, then. No. Boston will not win the cup with an injured starting goalie.

Shane nods at his silence. "No. And since we're not going to win. I just. I’m so fucking tired."

"Is only a few more weeks. Then it will be over." And this will be over too. Hollander will go home for the summer, and Ilya will go — somewhere he will not cause problems for anyone. He is starting to think this is maybe back to Russia.

"Yeah." Shane is slumped, posture radiating defeat.

Ilya puts his Coke down and comes around the counter. "Shane."

Shane turns on the stool and presses his forehead into Ilya's chest. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Ilya runs his palms down Shane's back in long strokes. "Is okay." Ilya is a horrible person: Shane is clearly miserable and yet Ilya is still thinking about how good he feels under his hands.

They stay like that for a long minute, and then Shane sits up. Ilya leaves his hands on Shane's shoulders, or at least he means to, but he can't resist the temptation to slide them down to Shane's waist, then his hips, then sneak them under his sweatshirt to touch bare skin. Shane shivers under his fingers even though the room is warm.

"You know, I didn't actually come over to complain about making the playoffs," Shane says. He's not meeting Ilya's eyes but he reaches out and splays his hand across Ilya's chest, where his head had been resting.

Ilya traces the crest of Shane's hipbones with his thumbs. "No?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I didn't feel like going out. But I still want to celebrate." Ilya was not sure, a minute ago, where this was headed. But Shane finally looks up, and his eyes are dark. "I know we haven't made it out of the living room so far, but you have a bedroom, right?"

"I have bedroom, yes." Ilya keeps moving his thumbs back and forth over Shane's hipbones. He's not sure if he intends it to soothe, or as a tease.

"So I was thinking. As kind of a celebration, and also a kind of fuck-you to those assholes in Toronto, maybe we could." He trails off and ducks his head again, pressing his forehead into Ilya's chest.

"We could what," Ilya says.

Shane shakes his head.

"Come. Stand up." Ilya tugs on Shane's hips until he obeys, sliding off the stool to stand in front of Ilya. Then Ilya takes Shane's jaw in one hand and tilts his head so Ilya can see his eyes. "Tell me. What do you want."

Instead of speaking, Shane surges forward and kisses him, messy, open mouthed. Ilya could spend hours just doing this, but he doesn't think it's what Shane wants.

"We need bedroom to kiss now?" Ilya murmurs into Shane's mouth. "Or is something else."

Shane breaks the kiss and presses his face into the cradle of Ilya's shoulder. He breathes there for a long minute while Ilya strokes over his shoulders and his back.

"I was thinking," Shane starts again. Ilya makes an encouraging noise.

"Tell me."

Shane's fingers are tight on Ilya's hips. "That, I — I want you to fuck me." Ilya thinks probably Shane has never been brave enough to say those words before. "I mean. If that's something you'd want."

Ilya rewards Shane with another kiss, and rewards himself for his patience by finally putting his hands on Shane's ass and pulling him close, closer, until he can feel Shane's dick getting hard against his own.

"Yes," he says. "That is something I want."

But now that Shane has asked for what he wants, Ilya has to get his shit together and give it to him.

Shane does not make it easy. Ilya keeps getting derailed: by the way Shane stops to fold his sweats as he takes them off; by the way he stands in front of Ilya, naked at last, hands flexing at his sides as he so obviously has to resist the urge to cover himself, and asks, half defiant, half genuine question, "Okay?"

As if he could be anything other than beautiful. Warm skin, smooth, chest almost hairless under Ilya's hands and mouth. Like a sea creature, Ilya thinks, sleek and lithe and strong, somehow lured out of the water and into Ilya's bed. What business does Ilya have with a creature like this.

Ilya kisses him, puts him on his back and works him open with two fingers, Shane moving restlessly into the stretch. Shane's arm is bent across his face, hiding his eyes. "You can, more," he says. "I'm okay."

He is okay, maybe, but he is still in his head. Ilya knows already the change that happens when Shane starts being in his body instead: the way his kisses deepen. The way he moves against Ilya. The way he takes what he wants.

So. Not there yet. Ilya holds him down and kisses the inside of his thighs, the hollow of his hip, the base of his dick. He gives Shane three fingers at last and presses his thumb behind Shane's balls and feels Shane try to arch off the bed, feels Shane's hand in his hair.

When Ilya looks up, Shane is looking back, dark eyes, cheeks flushed, open.

Better.

It occurs to Ilya only as he is putting the condom on: maybe Shane has not done this before.

Ilya has done this he does not remember how many times. With women, with men. And always — well, maybe not with Sasha, but otherwise — always Ilya has made sure his partners had a good time. This should be familiar territory. There is no reason to feel like he is drowning.

"So were you planning to fuck me sometime tonight, or did you want me to come back tomorrow?"

Ilya looks at him. Shane is biting his lip and smiling at the same time, pleased with himself.

"Just giving you chance to change your mind," Ilya manages. Shane is not the only one here who needs to get out of his head. "Maybe you forgot I have big dick?"

"No, you are a big dick," Shane says. "Not the same thing, but I know English isn't your first language."

He looks — happy. Whatever other damage tonight causes, Ilya does not want Shane to stop looking like that.

Ilya kisses him and rolls his hips. "So you still want?"

"Yeah, I still want."

Ilya does not think he'll ever forget the way Shane arches his neck when Ilya pushes into him, breathless, vulnerable, perfect. Ilya kisses his freckles and his slack mouth and the angle of his jaw and waits until the furrow between his brow clears before he pulls out and pushes in again, rewarded with another silent gasp.

It's addictive and Ilya has no self restraint, but he doesn't need it, because Shane lets him, welcomes Ilya into his body again and again, urging Ilya on with his legs wrapped around Ilya's hips, his hands in Ilya's hair.

Ilya does a good job, he thinks. He fucks Shane slowly until he can't anymore, and then he turns him over and fucks him hard, and Shane moves with him like they've been doing this for years. Shane doesn't talk but Ilya can read his breathing and knows he's about to come before he does; presses him down into the bed and fucks him through it, then follows over himself, then collapses, half on top of him.

They breathe. Ilya is grateful for all the cardio he has been doing. He could not have fucked Shane like this a few months ago. Not like Shane deserves.

"We made a mess of the sheets," Shane says eventually, breaking the silence. Maybe it was not his first time, after all. Who gets fucked for the first time and then complains about come on the sheets.

Shane. Shane is who does that, Ilya thinks, probably.

"Yes." Ilya pulls out, carefully, with a kiss to Shane's shoulder, and rolls over. Shane still looks happy. He does not look like he is regretting anything. Good. "Worth it?"

Shane rolls over as well, away from the wet spot. "Well, it's your bed, so. Yeah."

Ilya kisses his shoulder again. He really needs to do something about the condom. "You want to shower first?"

Maybe this was the wrong thing to say, because Shane blinks, and Ilya can tell he is thinking again. "No, that's — I can shower at home. I mean. It's just next door, right?"

Shane does clean up in the bathroom, quickly, before he gets dressed. Ilya does the same so he can go with him to the door.

"Good celebration, huh?" Shane says, hand on the doorknob, and it won't be the stupidest thing Ilya has done tonight, so he runs his thumb over Shane's freckles, cups the side of his face, and kisses him deep and slow before he lets him leave.

Ilya should change the sheets. But they smell like Shane, like his hair and his soap and his sweat and his come. Shane is supposed to be the one with the weird smell kink but maybe it's catching, because Ilya doesn't strip the bed, just gets into bed and breathes and breathes.

Probably he shouldn't have said yes when Shane asked to be fucked. Probably he shouldn't have let Shane into his bed. Probably he shouldn't have kissed Shane like that, afterwards. He needs to be more careful.

Ilya is fucked. He knows this. But he just needs to keep it together long enough to get Shane through the playoffs.

Chapter 3

In the third period of the Raiders' game against Washington two days later, Shane gets tripped, goes down and doesn't get back up right away. Play is stopped. It is maybe only fifteen seconds before someone is helping him to his feet. It doesn't feel like fifteen seconds.

Ilya wants to turn the stupid game off after Shane goes down the tunnel, but maybe they will say something about what is happening to Shane, so he can't.

Shane won't have his phone with him. Shane will be with the doctors. Ilya still texts:

Are you okay?

Hollander

What is happening

He goes outside and smokes a cigarette but watches the game coverage through the window just in case there's an update. Nothing.

Eventually he gets a response. Sorry was getting checked out. Am ok, no broken bones, no concussion.

Ilya breathes for the first time in an hour. OK, Ilya sends back. Good.

Are you home tonight? Shane sends a minute later. What an idiot. Of course Ilya is home, he is home every night.

Yes.

Would you mind staying over at my place? They won't let me go home unless there'll be someone there to keep an eye on me or whatever.

Of course.

Great. Thank you. Spare key is under back door mat, let yourself in. See you in an hour.

You are not going to drive? Fuck, Ilya should have gotten off his ass and got his licence, then he could go and pick Shane up.

No, someone will drive me. I'm fine, don't worry. See you soon

It's weird, being in Shane's house without him. There are so many light switches and Ilya can't find the right ones. But Shane asked him to be here, so here he is.

Ilya had waited almost the full hour before coming over, so it's not long before headlights flash through the front windows. Ilya makes it to the door in time to see the driver come around to open the passenger side door of a ridiculous Mustang, and then Shane is getting out of the car, awkward, favouring his left leg. The driver hands him a crutch and Shane tucks it under his arm, wobbles for a second, then straightens up.

At least Shane's fancy house doesn't have any steps to the front door. Ilya resists the urge to go and put Shane's arm around his own shoulders, in case this would not be okay for Shane. The teammate is still there, walking next to Shane up to the house, carrying Shane's bag.

"Hi," the teammate says, when they make it to the door. He is tall, dark haired.

"Hello," Ilya says politely. See, Shane has trained him well.

Shane straightens up a little. "Marly, this is Ilya. Ilya, Cliff Marleau." Ah. Shane's right winger, who can't keep up with him.

Marleau gives him a tiny nod. "You gonna keep an eye on Holly tonight?"

"Yes."

Marleau is still just standing there. He should go away so Ilya can take Shane inside and fix him. Or if he's going to be a dick about Shane having a man at his house, Ilya can knock his fucking teeth out for him. But after a long moment Marleau nods, and says, "He hit his head, as well as the ankle sprain. You know what to look out for?"

"Yes."

"Ilya used to play hockey, Marly. It's fine," Shane says. He doesn't sound fine.

"You do not sound fine. They should not have let you go home," Ilya tells him.

"Ilya. It's not — they gave me something for my ankle when they thought something might be broken and it hasn't worn off yet. That's all. I'm fine."

"He's got my number," Marleau says. He hands Shane's bag over. Ilya takes it. "And the team docs’ numbers are in his phone. Give someone a call if you need."

"I will look after him," Ilya says.

Marleau still doesn't go.

"You have problem?" Go the fuck away already.

"No, I'm — gonna go. See you tomorrow, Holly, okay? Lemme know if you want a ride in."

Shane lasts until the door is closed before he drops the crutch and sags into Ilya.

"Fuck."

"Is bad?" Ilya juggles the bag to his other hand and drops it to the side, out of the way, so he can take Shane's weight properly.

"No, not — it's only a sprain. And I was only out for like a second. I just."

"It could have been worse." Ilya had thought it was worse.

"Yeah."

Shane smells bad, sweaty hockey stench. Ilya pulls him in anyway and puts his face in the crook of Shane's neck, rubs Shane's back. So much for being careful with this. Shane, in his arms: this is not careful.

"What do you need," Ilya asks. "Food? Shower? Bed?"

"All of the above," Shane mumbles. "But. Shower first, I guess? I'm gross."

Shane's shower is as ridiculous as the rest of his house. It has double showerheads and even a deep ledge so he can sit and keep his ankle elevated all along the back wall while he cleans up.

If Shane wasn't hurt. If he wasn't still a little loopy from whatever they gave him for the pain, Ilya would —

"You are okay here, if I go and make you food? Or you need me to stay?" Please let me go before I do something stupid like get on my knees for you.

Shane smiles at him. "Yeah, thanks. I'll be okay."

"Okay. I will leave door open so I can hear if you need help. What do you want to eat?"

Shane has a fridge full of boring food from a meal service. Ilya is depressed just reading the labels. But there is nothing else to offer him, so Ilya chooses the one that sounds least terrible, heats it up, finds a can of ginger ale and has everything on the table by the time he hears the shower turn off. He helps Shane dress and hobble to the table, then props Shane's ankle up on a second chair with an ice pack.

"Thanks," Shane says. He picks up his fork and stabs half heartedly at a pile of steamed carrot. "You didn't want anything?"

"No. I ate, before. Also your food is terrible."

That earns him an eye roll. "Yeah, yeah. We can't all be gourmet chefs."

Ilya still has a freezer full of pizza pockets. He does not think he is a gourmet anything. But maybe he has tricked Shane into believing that, just like he somehow tricked Shane into his bed.

"So is just sprained? Your ankle?"

"Yeah. Swelled up like a fucking balloon, but nothing's broken. Might not even be too bad once the swelling's gone down."

"How many weeks?"

Shane shrugs. "Can't say yet. Anywhere from one to eight."

So: out for the last few games of the regular season, but back for the playoffs. Or if it's eight, Shane will miss the playoffs as well. Would Shane stay in Boston, if he was out for that long? Or would he leave, go home to Ottawa to get better there? Ilya doesn't know, anymore, which would be worse.

When Shane has finished eating, Ilya helps him back to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then into bed.

"I am going to tidy kitchen, okay?" From the way Shane looked at the dishes when Ilya helped him up from the table, Ilya is pretty sure Shane's not in the habit of leaving them sitting around overnight. "I will come back."

But it's mostly an excuse to get out of the room. The sight of Shane in bed, with his boring blue sheets, hair still damp from the shower, looking up at Ilya, soft and tired and trusting. Fuck. And Ilya can't leave, because Shane needs someone to stay with him.

Maybe Shane has a guest room.

Please let Shane have a guest room.

Shane is still awake when Ilya returns to the bedroom. "Hey."

Ilya hesitates in the doorway. Shane seems fine. Maybe he doesn't need Ilya to stay. "You are okay? Do you need anything else, medicine, or."

"No, I'm good, thanks."

Now is the time to ask about a guest bedroom. Ilya doesn't speak.

"You know, you're really good at looking after people," Shane says.

Ilya shakes his head. "I have not done anything."

"Ilya." Shane is frowning. "Will you — come here." He holds out a hand.

Probably Shane is such a stubborn idiot that he will get out of bed and come after Ilya, ankle or no ankle, if Ilya refuses. He crosses the room. Shane takes his hand.

"Thank you," Shane says. He squeezes Ilya's fingers. "I mean — I'd probably be fine, by myself. But. It's really nice not to be." He's not looking at Ilya, but at their hands. Ilya realises, belatedly, that he's rubbing his thumb over Shane's knuckles.

Fuck.

Ilya swallows. "I can stay," he says. He doesn't sound right even to his own ears. "If you want. Here, or maybe you have guest room for me."

"Here," Shane says. He squeezes Ilya's hand again. "Can you. Stay here."

Ilya wakes with Shane's head on his shoulder, Shane's hair tickling his nose, morning sunlight on his face from a crack in the curtains.

Ilya wakes, and for a moment before he remembers that this is going to come to an end, in two weeks, or eight, or when the Raiders are knocked out of the playoffs, or even earlier when Ilya inevitably fucks things up, he feels — happy.

He breathes. Shane's head rises and falls on his chest. A dog barks, somewhere in the neighbourhood. Shane's hand twitches and stills.

Fuck it. Fuck everything.

So maybe this is the universe punishing him. Maybe this is going to make everything hurt so much more when Shane leaves. Ilya has been left before. He did not think he would survive, but he did.

If he can only have this for a few weeks, he will take it. He will see how many times he can make Shane happy, and he will pack each smile away in tissue paper and keep them somewhere safe, for when he can't do it any more. Just — fuck it. Fuck everything.

Shane doesn't wake until his alarm goes. Of course he has put his alarm on, even though he is injured. And he says he has to go into the rink, which is stupid, because he is obviously not fit to train, so Ilya gets only one moment of Shane's soft-eyed morning smile and a, "Good morning," before Shane is sitting up and testing his ankle by the side of the bed.

"Feels better already," he says. "Think I can put some weight on it now."

Ilya sits up, reluctantly. "But you are hurt. You should not go anywhere."

"Ilya." Shane stands up. He seems steady on his feet. "You know why I have to go in. I need to see the docs and the PT, and they need to know how long I’m out for."

"For forever." Ilya is finished being subtle about this. "Boston are assholes to you, they do not deserve you."

"Ilya."

"Assholes," Ilya says, stubbornly. He trails Shane into the bathroom and ignores Shane's raised eyebrows. What, like Ilya has never seen Shane's dick before? Also Shane is injured. He needs supervision. "How are you getting there."

"Marly said he can give me a ride."

Ilya leans against the doorframe. "Marly from last night. Yes?"

"Yeah."

"I do not like him."

"Ilya."

"I will drive you," Ilya says.

"My car's at the rink."

"Sveta has a car." It hasn't been driven in months, but probably it still runs.

Shane flushes the toilet. "Do you have a Massachusetts driver's licence, Ilya?"

"I know how to drive. Will be fine."

Shane pauses in the middle of drying his hands, like something's just occurred to him. "What kind of car did you drive in Moscow? No, wait. Don't tell me, let me guess."

"You do not know anything about cars, Hollander. You drive a Jeep."

"And you are a walking caricature," Shane says. Ilya does not know that one, but he guesses it's not a compliment. Shane finishes stripping off and points a finger at Ilya. "Okay. I've got it: Ferrari. Convertible. Red. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You are wrong," Ilya says, smugly.

Shane raises an eyebrow.

"Lamborghini."

"Convertible?" Shane asks.

Ilya has to nod.

"What colour was it?" Shane asks, lips curling in a smirk, and Ilya snaps the corner of a towel at his ass as Shane gets in the shower.

Ilya glowers at Shane all through breakfast, which is eggs again, though there is no bread so Ilya can't even make toast.

"I don't think you should go," Ilya says again, when Shane is getting his coat and shoes and finding the discarded crutch. Marleau has texted to say he's nearly here. Shane is still limping, not for fun reasons, and everything is stupid.

"I'll be sitting around all morning getting checked out or worked on," Shane says. "I'll be fine. Stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying. I am bored and horny and if you go then I can't suck your dick."

He loves that Shane blushes. "Save it for this afternoon. I'll be home by like one at the latest."

"Fine. Come over when you are done. If I have not died of boredom by then I will suck your dick for you." He heaves himself up and tries to remember where he put his keys last night.

"You, uh. Don't have to go if you don't want to?"

Ilya stops. "What?"

"Hang around as long as you want, make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa, et cetera."

Ilya points a finger at him accusingly. "That is not English."

"You watch enough TV to know what it means." This is true, but Shane shouldn't take advantage. "And if you need to go home or whatever — do you still have the spare key?"

From under the doormat. Stupid. "Yes. You should put it somewhere better."

"I was thinking maybe you could keep it. I mean, neighbours should have each other's spare keys, right?" Hollander is delightfully pink and Ilya would like to eat him alive. "Okay, gotta go!"

Right on cue, a car horn beeps outside, and Shane makes his escape.

Fucking Marleau has the worst timing in the world. Ilya knew he didn't like him.

Now Ilya is alone in Shane's house in daylight.

He feels bad about snooping, just for a moment, but he was always going to do it, so there is no point in overdoing the guilt either.

Shane is neat. That's probably helped by the fact that he doesn't seem to have many things to misplace. Everything is very boring and not at all personal, and Ilya would not be surprised to hear Shane paid someone to buy things for his house and never thought about it again.

The biggest surprise is that Shane has an Xbox in some kind of TV room. Not many games, but he does have a copy of the hockey game, only a couple of years old. Excellent.

Ilya puts the controllers on to charge, then clears away the breakfast dishes and heads out, careful to lock the front door behind him. Tomasz will be at the gym today and he will have new photos of Zosia. Ilya is not going to miss out on those.

Shane messages late morning to say he'll be back after lunch, so Ilya eats at home and then goes back to Shane's house to get the Xbox going. Sveta doesn't have one, and Ilya had never even thought of buying one for himself: he enjoys it, sometimes, but not so much playing alone.

It's hard to keep his focus on the game when he hears the garage door motor start, and harder still when the car noise cuts out and the door finally opens.

"Honey, I'm home," Shane calls, because he is a giant dork.

"In here," Ilya calls back, and then Shane's footsteps are coming down the hall, uneven.

"Hi," Shane says from the doorway.

Ilya glances at him. He looks okay. Not upset. He has one of those big black boot things on his foot. "Hi."

Shane sits down next to him on the couch. "You're playing as me."

Ilya hits pause on the game. "Yes." On-screen Shane was in the middle of losing to Philadelphia. Ilya is out of practice. But Shane has sat right next to to him, and he's biting his lip, and Ilya's new motto is fuck it. Ilya leans over and kisses him.

When he sits back, Shane is smiling. "What was that for?"

Ilya shrugs. "How is ankle?"

"Better. Swelling's gone down already, scans are good. And you?"

"And me what." Ilya's ankles are fine. Other parts maybe not so much.

"Did you have a good morning?"

"Was fine."

"Did you enjoy snooping around my house? Find anything interesting?"

"I did not snoop."

Shane gives him a look.

"Much," Ilya amends. "I found Xbox. That is all."

"Ah." Shane leans back. "So you didn't look in the second drawer of my bedside table then."

It takes all of Ilya's limited self control not to immediately go and look in the second drawer of Shane's bedside table.

"I did not," he says, carefully. "It was a mistake, maybe, not to look there?"

Shane shrugs. "Depends what you find interesting, I guess."

"Shane."

"Ilya."

"Shane."

"Ilya."

He looks so fucking pleased with himself. It makes something in Ilya's chest hurt.

"Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to go and look?"

"You can't go snooping around while I'm home. That would be bad manners."

"Then you will tell me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because…" Shane's ankle is hurt, but the rest of him is okay. Ilya doesn't have to be too careful. He shoves at Shane's chest until Shane is lying back on the couch, left leg safely dangling off the edge, then pushes up over him so he's bracketing him with his body. "What about, tell me or I don't let you come."

"Yeah, but. I'm trying to remember what you said this morning." There's something about Shane's eyes when he's happy: dangerous, up close like this. "Your mouth, maybe?"

"Yes." Ilya gets a hand between them and finds Shane's dick, already halfway hard, getting harder when Ilya rubs him through his pants. Fuck, Shane is so easy for it. "And you remember I am very good at sucking your dick. Now think about me sucking your dick and not letting you come unless you tell me what is in drawer."

That gets him a whole body shudder. "I thought you were in the middle of a game," Shane manages.

"I think maybe game-Shane will not mind waiting." Ilya shoves his hand into Shane's underwear. Precome smears against his wrist. "For you, maybe it is not so easy."

He slides down, shoves Shane's pants out of the way and sucks him down in one smooth movement. Shane gasps and his hips jerk off the couch. Ilya shoves them back down and takes his mouth off Shane's dick long enough to remind him, "Careful of ankle," — he is not going to be responsible for fucking up playoffs for Shane, not if Shane wants to play — then sucks Shane down again.

"Fuck, Ilya."

Ilya glances up. Shane is watching him like he's the second coming.

"Oh, f-fuck, that's." His fingers tighten in Ilya's hair. He's close already.

Ilya pulls off. "What is in second drawer of bedside table, Shane?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Shane says. He's breathless, chest rising and falling under Ilya's hand.

Okay. Ilya can play this game. He takes Shane down again and adds a knuckle rubbing behind Shane's balls. Shane's breaths get shorter and shorter and his dick is even harder in Ilya's mouth. Ilya waits until he can feel Shane's balls tighten in his hand, then pulls off, letting Shane's dick slap against his belly.

"What is in second drawer, Shane?"

"Oh my god." Shane has been moving restlessly against the arm of the couch and his hair is a mess, like Ilya's must be from Shane's hands.

"What is in drawer?" Ilya repeats.

"Nothing interesting," Shane says. His eyes are shut like he can't even look at Ilya anymore.

"Open your eyes," Ilya commands, and Shane, fuck, Shane does, eyes dark as he watches Ilya take him in again. This time Ilya reaches further back, Shane helpfully spreading his legs wide as they can, caught in his sweats, and Ilya can just get a finger between Shane's cheeks to tease over his hole while he rubs a thumb behind his balls.

Shane makes a sound almost like a sob when Ilya pulls off. His eyes are shut again.

"You want to come?" Ilya asks.

Shane nods. His bottom lip is red where he has been biting it.

"What is in drawer," Ilya says. "Tell me and you can come."

Shane takes a huge breath in, holds it, then blows it out. One eye cracks open to focus on Ilya. "A pile of old New Yorkers I borrowed from my dad. I read them when I'm having trouble falling asleep."

Shane is smirking. This absolute fucker. "You —" Ilya starts

"The top drawer, though," Shane continues, smirk growing, "now that's where I keep my collection of butt plugs, and dildos, and the handcuffs, and —"

This time Ilya doesn't let up until Shane is coming down his throat.

Shane insists on returning the favour, of course, so Ilya has to watch those beautiful laughing eyes looking up at him while Shane's mouth is on his dick. Then they spend a couple of hours playing Xbox, Shane's foot propped up on some of his many cushions. They're evenly matched, but eventually Shane gets bored, so Ilya declares himself the winner. The wrestling match devolves into jerking each other off, frantic hands and mouths and Ilya trying his best not to knock Shane's ankle off the cushions when he comes.

It's not twice in an hour, but twice in an afternoon is a good start, Ilya thinks. Also, Shane needs to keep tissues and lube in his living room too.

They go back to Sveta's to make dinner. Ilya had bought some groceries on the way home from the gym, so they wouldn't have to eat Shane's terrible meal service food, and Shane is so restless from sitting all afternoon that he even insists on helping. But in the familiar environment of Sveta's kitchen it's clear that something has changed, and it's not just Ilya saying fuck it, it can't be.

Because they're cooking. Making food. Doing something boring and every day and domestic and not at all sexy. And Shane keeps —

Shane keeps looking at him. And maybe he still blushes or ducks his head for a second when Ilya catches him, but then he looks back, like what are you going to do about it?

Ilya knows the answer to that one: kiss him.

And Shane is touching him too, just casually hip checking him out of the way, or letting his arm brush Ilya's when he's reaching for the salad. He's still hesitant with it, every touch followed by a glance at Ilya like he's not sure he's allowed, but then he puts his hand on Ilya's hip to move him, fingers definitely closer to Ilya's dick than strictly necessary, and —

It takes a really long time to get the food ready.

While they eat, Shane slides his good foot over to press against Ilya's under the table, like now that he's started touching, he doesn't want to stop. Ilya had thought there might be a Shane like this, under all those careful layers, and he'd been right. He should feel happier about it.

On the couch after dinner Ilya's trying his best to focus on LA playing Edmonton, but quite frankly he couldn't give a fuck about Western conference teams if Shane's not playing them, and also Shane's feet are nearly in his lap and he's only human. Then Shane's phone chimes with a weird notification.

"Oh," he says, when he checks it. "I forgot to do my Russian lesson today. The little owl dude is angry."

"You are still doing this?" Shane hasn't mentioned it in a while.

"Yeah. It's not easy though."

"So quit."

"I'm not a quitter."

No. Ilya can imagine tiny Shane, lip trembling, declaring exactly that. He wonders if Shane was born like this, or maybe his parents taught him that quitting is another word for failing. "But was just for fun, yes? So is not a big deal."

"Yeah, but also, I don't know. It might come in handy sometime."

Ilya raises his eyebrows. "For what?"

"I don't know. Plenty of Russian guys in the league?"

"Yes." Ilya tries not to think about them, as a general principle. What could have been.

Shane taps at his phone. "You know, it's a shame the Finnish guys always speak such good English when they come over."

"Why?"

"Well. They're always just talking about wanting to fuck their cousins."

"Shane Hollander." Ilya pokes him in the sole of his foot.

"What?"

"I did not know you are comedian as well as hockey player."

"Fuck off." But he looks pleased. He fiddles with his phone. "Oh, looks like I'm learning colours today. Want to help with my pronunciation?"

His accent is so bad. So bad. It's half endearing, half painful to listen to him. Who knew this was the one thing Shane Hollander would be terrible at.

Then Shane says, "Cherny. Huh. Ilya, this says cherny is black."

Ah. "Yes." Ilya fixes his eyes on the screen. This game, so fascinating.

"So Chernysh is —"

Okay. Probably it is time to own up. "Is like cute name, pet name for animal with black fur."

Shane blinks. "Hang on. You named dog-me, what, like. Black dog?"

"Is problem?"

"And you say I'm boring."

"Was a name for you, after all. So boring is perfect."

Shane half-heartedly kicks him in the ribs. "Fuck off."

"If you don't like, you should have picked better name for yourself. Not dog."

He can feel Shane's gaze on him. "Nah, Chernysh is okay. Actually I kind of like it, you know?"

"Because you are boring."

"No, because. I don't know. In English it kind of sounds like —" he stops.

Ilya pokes his foot again. "Like what?"

"Never mind. I should finish this." He goes back to his lesson. So studious. But there's a pink flush creeping up his neck.

Ilya's English is pretty good these days, but not good enough for this. So after a minute he gets out his phone and googles English words like chernysh. The first three results are definitions and synonyms for cherish. Like: love. Hold dear. Treasure.

He had not known this word, cherish, when he had chosen the name. But. Yes.

When the game is over, Shane stretches, puts his phone away, and says, "I should probably get going."

He doesn't get up, though, and should probably isn't the same as I want to.

Also: fuck it.

"Or you could stay," Ilya says. Shane looks at him. "Here, tonight."

"You mean so we can." Shane stops, flushing. "But we already. Twice?"

So shy, and yet his mouth on Ilya's dick this afternoon was anything but. He is a quick learner for things that are not the Russian language. "What, you have rule for only coming twice in one day now?"

"No. But —"

"Also I did not mean for sex, pervert." Although Ilya definitely would, if Shane wanted. But he probably doesn't. "For sleep."

"You wouldn't mind? If I stayed?" He looks like he might want to. Might have wanted to, if Ilya had been brave enough to ask, before.

Ilya shrugs, like it's no big deal, like he does this all the time, even though he has only shared a bed with one other person in his life, and that was Sveta. "You sleep well here as Chernysh, yes? And you have injury. You should stay wherever you will have best sleep. If that is home, go home. If that is here, stay here."

"As simple as that, huh?"

No. "I think so, yes."

Shane does go home to get his toothbrush and clothes to sleep in, but he comes back. Then there is more terrifying domesticity: getting into bed next to each other, just to sleep, not even touching because Ilya is no longer sure what they are doing.

"Fuck, how is your bed so comfortable," Shane groans. "And how am I so tired, I've done like nothing today."

There is one more week of regular season, then playoffs. For every round that the Raiders make it through, Shane will be in Boston two more weeks. But of course there will be away games as well.

How many more nights could Ilya have this? Fifteen? Twenty?

"Okay, I'm going to try to sleep," Shane says. "Spokoynoy nochi, Ilya."

"Your accent is terrible," Ilya says, because it's safer than everything else that wants to come out of his mouth. Twenty nights. This is one.

He doesn't get twenty nights. He gets two.

On Thursday morning Shane's alarm goes off again at an ungodly hour. Ilya makes breakfast and puts a slice of toast on Shane's plate with the eggs and spinach. Shane doesn't even say anything, just eats it. Then Shane goes in for PT and Ilya goes to the gym. Two regular guys, going about their days. Ilya feels a bit like he has accidentally strayed into a parallel universe.

After lunch they have an Xbox rematch. Ilya doesn't let Shane win so much as Ilya maybe puts his feet in Shane's lap to try to distract him, but then Shane starts to get hard and keeps playing through it, biting at his lip and refusing to pause the game even when Ilya stops pretending he's doing anything other than trying to get Shane to come. Ilya has never tried to get anyone off with his feet before. Shane just keeps playing, doesn't even stop when Ilya drops his controller and pulls Shane's pants down and gets his mouth on him.

In the evening Shane has to go sit in the box for the Raiders' last home game of the regular season. He takes a shower before he goes in, in his giant ensuite, and maybe Ilya sucks him off again under the warm spray. Just so Shane has something to think about while he watches his team play without him.

"I guess with the game on we wouldn't've been able to skate together tonight anyway, even if I hadn't fucked my ankle," Shane says right before he leaves. "So at least we're not missing out on that, right?"

Ilya doesn't ask if Shane is planning to come back over after the game, in case he says no. But Shane does come, and they brush their teeth next to each other and then Shane reads his terrible boring book in bed and says spokoynoy nochi again and his accent hasn't improved one tiny little bit and Ilya wants to scream what the fuck is happening but then it would stop and he couldn't bear that either. So he says good night and waits for the other shoe to drop.

Friday morning is just like Thursday morning. And then on Friday afternoon it all goes to shit.

They are in Shane's gym room. Of course Shane has a gym room. It's much better equipped than Sveta's. Probably Ilya could be using this every day, instead of paying for his gym membership. But then he wouldn't know Tomasz and Zosia.

Shane is doing his PT-prescribed balance exercises like the overachiever he is when his phone rings the first time. He glances at Ilya and then leaves the room to answer, which is fine, of course. Maybe Shane doesn't want to talk over the treadmill noise.

Ilya runs two more kilometres before Shane comes back, but Shane barely gets the resistance band back around his ankle before his phone rings again. He blows out a breath when he checks who's calling, and Ilya hears him say, "Hi, Mom. Yeah. Yeah, I know —" as he leaves the room.

Something serious, then. Maybe family problems. Shane doesn't talk about his parents much, and Ilya knows why, but Ilya would listen if Shane wanted to talk about them.

Shane takes longer to come back this time. Ilya finishes on the treadmill and does a few free weights. If Shane doesn't want to talk about it, Ilya could distract him with another Xbox rematch. Or maybe they can shower together and Ilya can blow him again.

Shane doesn't say anything when he eventually comes back in. Ilya can't stop himself from asking, "Everything is okay?"

Shane's face says no. "Yeah. Just my agent. And, uh, my parents."

Not just family then. Family and hockey. "There is problem?"

Shane sighs and sits on the balance ball, bouncing a little. "Not a problem, exactly. But. My contract’s up at the end of the season."

Ilya puts the dumbbell down and sits up. "You are not going to sign with Boston again?" With Hollander's capacity for punishing himself, it is possible.

"I mean, I always thought I'd stay here. They drafted me, and like my mom says, loyalty’s important."

"But you hate playing here."

Shane shakes his head, dismissive, like this is not important. Then he glances at Ilya. "You, uh. When I asked you about getting a dog, a few weeks ago, you said maybe you wouldn’t be staying in Boston for good?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"You don't know, like, you'll probably stay but there's a chance you won't? Or." He picks up the resistance band and starts wrapping it around his hand.

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I want to know." He is so stubborn. It makes Ilya tired.

"I don't know. I don't know what I will do. But I don't think I can stay here. I have no job, nothing."

Shane shifts to winding the band around his left hand instead. "You could find a job?" he says. Like it is so simple. Probably it is when you are Shane Hollander.

"I don't know how to do anything but hockey. And anyway, what is point of being here. I am only making problems."

Shane frowns. "What do you mean?"

English is too hard for something that is so tangled in his head. Already Ilya knows he is going to make a mess of explaining. "Svetlana is stuck with marriage to me," he tries. "It is making problems for her, in New York." That is simple enough. Ilya does not know this James, does not know if he is good enough for Sveta, but if he is not, there will be others.

"You mean, she can't date, or whatever?"

"Yes. That. And also marriage was for citizenship for me, but that will take two more years, and what is point of citizenship, when I am nothing in America? If they even give to me, and maybe they will not, since I am not living with Sveta."

Shane's frown is deeper, probably from trying to untangle that. "So you need to go to New York?"

"No. Would be worse for her if I am there." She would think she has to look after him. She would have to look after him. He is useless.

"Then what?"

He has not said this part out loud before. "I am thinking probably I will go back to Russia."

Shane stops bouncing. "You — really? What would you do there?"

Ilya shrugs. "I don't know. I will find something."

"Do you want to go back? Is it, I dunno. Home?"

His father's house is sold, to pay Alexei's debts. There is not even a literal home to go back to, let alone anything else. "No. Not really."

"What would you want? If you could choose."

He should not be angry with Hollander for thinking like this, but he is. Hollander should know better. Hollander should know that it's dangerous. "That is not how it works."

"I know. But would you choose to go back to Russia?"

Ilya shakes his head. "What is the point, Hollander. What is the point of imagination, like this. It is not real."

"You can try to make it real, though." Fuck, will he never stop. "You can think about what you want, and try to make it happen. Is Moscow what you want?"

"Why is this important. Why do you want to know so much."

Shane is finally silent for a moment. He is avoiding Ilya's eyes. "If you were going to stay in Boston, next year. Then, I don't know. I would probably stick around too."

Something twists in Ilya's gut. He says, unthinking: "No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"You hate it here."

"Not everything. I mean, this has been good, right?"

"What is 'this'."

"You and me. Whatever we are."

Fuck. "We are not anything."

"That's not true."

His face. Fucking hell, Hollander's face. Ilya looks away. "Was just sex, Hollander. Does not mean anything."

Shane shakes his head. "Bullshit."

"Is not bullshit."

"Ilya."

"You were lonely. That is all. You were lonely, I was here. But you will go somewhere better next season, away from here, and find someone who is good for you."

"That's not — I don't want someone else, Ilya."

"You should. I am not good for you."

"But —"

Ilya has had enough. He stands. "Listen. You want to know what I want? I want to stop making things worse for everyone. I want to go somewhere I will not cause problems anymore. When I have worked out where that is I will go there."

He can't be in this room anymore. Not with Shane looking at him like that. He goes for the door.

"Ilya," Shane says. Ilya doesn't stop. "Ilya."

No. Enough. He has done enough harm.

He goes back to Sveta's. The house feels wrong without Shane in it. One of Shane's hoodies is on the arm of the couch. Shane has left his book on the coffee table too, something terrible and boring about hockey and Ilya can't look at it, he —

Fuck.

Ilya has not smoked inside in weeks but he does it now, lighting his second from the butt of the first.

He should have known better. He had known better. He has taken advantage of Shane's loneliness, tricked him into his bed, and now this.

He needs to not be here any more. He should go back to Russia now, not wait for Shane to finish playoffs. The sooner Ilya leaves the sooner Hollander will come to his senses, and the sooner Sveta will be free. He could leave today, tomorrow; just pack a suitcase and go, there is nothing keeping him here. He should book a flight right now.

He doesn't.

Instead, Ilya takes the bottle of vodka out of the freezer and a glass from the cupboard. He puts them both on the coffee table and sits, staring at them, for ten minutes. Then he swears, puts the bottle back in the freezer.

He should probably not run anymore today but he can get on the bike.

He leaves his phone on the floor and blasts music through his headphones while he rides, but he still notices when it buzzes with a message, then another, then another, then another, eight in all, waiting for him when he finally steps off, quads burning and knees unsteady.

He knows it will be Shane. He shouldn't look. He was always going to look.

Are you okay?

Sorry if I was asking too many questions

I guess I was surprised when you said about Russia, I didn't know you'd been thinking about moving back

Of course you should do whatever is best for you. I just didn't think it would be that?

Anyway sorry again if it upset you

And sorry about what I said about the other thing, I know that wasn't the deal

But you said we wouldn't stop being friends even if I fucked this up and this is me trying to be your friend

A gap in the timestamps, then one last message:

Can you please at least say something so I know you're okay?

Ilya locks his phone and leaves it in the bedroom while he has a shower, so he won't see if Shane texts again, so he won't do something stupid like reply.

After he is dressed, he is not feeling good but he thinks maybe he is hungry. He microwaves a frozen burrito and eats it standing in the kitchen. Nowhere in this house is safe, not the kitchen, not the table, not the couch, not his bedroom. Everywhere there is Shane.

It is still only mid afternoon. He turns on the TV, takes his phone out and opens Skyscanner, so he sees the text from Shane straight away: Seriously, are you ok?

He puts his phone away and stares at the TV.

The sun is starting to set when the doorbell rings. Ilya ignores it. It's not a delivery, he hasn't ordered anything since he's started doing his own groceries. Then his phone buzzes again. Hollander. Please at least open the door for two seconds so I can see that you're ok.

The problem with that would be that he's not okay.

He doesn't open the door.

Ten minutes later he hears the distant thunk-thud of the dog door in the laundry room, and then Chernysh comes trotting quietly into the living room, tail low.

"You," Ilya says. Of course Chernysh does not answer. He looks the same as always, not even limping. It's good that Chernysh doesn't suffer, if Shane is injured.

"This is cheating," Ilya tells him, even though there is no way Chernysh can understand him. "I did not think Shane Hollander would cheat."

Chernysh just looks at him.

If this was a normal visit, Chernysh would have jumped on the couch by now and put his head in Ilya's lap. Maybe Chernysh will never nap with him again. Ilya pats the couch, just in case, but Chernysh ignores him and goes over to the coffee table. Ilya's phone is there, next to the box of tissues. Chernysh nudges it with his nose, then looks at Ilya, then bumps the phone again.

"Not you too," Ilya says, but he picks his phone up and unlocks it. Chernysh brushes past Ilya's legs then quietly trots out of the room. The dog door thunks again.

So Hollander wants proof of life. Ilya turns the phone over in his hands. He doesn't know what to text. I'm OK is not true. You should stop is true, but Ilya can't bring himself to send it.

He's still trying to think of something when it rings.

"Hollander."

"Hi." Shane sounds out of breath. He must have just gotten back home and changed. Is he sitting on the couch, where Ilya went down on him and made him wait to come? Or in his bed, maybe, where Ilya slept next to him for the first time. "I — thanks for picking up. And sorry. About all the messages, and coming over like that. But I was worried."

"You should not be worrying about me."

"Ilya."

For fuck's sake. But if Ilya hangs up, Chernysh will probably come over again and look at him with those sad eyes. He sighs. "What do you want, Hollander."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Ilya doesn't say anything, though see what happens when you go around wanting things is stuck somewhere between his teeth.

"And, I, uh. I've been thinking all afternoon, and I wanted to ask." Hollander is silent for another moment. Then, "You said that you wanted to stop causing problems, and, like making things worse for people?"

"Yes."

"Did you mean for Svetlana, or me, or what?"

"Yes."

A half-laugh. "Don't start that again."

Ilya rubs his forehead. "Then stop asking stupid questions."

"No, but. I was thinking, and I want to know, which part was you causing problems for me."

"Hollander."

"No, I'm serious." He's talking fast, like he does when he's nervous, but with none of his usual hesitations where Ilya can get a word in. "Was it when you were cooking my boring food for me all the time so I didn't have to eat meal service shit? Or when you were helping me sleep?"

"That was not —"

"Or calling me on my bullshit? Or looking after me when I got hurt? Or letting me call you from the road to whine about my stupid problems? Or — "

"Hollander."

"Seriously. Which of those was causing problems for me." Now he sounds almost angry, which is not fair, because that's Ilya's job. "Which part of that made things worse for me? You tell me. Because you have done nothing but make my life better, Ilya. You're, like, the kindest person I know, and it fucking kills me that you don't seem to know that."

"Hollander."

"For fuck's sake, when I met you here you were literally being kind to stray animals. So —"

"I killed my father," Ilya says, loud enough that Hollander finally stops talking. There's a moment of fractured silence.

Then Hollander says, "What?"

"You heard me." And now Hollander knows, maybe he will finally leave Ilya alone.

But Hollander has never left anything alone in his life. "Like, on purpose?" he asks.

Ilya did not put a gun to his father's head, but he had wished him dead often enough, and maybe that was the same thing, in the end. "He is dead because of me."

Hollander's voice is quiet now. "What happened?"

The sun has set properly now and Ilya hasn't turned any lights on, just the glow from the television casting shadows across the room. It makes it easier, maybe, to say it.

"Last year. He was —" But maybe Hollander doesn't know what it can be like, with dementia. Ilya hopes he does not. "With his sickness, night and day can be mixed up. He was sometimes awake all night."

"Okay."

Ilya shuts his eyes; even the light from the TV is too much for this. "The doctors wanted to give him sleeping pills. So he would not be awake. I would not let them."

"Why not?"

"I did not want to have them in the house." It's hard to force the words out, but every detail of the story he manages is like unpicking another knot in whatever trap he's tangled Hollander in. "In case of accident."

"You mean, like. Someone taking too many?"

"Yes."

"Your father? Or."

Ilya swallows, and doesn't answer. He is not sure, even now. He just knew he could not have them in the house. "So without pills, sometimes he would wake at night and go walking. Always I was careful to lock the doors, but one night he got out. I don't know how."

Ilya had been drinking. He had usually been drinking. Maybe if he had been sober, he would have heard his father moving around.

"It was April. Not snowing, but still too cold. We found him later, but he got sick. Infection in his chest. And then he died."

Hollander doesn't say anything straight away. Like he is waiting for more. Like this is not enough, that Ilya killed his father, by drinking too much, not taking care. And then Hollander says, "But. You know that wasn't your fault, right?"

Ilya's throat hurts.

Hollander says, "Ilya. That wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

Ilya does not know anything, except that he had given up everything to stay in Russia to look after his father, and then had failed at that too, and anyway, "I did not see him leave the house that night, but if I had." He stops. Pushes his fist into his thigh until his knuckles pop and the skin goes white. "If I had, I think maybe I would not have stopped him."

Hollander breathes out, harsh. Then silence. Ilya would think maybe Hollander has gone, but he has stupidly made himself an expert in Hollander's breathing. Hollander is still there. He is just not saying anything. Because maybe Ilya has finally gotten through to him. Maybe Hollander has finally realised it is better to have nothing to do with Ilya. Ilya should hang up, stop this stupid indulgence, stop.

"I'm sorry," Hollander says, at last. "I mean, I'm not — or, I am sorry that he died, I guess, because — but I meant, like. I'm sorry that he wasn't a good dad to you."

A good dad. How Grigori Rozanov would have hated that.

"Was he. Uh." Hollander says. "Did he —?"

The impossibility of explaining his father to Hollander, with his perfect loving family.

"I think," Ilya starts. He has to force the words past the ache in his throat. "I thought a lot. Last year. Because I was angry with him for being sick. But this was not fair, he did not choose to be sick."

"Sure," Hollander says. "But —"

"So I can forgive this, maybe. But." He stops, tries to swallow, harsh click in his ears. "I am not a good person."

"Ilya."

"I am not. Many times that last year, he was very bad, confused. He did not know me."

"That's normal, right? With dementia?"

"Yes. But he would ask for my mother, my grandparents, and be upset when they could not come, and I was glad, Hollander. I thought, good, he deserves this. He deserves worse."

A long pause. Finally Hollander says, "That's not the same thing as killing him, though."

Ilya's knuckles hurt. He unfolds his fist, stretches his fingers out the other way, digs them into his thigh, feels the bones ache. Hollander breathes, quiet, steady. He is maybe waiting for Ilya to hang up. He will be waiting a long time.

"Ilya."

"What."

"You said, uh. He was asking for your mom? Your dad, I mean."

"Yes."

"You never mention her. I thought, maybe." His voice is soft. If Ilya closes his eyes he can almost imagine Hollander is next to him, talking quietly into his ear while his fingers claw truths out of Ilya's body.

"Maybe what."

"I thought, maybe she might be."

This Canadian squeamishness about using the real words. It will not make Irina any more alive. "Yes. She is dead."

"Ilya. I'm so sorry."

"It was a long time ago. I was young."

Surely this is enough for him. But no. Hollander breathes and breathes and Ilya wonders if he is sitting in the dark, too, if he is digging his fingers into his thigh like Ilya is, and then he says, "How old were you? When she died?"

"Twelve." Half his life, now. But when he is thirty six, forty eight, sixty, he won't have to do anything more than close his eyes to feel twelve again, desperately afraid to take a step closer, unable to walk away.

"Was she. Did she get sick, or something?"

"No."

"Then, how did she —"

"By accident." Now it's hard to talk again. And he hadn't meant to tell Hollander any of this, not really, but maybe it's better this way, maybe it's better if he knows how Ilya failed to love either of his parents enough.

"You mean, like, a car accident, or."

"No."

"Oh, like, a fall?"

"No."

Then they are talking over each other.

"Sorry, you don't have to —"

"She accidentally."

Another breath. "Yeah?"

"She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills."

A sudden clattering noise on Hollander's end, like he has maybe dropped his phone.

"Jesus, fuck," Ilya hears faintly, then Hollander's voice comes through clearly again, "Sorry. Are you — fuck. Are you still there?"

"Yes. I am here."

"Hang on a second. Okay, Ilya? Just," then more noises again, something banging.

"I don't want you to think she was weak," Ilya says. Suddenly it's important that Hollander knows this. Before he hangs up and Ilya doesn't get a chance to tell him, ever. "She wasn't. She was so funny, and beautiful, but my father was so hard on her. I tried to make it better, but she was so sad, and — "

Then the doorbell goes, and Hollander says in his ear, "Ilya. Can you. I'm at the door. Please let me in?

Ilya doesn't know when his eyes got wet: maybe when he'd been sitting alone in the darkness, though he hadn't noticed, or maybe not until he opened the door and Shane came in and put his arms around him. It doesn't matter. They have been standing in the hallway for a long time; too long, probably. It can't be good for Shane's ankle to be holding Ilya like this, while Ilya hides his face in Shane's shoulder and tries to remember how to breathe without choking. He hasn't cried in years. He's not even crying now, not properly, not like they do on TV, but every time he takes a breath and thinks enough, stop, Shane rubs his back or murmurs something and Ilya's eyes are wet again.

"Sorry," Ilya manages to croak, eventually.

"For what?"

Everything. "Your ankle. You should not be standing like this."

"Fuck my ankle," Shane says.

"You will not be thinking that if you miss playoffs."

"I don't think you heard me." Shane had his face in Ilya's shoulder, too, but he lifts it now, pulling back to say clearly, "Fuck my ankle, and fuck the playoffs. Jesus Christ, Ilya, you —"

He runs out of words and puts his face back into Ilya's shoulder. Maybe Ilya's shirt is damp too.

A little while later, Shane says, "Okay. I'm not saying you're right, but. Could we maybe sit down?"

He's limping as they walk down the hall. Also, Shane had taken Ilya's hand to balance when he kicked his slides off and had just not let go afterwards, and his grip gets uncomfortably tight every time he puts weight through his left side.

"You hurt your ankle again," Ilya says.

"Yeah. I tripped, trying to put my shoes on."

Ilya pauses as they go past the kitchen to turn the light on. Not that he would mind sitting in the dark, because his face feels hot and uncomfortable, but Shane maybe would find it weird. Also if he turns the lights on he can check if Shane's ankle has swollen up again.

It doesn't look too bad, but what does he know. "You should put ice on it."

Shane jerks his chin. "I'll ice it if you drink some water."

Shane gets the frozen peas and settles himself on the couch with his foot propped on the coffee table. Ilya dutifully drinks a bottle of water and then doesn't know what to do. He is raw, exposed. He wants to crawl under something heavy and not come out until Shane has gone away.

He doesn't want Shane to go away.

"Come and sit down," Shane says. He holds an arm out like he wants Ilya to sit right next to him, so Ilya does. Then Shane says, "Hey, actually why don't we," and somehow Ilya is lying on the couch with his head in Shane's lap, one of Shane's hands on his shoulder, the other one in his hair.

It's nice, Shane's hands on him. Ilya is too tired to question it anyway.

The TV is on the cooking channel because Ilya hadn't really been paying attention earlier. He thinks the Raiders are playing in Vancouver this evening, off on their last road trip of the season. Probably Shane was planning to watch at home. Ilya offers to change the channel but Shane says no, which is — maybe Ilya has broken him.

"I'm not broken, Ilya. There are just more important things than hockey."

Ilya turns his head to squint up at Shane. "Okay. Who are you and where is real Shane Hollander."

"Fuck off." Shane slides his fingers through Ilya's hair and Ilya turns back to the TV. That British baking show is on. Ilya had tried watching it the first few months in Boston but the accents had been confusing, half of them barely recognisable as English. He doesn't have the energy to concentrate on the language now either, but they're making chocolate cakes, and that doesn't need words.

Ilya has never made a cake. Probably he could, though. How hard can it be? "If I bake chocolate cake," he says. "Will you help me eat?"

Shane scratches gently at his scalp. "I don't eat chocolate, Ilya," he says, as if Ilya had somehow forgotten. "Or cake. So, no."

"Cupcake?"

"Still no."

"Chocolate chip cookie?"

"I didn't even know you knew how to bake."

That wasn't a no. Ilya will start with cookies. "I will learn."

"Mm."

Ilya can see why Shane likes it so much when Ilya plays with his hair. It makes it hard to think, to worry about anything except that Shane will eventually stop. So it catches him entirely by surprise when Shane says, "Hey, uh. That stuff you told me. About your father, I mean. Does Svetlana know?"

Ilya fixes his eyes on the TV. Someone is putting icing on a too-warm cake and it is melting. "Not everything. She was in Boston. She came to Moscow for funeral, but she did not know everything that happened, before."

Sveta had always been angry with Ilya for choosing to stay in Russia, as though he'd had a choice. Ilya couldn't admit to her that it had been for nothing, that he had failed anyway.

"So… does anyone else know?"

The melted-icing man looks very sad. His cake looks worse. "Alexei," Ilya says.

Shane's fingers still for a moment and then start moving again. "Your brother. Right?"

Shane always remembers so much, like he has a file in his head labelled Ilya Rozanov where he keeps everything Ilya lets slip neatly tucked away. "Yes. He was very angry, when my father died."

"With you?"

"Yes. And with everything else. But mostly me."

"Did he blame you, for…"

"Yes."

"But he didn't help you."

Ilya would not call it helping: the phone calls, the arguments, firing the carers when there was no one else to take over. "He was busy. He had regular job, family."

"So? He still could've — fuck. Done something. I don't know."

Ilya shrugs. Maybe Alexei could have. But he had not taken on the responsibility, Ilya had.

"Ilya. It wasn't your fault."

"I was drinking too much." He can't remember if he told Shane that, before. "Maybe if I was not, I would have heard my father trying to get out."

"You could have been high as a fucking kite and your dad safe in his bed all night and he still could've gotten sick."

"You don't know that."

"And you don't know that he wouldn't have."

"Alexei said —"

Shane's hand tightens on his shoulder. "No offence, Ilya, but your brother sounds like kind of an asshole. I think maybe you shouldn't listen to him."

How many times has Sveta told him this. But Sveta had not been there, not all the time.

"Sveta hates him."

Shane's hand slides from Ilya's shoulder down his arm and back up again, soothing. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I hate him too. And I've never even met him, so."

Alexei would see through Shane in an instant and go for the throat. They can never be allowed in the same country. Ilya forces himself to shrug under the warmth of Shane's hand. "He is still my brother."

"Ilya." Shane's voice is so soft. It shouldn't hurt, a soft voice like that. "Your dad died from dementia. You did the best you could in an impossibly shitty situation. It wasn't your fault."

Ilya exhales heavily. The skin around his eyes is already stinging. He can't do this again.

"Ilya."

He puts a hand on top of Shane's and squeezes. "Enough now, okay?"

"Okay. Sorry." Shane moves his fingers and for a horrible moment Ilya thinks he is going to take them away, but no. He is just tangling them together with Ilya's. "But, like. Just so you know, I can keep saying it as many times as you need to hear it."

The chocolate episode is ending. The melted-icing man is being sent home, but first there is hugging, so much hugging, and talking about the friends they've made along the way. What if MLH was like this after a playoff loss. Shane would hate it so much.

Another episode starts. Bread week. Good. Shane should watch. Ilya yawns.

"You want to go to bed?" Shane asks.

Ilya is so comfortable. He didn't know that it was possible to be this comfortable. Maybe Sveta has let him rest his head in her lap sometimes, after they have fucked, but Shane's hands are so big and warm and his legs are huge. "No."

"Okay. Let me know when you're ready to go up."

Ilya forces his eyes back open. On TV, they are showing a clip of one of the bakers at home, walking a dog, holding hands with another man. So ordinary. Would Shane ever let himself have something like that? His fingers twitch in Ilya's, probably by accident.

Ilya yawns again. His voice comes from a long way away. "You will stay, yes?" They are private here. Shane will let him have this, at least.

Shane traces the shell of his ear. "Yeah, I'm staying. Come on. Bedtime."

When Ilya wakes, Shane is sitting up in bed next to him. He's reading his boring hockey book. That book had been on the coffee table when they'd gone to bed last night, so Shane must have woken up, gone downstairs to get his book, and come back to bed. To Ilya.

Also it is very light outside. Ilya doesn't remember Shane's alarm going off. Shane's alarm always goes off.

Ilya's eyes are still sore, and his head is scooped out again, emptied, like when he'd first left Moscow. But it's different somehow, too, like there had been a poisoned lining left behind before that has finally been scraped away.

"Hey. Good morning."

Shane is smiling at him. He's so beautiful. Ilya can't remember if he's ever told Shane that. Maybe Shane wouldn't like it, but the truth of it is so obvious, it's hard not to say.

"What time is it," Ilya asks instead.

"LIke, ten-ish?"

Ten. Late. "You are meant to be doing PT."

Shane shrugs. "Yeah, well. I called Jamie, earlier, told him I wasn't going to make it in today."

His face is too much. Ilya closes his eyes. "What are we doing, Hollander."

"You were sleeping? And I was reading."

"You know that is not what I am asking."

They are not touching anywhere. Ilya can still feel Shane's hands on him from last night, on his shoulder, in his hair.

"I don't know, but." Paper rustling. Shane putting his bookmark in, probably. He would not fold a page over to keep his place. "I guess I'm trying to be your friend?"

"My friend."

"For now. Anything else we might have to figure out together."

That sounds exhausting. Ilya doesn't know, anymore, what is the right thing to do.

"Also I woke up pretty early, and I was thinking —"

Ilya groans, reflexively. Has anything good ever followed those words out of Shane's mouth.

"Shut up, this is the last thing, I promise. I just wondered. Did your team in Moscow have like a psychologist, or a counsellor or anyone that you could talk to?"

An easy question, at least. He can look at Shane for this. "It was Moscow, Hollander. Not L.A." No one had even asked why he was late, the day his father had been admitted to hospital for the last time. They had just shouted. That was when Ilya had broken Cherchesov's nose.

"And, like. After your mom died, did you —"

"What do you think." It was an accident, Ilya. You understand.

"Okay. So. I know talking doesn't help everyone, but a few years ago, after I got caught, they made me talk to the team psych?"

Hard to imagine, Shane in a little room, lying stiff and uncomfortable on a couch, talking about his feelings. But maybe it is not like in the movies. "Did it help?"

Shane shrugs. "It didn't fix things, obviously, but yeah. A bit. So if you ever wanted to do that, I could help you find someone, and take you to appointments and stuff. If you wanted."

He looks so hopeful, like the idea of talking about his feelings is a gift he has just presented to Ilya, instead of a terrifying Pandora's box. Ilya opens his mouth to say no, and instead finds himself saying, "Maybe. Maybe."

"Okay. Good."

"But, Hollander." It's not fair if only one of them has to have their soft underbelly laid bare before breakfast, so Ilya is not letting this one slip by. "You said after you got caught."

Shane frowns. "Yeah, I thought I told you, before? I was out, and this guy was — and we — anyway, I should have been paying more attention."

"No, you said caught. Caught, like, what you did is wrong."

"Yeah?"

So much for the team psychologist. Probably it was all keep your focus on the game and nothing at all about you don't need to be ashamed no matter what those assholes tell you. "You know there is nothing wrong with being gay."

Shane shrugs, but he turns toward the window like he can see through the curtains if he just stares hard enough. "Yeah, I know."

He has never been less convincing. Ilya raises his eyebrows.

"No, I do know," Shane says. "LIke, in my head, I know. I wasn't doing anything different from what all the other guys do every time they go out. I know that. But."

"You need me to say it few more times, maybe? Is okay to be gay. Is okay to like sucking dick."

Shane's exasperated embarrassed face. Ilya would like to make him look like this fifty times a day and punch anyone else who dares. "Ilya."

"Is okay to like being fucked. Is okay — "

"Ilya." Shane is bright red. "I'm going to go make a start on breakfast. Or like. Brunch now, I guess. And you can — whatever. But stop doing that. Please."

Ilya gets up. Shane makes them both smoothies. They are a disturbing green colour. Ilya had not known there was anything that colour green in the house.

"There wasn't," Shane says. "I had to go home to get some clothes this morning and I brought the smoothie stuff back with me."

"You know I have frozen waffles in freezer," Ilya says. He takes another dubious sip. "Very good American invention. Quick and delicious. Not green at all."

"Don't be such a baby. I didn't even put spirulina in yours."

Ilya frowns. "What is spirulina?"

The argument about whether eating algae is a good idea — Ilya maintains that since he is not a fish, eating algae is not his job — lasts through the rest of breakfast. Then they tidy up. Shane is not limping so much as last night but he is still being careful.

"You should put boot back on, maybe?" Ilya suggests.

"Maybe. I'll get it later." Shane sits back down at the table. Shane, sitting, again. So his ankle is not good. But he is here, playing truant, with Ilya. "Hey, so, since I skipped PT I was going to get a haircut today. Want to come?"

Ilya doesn't recognise the barber, but it could be the same man. Hard to know: last time they came here everything had been too harsh, too raw, too much, like being dragged out of hibernation too early, none of the details making it through the glare. But spring has started, now, the light warmer and gentler, more people around. This feels more like stretching out after a long sleep.

So much has happened since Shane first brought him here. They had hardly touched each other, back then. But so much is the same as well. Ilya is still just existing in Sveta's house, treading water.

Maybe he could find a job. His gym is not hiring but there must be others. It would be boring, probably, but he could learn how to look after the equipment, and maybe he wouldn't have to talk too much. He knows more about working out than he does about anything else, anyway.

He could try to do that, but the truth is that he doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to stay in Sveta's house if Shane is not next door. And Shane should not stay in Boston. So: back to square one. They both have to leave.

Shane says he's okay to stop at a grocery store on the way home so Ilya can buy things to make cookies, but when they've pulled into the parking lot he doesn't get out of the car. Ilya looks over at him. His face is — not good. Ilya hadn't thought, but maybe this is something Shane won't let himself have: buying groceries with another man. Just in case someone gets the right idea.

"You should wait in car," Ilya says. "You have been on ankle too much today already. I will be quick, okay?"

He tries not to mind the look of relief on Shane's face. The way Shane's shoulders drop as he releases his grip on the steering wheel.

At home, they eat lunch, and then Ilya pulls up the cookie recipe. Shane is watching from the couch, foot propped up, doubt all over his face.

"No, but, seriously. Have you ever baked before in your life?"

"Recipe says foolproof, Hollander. I think will be okay."

It turns out Sveta doesn't have a stand mixer and Ilya has to spend ten minutes with a bowl and a wooden spoon trying to turn butter and sugar into something that could be called 'light and fluffy'. It's hard work. He is sweating and he takes his hoodie off. The t-shirt underneath is an old one, thin and tight over his shoulders. Shane's eyes are on him.

Ilya is not sure what they are doing here, whether he and Shane are just friends now, whether he is supposed to pretend that he doesn't know what Shane looks like when he comes. They haven't really touched today, definitely haven't kissed, nothing like it was before Shane brought up staying in Boston next season and everything went to shit. But. Shane is still looking. That is something, at least.

The packet of chocolate chips reminds him of Shane's Ghirardelli chocolates. They were little chocolate buttons, too. He tries one: very good. Dark, but not bitter, not too sweet. Probably Shane would like them.

He looks at Shane, still on the couch, doing something on his phone. He looks back at the chocolate buttons.

"Hollander."

"Yeah?"

"I have idea."

Shane looks up. He looks a little wary. "What is it?"

"A game. Like clowns, at carnival. You will open mouth, I will throw chocolate. If I can get in, then I win. But you have to keep open properly, no cheating."

Shane puts his phone down. Good. Ilya has got him. "How many goes do you get?"

Ilya shrugs. "I don't know. Ten?"

"Hmm. Okay. And what do you get if you win?"

Ilya had not thought this far. But, of course: "You have to eat one of my cookies. No complaining."

"And if I win?"

Ilya shrugs again. "I don't know. What do you want?"

Shane flushes and looks away. Oh. Ilya hadn't thought — that was not the idea.

"Don't worry," Ilya says. "It does not matter because you will not win anyway. Maybe you have not heard, I am very good shot."

That gets Shane looking back at him. So predictable. "With a hockey puck, maybe."

"Hockey puck, chocolate, they are both round, so is same thing, no?"

But the first seven shots miss: bouncing off Shane's shoulder, off the arm of the couch, maybe even down the back of the cushions. It's a good thing there aren't any real dogs here or they would get chocolate poisoning.

The eighth chocolate goes in.

Shane looks startled. Then he closes his eyes and goes still, not chewing but maybe just letting the chocolate melt in his mouth until finally he swallows. Ilya is definitely not getting hard from watching Shane eat a chocolate button. That would be a ridiculous thing to do.

"S'good chocolate," Shane says, when he opens his eyes again.

"You chose them, so. You have good taste." Shane would taste like chocolate, if Ilya kissed him now. But they are not doing that. Not today.

Maybe not ever again.

The cookies turn out fine, not amazing, but not a disaster. Shane eats one and licks melted chocolate from his thumb afterwards and Ilya somehow manages not to kiss him for the second time in an hour. They should give medals for this. Ilya would win gold for sure. To Russia's Ilya Rozanov for self control in the face of extreme provocation.

Shane's phone rings later in the afternoon, when they're both on the couch, sitting sideways at either end with their feet overlapping in the middle. Ilya hadn't realised how relaxed Shane had been until suddenly he isn't. He looks at the screen, looks at Ilya. "It's my agent."

Shane probably wants privacy, but he shouldn't get up, not with his ankle. "I will go?" Ilya offers.

Shane shakes his head and accepts the call.

Ilya keeps his eyes on his own phone and tries not to listen. It's pretty hard to follow properly with just one end of the conversation anyway, talk of cities and caps and coaches. Also Ilya is maybe busy trolling Dallas Kent a little on Twitter. It is maybe his new favourite hobby.

"So that was Farah," Shane says, when he has hung up.

Ilya is not sure he can have this conversation again. But also he doesn't think he can get up and walk away from Shane. "Yes."

"I, uh, wanted to know what my other options might be. Next season."

This sounds like Shane is going to leave Boston. This is what Ilya wanted. Why does he feel sick. "You are good player. You will have many choices."

Shane pulls a face. "Anyway, I asked if she could find out if Ottawa might be a possibility."

"Ottawa?"

"Yeah."

Ilya is not sure where he had been thinking, for Shane, but Ottawa was not it. "But Ottawa are terrible." Bottom of the Eastern conference, Ilya is pretty sure.

"I know. But you said, you know."

"What did I say?" Does Hollander have an encyclopaedic memory of every piece of bullshit Ilya has spouted in his presence?

"You said that if I joined a shit team it wouldn’t be shit anymore. Because I’d be playing for them."

Ah. Ilya still believes this one. "Yes, is mostly true. But Ottawa. Really?"

"Well, it's my hometown."

"And is boring, like you. Yes?"

"Fuck off. I meant that people wouldn't think it was too weird, if I wanted to go there. They'll have cap space, a couple of their older guys are retiring, and they need a decent center." This sounds rehearsed, like maybe Shane has been trying to convince himself it's a logical choice. But the next part doesn't: "And also. They’re gonna have a new coach next season."

"Old coach was not good?"

"I don't know. Maybe, but. Next year it'll be Brandon Wiebe."

Again, Shane has mistaken Ilya's interest in him for an interest in hockey. "I don’t know this name."

"No, he's never coached at MLH level before. But — it probably doesn’t mean anything, but you remember I said when the whole thing happened, a few years ago, most of the guys in the league were pretty shitty?"

"Yes. I remember." Ilya has only two names so far, Kent and Barrett, but he will collect more whenever Shane lets them slip.

"Well, Wiebe’s an ex-player. Retired like one season after I was drafted, I think we’d only played each other maybe once. But he still bothered to get in touch, and, like, offer his support or whatever."

Such a low bar there is for decency in MLH.

"And then there's this." Shane fiddles with his phone for a few seconds then hands it to Ilya. It's the Instagram page of someone called Harris.

"What is this?"

Ilya scrolls. Lots of photos of a smiling, pleasant looking man. Sometimes with dogs — Ilya slows down for those, the dogs are very cute — often with apples, for some reason.

"Why are you showing me this apple man."

"Check out the pins," Shane says. "On his bag, and his jacket, and everywhere."

Ilya scrolls back up, slowly this time. Shane is right, Harris does seem to love pins. Rainbow pins.

Ah.

Ilya hands the phone back. "And he is in Ottawa?" Though why Shane should be excited about there being one openly gay man in all of Ottawa is beyond him; Ilya is sure there are plenty of gay men in Boston and it hasn't made it any more welcoming to Shane.

"Harris the Cens’ social media guy. That's his personal Instagram, obviously. But still. Front office have to be aware of it, and he's still working for them. So."

Again, breaking news: MLH team front office not actively homophobic dickheads, more at nine. That this should be enough to make number one draft pick Shane Hollander consider playing for the Ottawa Centaurs.

"Farah thinks they'd offer me a good deal. Long term, with a no-trade clause. But. I don't know."

Ilya understands. "Would mean maybe no more chances to win Cup."

"Yeah, but. That's not the problem."

"Then what is the problem?"

Shane just looks at him.

"Shane. What is problem?"

"If I say it, are you going to run away again?

"I did not run away."

"You did. I mean. Maybe you thought you had good reason to, I don't know. But."

Ilya abruptly feels so tired. It's only the middle of the afternoon. "Can we not do this?"

"Right now, or ever? Because —"

"Not now. Okay?"

Shane's face is too soft. "Yeah. Okay."

Ilya makes dinner. Shane doesn't help. Probably that's a good thing; Ilya's not sure what it would do to him, having Shane in the kitchen with him being careful again. Afterwards, of course, there is a game on. Ottawa are playing in New York.

"Their goalie is not very good," Ilya observes, after New York scores for a second time in ten minutes. Any other team and they would probably pull him. But this is Ottawa.

"Yeah." Shane's focused, totally absorbed in the game. Ilya wishes he didn't find it so attractive, and also so infuriating. Ilya wants to do a cartwheel in front of the television screen, childish: I am here, look at me. "Couple of their defensemen aren't too bad, though."

"So just replace all their forwards, half of defensemen and also their goalie, and maybe they are not terrible team. Wow."

Shane shrugs, still watching closely. "They'll get some good draft picks next season. And me, maybe, so."

"Even you cannot save whole team, Hollander. Not even if you fix weak backhand."

That finally gets him Shane's attention — and then, of course, Shane's phone rings. "Fuck. It's my mom."

"I will go." Ilya starts to get up, but Shane hooks his good ankle over Ilya's. It's the first deliberate contact Shane has made all day.

"No, stay. Please?"

Ilya sits back down like his strings have been cut.

Shane's mom has a lot to say. Ilya doesn't catch any of the words, but he can hear the rising and falling cadence of her voice. Shane says, "Mom, I get it, I —" and, "I know this isn't —" and then eventually, "Mom. Can you please listen for a minute?"

Silence on the other end of the phone. Shane has his eyes shut, free hand pulling at his eyelid like he's trying to pluck out his lashes. "I just. I know leaving Boston wasn't the plan. But I'm not happy here. I haven't been for a while."

A murmur of protest.

"Because I didn't want you guys to worry about me."

More murmuring. Shane's frowning, a deep line through the middle of his forehead. Ilya can't reach to smooth it out for him and doesn't know if it's allowed, anyway. Instead, he rubs Shane's good ankle with his foot. A poor substitute, but Shane glances at him and the side of his mouth quirks up just a little, rueful.

"No. That's why I didn't say anything. There wasn't anything you could do."

If Ilya uses both feet, he can push the hem of Shane's pants up a little and touch bare skin.

"Mom. I don't want to go into it with you right now, okay? I just wanted to think about my options, that's all. Anyway, can we talk about this another time? I'm at a friend's house." A pause. "No, not — they're playing in Calgary tomorrow. I do know people in Boston outside of the team."

Ilya can't let that pass. He prods Shane's shin with his toe and mouths who?

Shane rolls his eyes and mouths back, Fuck off. "No. And I'm being rude so I'm going to go." Murmuring. "Yeah, I'll talk to you again soon. Say hi to dad for me. Love you too. Bye."

Shane tosses his phone in his lap, drops his head back, sighs. Ilya pokes his shin again. "So dramatic, Hollander."

"Yeah, well." He lifts his head again. "I think my mom forgets sometimes that I'm a fully functioning adult, and not, like, eight years old."

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him.

"Fuck off."

"No. Is still my house."

Shane taps his foot against Ilya's ankle. Ilya taps back. Shane seems to have lost interest in watching the game. Good.

"You told her," Ilya says.

"Told her what?"

"That you are not happy here."

Shane looks down and fiddles with the drawstring of his sweatpants. "Yeah. I'm, uh. Trying out this new thing."

Another ankle tap. "What is thing?"

"I'm trying to, like, say what I actually feel. About stuff." A quick glance up, then back to the drawstring, winding it around his finger.

"Is better, maybe, than some of your other rules."

"Yeah. It's good, I think? But also, like, terrifying."

"Yes." Ilya takes a deep breath. If Shane is being brave enough to say, maybe Ilya can be brave enough to ask. "Do you want to stay here tonight? Not for — just for sleep."

"Yeah."

Ilya nods. "Okay. Good."

Ilya is tired but he can't sleep. He should have gone to the gym today, or at least used the treadmill. It's like those first few months after Sveta left when he would wander around the house for hours, waiting for sleep. Only he is not alone, this time. Shane is here.

If someone made Ilya choose between never touching Shane's dick ever again, or never falling asleep next to him ever again, Ilya thinks he would probably choose no more sex. Which is — he doesn't know what that is. Not normal.

Shane sighs and rolls over in bed, facing Ilya now. Their eyes meet for a moment so Shane catches Ilya staring like a creep, but for some reason he doesn't seem to mind. A little smile flickers over Shane's lips before he closes his eyes again.

"You are not asleep," Ilya says, pointlessly.

Shane's eyes open briefly. "No."

Probably he wants to sleep. But Ilya can't. "Shane."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want you to stay in Boston for me."

Shane's eyes open again. "Yeah. I mean, you made that pretty clear, so. I get it. But."

"But what."

"But you get that I would, though, right?"

"Why."

"Why would I stay?"

"Yes."

The click of the bedside light turning on. Ilya blinks against the brightness, and when his vision clears, Shane is propped up against the headboard looking over at Ilya. "So I guess we're doing this now, huh?"

"Doing what." Is Ilya supposed to sit up as well? He doesn't know what is happening.

Shane tugs at the covers. "So I need you to know that I'm not expecting anything, okay? But I think I need to say this, and, I don't know, maybe you need to hear it."

"Hear what."

"And I know already that you're going to argue with me, but. Whatever. Okay." He exhales. "Fuck, why is this so hard."

"Shane —"

"No, shut up for a second, just let me. Okay." He reaches over and runs his thumb over Ilya's cheekbone. It's the first time he's properly touched Ilya all day; probably that's why Ilya can't breathe. "Ilya. Ya-blue-loo-tee-baa."

He's mixed up the syllables and mangled the pronunciation so much it takes a second for Ilya to work out what he's trying to say, and then it feels like someone has punched him in the ribs. "You —" Ilya starts, but Shane is ready for him, shaking his head and putting a finger over Ilya's mouth, shush.

"No. You're shutting up so I can finish. Okay. So I know you're gonna say it's just sex or I was lonely or whatever, but that's not it. I know that's not true."

Shane can't be in love with him, though. "How do you know."

"Because —" Shane actually laughs, "I mean, if I hadn't already been sure, the way I nearly bought a plane ticket to Moscow last night so I could go punch your brother might have clued me in."

"That doesn't mean —"

"Ilya. You're meant to be shutting up. Let me say this, I have a whole thing."

Ilya does. He doesn't know what to say, anyway.

"Okay. So. It's like you're in my head all the time, you know? If you're not around, I'm thinking about you. And when you are around, you make all the hard stuff easier, and — everything else, like, I don't know, even just doing nothing, sitting around watching TV or making cookies or whatever, it's so much better because it's with you."

His hand is on Ilya's neck, thumb stroking under Ilya's ear.

"I know none of this really changes anything, that you still might feel like you have to go back to Russia, but. Just because I don't know what to do about it doesn't change the fact that I'm in love with you, and I thought you should know that. So. There you go."

He stops.

Ilya can't speak. He's not going to cry for the second time in two days, but his eyes are wet, and Shane keeps touching him, so gently like Ilya is breakable and if he keeps doing that Ilya is really going to break.

"Hey," Shane says. The thumb moves to his cheek. "Ilya. Are you okay?"

Shane is touching him. Shane says he loves him. Surely Ilya is allowed to kiss him now.

"Hey," Shane says again, and this time Ilya moves, rolling on top of Shane, braced up over him.

"Why are you like this," Ilya says, and he's speaking Russian so Shane is just looking at him with those beautiful eyes, confused but not scared, never scared, not even when Ilya has turned himself inside out to show him all his ugly secret parts, not his beautiful brave Hollander. "Why can't you ever leave things alone?"

Shane's hands are in his hair, on his face, pulling him in. Ilya lets himself be pulled. The kisses taste like saltwater. Ilya can't stop touching him, doesn't want to ever stop kissing him again, but he has to, because there's something that Ilya has been trying not to say for weeks, and Shane is right: not knowing what to do about it doesn't make it not true. He kisses Shane's mouth, his freckles, his mouth again, then pushes away just far enough to see that Shane's eyes are wet, too.

"Ya lyublyu tebya," Ilya says, and kisses him again. "Shane. Ya lyublyu tebya."

Shane blinks. His eyelashes are stuck together. "Holy shit." He blinks again. "Really?"

Of course Shane can say all that to Ilya but not believe it in return. "I don't have big speech, like you. So many words. But yes. Ya lyublyu tebya."

"Ya loo-blue-tee-baa," Shane repeats back. Then, "Oh my god, I said it the wrong way around, didn't I? I said ya-blue-loo, not —"

"Shane."

"I practised so many times and I still managed to get it wrong —"

"Shane." Ilya lets himself collapse, buries his face in Shane's neck. "I don't know what to do."

Shane's hands are on his hair, his neck, his back. "I know. I mean, me neither. But we'll figure it out together, okay? We'll figure something out."

Shane's heartbeat is fast, like maybe he's terrified too.

Ilya wakes early, before Shane's alarm, before even Shane. He feels underslept, head echoey and empty, but there's no way he's going to be able to fall back asleep.

Shane loves him, and it changes everything and nothing.

Ilya pulls on some long pants and another hoodie and goes downstairs and into the backyard. All the snow is gone and some of the trees have started to bud.

Shane finds him there later, sitting on the wrought iron bench, halfway through a cigarette. "Morning."

"Good morning."

Shane sits next to him, cautious. Ilya nudges him with his shoulder and Shane bumps back.

"I thought maybe you had run away again," Shane says.

"No." Ilya leans down to stub the cigarette out in the dirt. He wishes he'd brought a blanket. Shane will get cold. "I will not do that again."

"Okay. Good."

If he'd brought a blanket, maybe they could just stay here all day.

Shane clears his throat. "Just in case it wasn't clear, I meant it. What I said last night."

He is waiting for Ilya to say something, so Ilya says, "Yes. Me too."

"I don't —" Shane starts. "Fuck. Okay. I really can't skip PT again today, so I need to go. But I'll be home by lunch, I can bring something back for us to eat, and maybe we can talk?"

More talking. Like this is going to fix things.

"Okay."

"You'll be here?"

"Yes. I will be here."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Shane gets up. He's going to go. He won't want to be late. Why did Shane think saying I love you would make anything better. This is worse. What if Shane gets in an accident on the way to the rink. What if this is the last time Ilya ever sees him and the last thing Ilya said to him was okay. Always he is saying okay to Shane and it's not what he means at all.

"Shane," he says. Shane turns.

"Yeah?"

"Ya lyublyu tebya."

Worth it. Worth it for Shane's real smile, the one Ilya has never seen on television. "Ya loo-blue-tee-baa, Ilya."

His accent is still terrible, but at least he gets it the right way around this time.

Ilya goes to the gym. Tomasz asks if he's been away, or sick, and catches him up on Zosia's new habit of digging up every patch of dirt she sees, now that the ground has started to thaw. Then Ilya jogs home and showers and waits.

Shane brings home something he calls po-kay for lunch, raw fish in a bowl with rice and vegetables. It's actually not too bad, but Ilya is not going to tell him that. All through lunch Ilya keeps waiting for Shane to say something, to tell him the plan, but Shane is just jiggling his knee under the table and talking about how he'll maybe try the tuna bowl next time, and how Jamie thinks his ankle will be good for the start of playoffs, and who the Raiders are likely to face in the first round.

Eventually Ilya puts a hand on his knee. "Shane."

The jiggling stops. "Sorry. I know we need to talk about stuff, but. I'm freaking out."

"Yes."

"Can we — would you come for a run with me?"

Ilya raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at Shane's ankle.

"No, I know. I meant as Chernysh. I just need to stop thinking for a bit."

Shane insists it won't hurt his ankle, that he'd run as Chernysh for weeks as a teenager when he'd broken his collarbone and had been miserable without hockey. So Ilya gives in and Shane goes to the bathroom to change.

Ilya waits. And waits. Usually Chernysh comes right out. He knocks on the door. "Are you okay?"

"Sorry. I don't know why I can't — just give me a minute."

Finally the door swings open and Chernysh is there.

They run in the nature reserve, a trail Ilya has never tried before. It makes Ilya want to run here with Shane, when Shane's ankle is better. The path is not wide enough to run side by side. Ilya would let Shane go ahead. Just because Shane knows the trail, and not at all because of how his ass looks in jogging shorts.

When Ilya comes down to the kitchen after his shower, Shane hands him another smoothie.

"Still no algae in yours, I promise. And I put in extra blueberries and a teaspoon of honey this time, since you're a giant baby."

Ilya takes a sip. It is, actually, delicious.

Shane is looking at him, hopeful. "Better?"

Ilya can't help it; he kisses him. Shane tastes earthy. Grassy. A little like the sea. Ilya would not want a whole smoothie like this but he doesn't mind the taste so much from Shane's mouth, opening for him, Shane's hands in his hair, Shane's body hard against his like they never stopped doing this, like Shane never stopped wanting him.

"Jesus," Shane gasps, when Ilya shoves his pants down to get a hand on him, "Wait, we're — shouldn't we — we're in the kitchen."

Ilya stops kissing the angle of Shane's jaw. He has missed this spot. Shane's dick is already hard in his hand, and he has missed this too, how responsive Shane is. "Ankle is hurting? You need to sit?"

"My ankle's fine, but — oh, fuck."

He goes gratifyingly quiet when Ilya goes to his knees for him. Ilya would like to take his time, but that's too much to ask when Shane is touching him like his, reverent hands on his face and his jaw. Shane comes with a stifled moan and pulls too hard on Ilya's hair, good manners failing him at last. Ilya swallows as neatly as he can, lets Shane's dick slip from his mouth, stands and picks up his smoothie again.

"Thank you," Ilya says.

Shane looks ridiculous, wet dick hanging out of his pants, face flushed, hair in disarray. "You. What?"

"For making me smoothie." Ilya takes a long sip, cheeks hollowing. He's glad that Shane found the straws. "Is delicious."

Shane makes a strangled noise. His eyes keep flicking between Ilya's mouth and his groin. "Fuck," he manages eventually. "You — finish your smoothie and come upstairs. I'm not going to suck your dick in the kitchen, it's unhygienic, and I don't want to fuck up my ankle."

"You were not complaining one minute ago." He takes another sip. "Also I thought you wanted to talk."

"We can talk after. And stop doing that with the straw, oh my god."

Shane gets hard again while he's sucking Ilya off, but he won't let Ilya do anything about it.

"Later, okay?" he says, batting Ilya's hands away. "I just — we really do need to talk about this."

Shane had pulled the curtains shut before Ilya had made it back upstairs, so it's a dim cocoon in here, only a bit of light from the hall coming through. Maybe it's the only way they can have these conversations, when they can pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist.

"Okay. So first thing, because maybe I'm being stupid and assuming stuff. But. The idea of you having to go back to Russia, or, like, me going to Ottawa without you, is." Shane stops and swallows hard.

Ilya doesn't say anything. What is he supposed to say? Shane can't stay in Boston. Ilya can't move to Canada. And anyway he isn't going to make Sveta put her life on hold for three more years so he can wait for US citizenship that may never come.

"Ilya." Shane slides his fingers through Ilya's and squeezes. "It's not just me, right?"

No. The idea of not having this, not having Shane, when he has only just begun to realise what it could be: no.

"Okay. So I've been trying to figure out a way for us to be together."

But Shane's ideas are nothing new: both of them staying in Boston, or both of them going to New York and Shane trying to get a contract with the Admirals, though it would certainly mean taking a pay cut because they don't have the cap space, and Ilya doesn't want to go to New York anyway. Or some mythical third American city — would Svetlana go to LA?

Ilya cuts him off. "But none of these are what you want. You want Ottawa, yes? For nice coach, and apple man."

Shane is holding his hand, probably to stop Ilya from touching his dick, which is fair, because Ilya would infinitely rather be doing that than having this pointless conversation. But Shane has forgotten that Ilya has a second hand. Ilya starts with something innocent, the backs of his fingers along the side of Shane's chest. They're both fully dressed anyway. It's nothing.

"I mean, yeah," Shane says. "Ottawa would be good, I think? But I also want to be with you."

Further down, now, to the gap where Shane's t-shirt has ridden up just a little. "Maybe you can't have both."

"There's — maybe there's a way we could."

Ilya tries to sneak his fingertips along the crest of Shane's hipbone, to bare skin, but Shane's other hand comes over the top, pinning him in place, and Shane goes on like nothing happened.

"The thing is, it's not up to me. This would be — only if you wanted, okay? I would never — I know there's so much shit that comes with it, so if you really are done I totally understand, but if it's just that you don't think it's possible, I think it is, so. "

How does he manage to use so many words and still not say anything? Ilya tries to wriggle his fingers out and Shane tightens his grip for a second, then lets go and actually moves away from Ilya, shuffling back he's sitting up against the headboard and they're not touching at all. Unacceptable. Ilya follows, tries to get his mouth on Shane's neck, hears his cut-off inhale and then Shane is pushing him away, hands on Ilya's shoulders.

"Are you even listening?" Shane demands.

"Are you even saying anything?" Ilya returns. Shane looks like an angry kitten. Has he learnt kotenok yet, Ilya wonders, and how much more annoyed would he get if Ilya called him that.

"I'm trying to tell you my idea."

"And I'm trying to make you come." Ilya kisses Shane's jaw again and shoves a hand into Shane's pants, because maybe Shane's dick is his favourite part of Shane after all: simple and predictable and never ever talks in riddles, but then Shane says, loud:

"Hockey."

Ilya stops moving for a second — what the fuck — then gives Shane's dick a squeeze, not trying to hurt him, exactly, but just on the verge of too much. "Okay, I have new rule. No talking about hockey if I am touching your dick."

"Then stop touching my dick. Ilya." He grabs Ilya's wrist and tugs until Ilya reluctantly lets go of his dick, so Shane's fingers are still tight on the bones of Ilya's wrist when he finishes, "That's my idea. Hockey, for you. I want you to play hockey again so you can come to Ottawa too."

Like losing an edge, certainty sliding out from under Ilya's feet. "What?"

"That's what I want." Shane doesn't look like he's joking. Shane looks serious, and he's watching Ilya like he's afraid Ilya is going to run away, which Ilya has promised he won't do again but would be a perfectly reasonable response to this insane idea. "I want the Cens to sign both of us, and I want us to skate together and win a cup for Ottawa."

Shane has finally let go of his wrist. Ilya sits back on his heels and stares. "Oh, so, easy then. No problem."

"I'm serious."

"You are crazy."

"I'm — it's not crazy. We could do it. If you wanted."

"Hollander." He can't get his head around it. The idea is so big, so misshapen, so impossible, that he can't work out where to begin.

"We could do it," Shane repeats.

"No."

"Why not? Because you don't want to?"

Ilya shakes his head.

"Then why not?"

This should not even need discussion. Also, Ilya should know better by now than to argue with a crazy person. But Shane is still looking at him, expectant, so Ilya takes a breath and says, "I know they are bad team right now but even Ottawa do not want old angry Russian men."

Shane looks almost pleased by this. "I'm older than you, but you seem pretty sure they'll sign me."

"Is not the same." He'd broken Cherchesov's nose.

"No, listen. You're more than good enough, I've seen you skate, I've seen what you can do with a puck, we just have to show them that."

"It is not that simple."

"I don't think it has to be that complicated. Ottawa need good forwards. You're a good forward."

Don't argue with crazy people. Why does Ilya always forget this. He flops over onto his back.

"Ilya."

"Shane."

And fuck, maybe crazy is catching, because now he is thinking about it like it might be a real possibility, mind skipping ahead to what it would be like, to play again. To play with Shane.

"Is impossible," Ilya says, more as a reminder to himself than trying to convince Shane, who has clearly lost touch with reality.

"It's not. There's no reason we couldn't make it happen. If you wanted."

"Oh, no reason. Of course they will just offer me contract if you ask politely, with best Canadian manners. No problem."

Shane rolls his eyes so dramatically Ilya can almost hear them moving. "Don't be an idiot. You'd need a PTO, obviously, but I've looked into the best things to do to get one as a European player, and Farah has some great ideas too —"

Ilya pushes up to his elbows, cuts Shane off. "You looked into it."

"Yeah?"

"You talked to your agent."

Shane frowns. "Well. Yeah. I just asked her hypothetically, obviously, like I said I had a friend, and —"

"When did you do this." Because Ilya had been mostly listening in to Shane's phone call, yesterday, and he is pretty sure PTOs for European players had not been mentioned. Maybe if they had, he would have had some warning that he is in love with a crazy person.

"I've been thinking about it for a while." Shane is not looking at him when he says this, though.

Ilya pokes him in the ribs. "How long."

No answer. Ilya pokes him again. Shane clears his throat and tells the curtains, "Since, uh. The last time we skated together."

That was weeks ago. Before Shane went to California. Before Shane asked Ilya to fuck him. Before. Ilya swallows. "Why?"

"I mean." Shane rolls over and presses his face into Ilya's shoulder. "Partly because I'm selfish, and you're an awesome player, so I'd love to play with you? But also — I don't know, finding a way for you to play again was something I could help with, if you were ever interested. And I wanted to help. If I could."

"You wanted to help," Ilya repeats.

"Yeah. I mean, of course."

So now this, too, to get his head around. Of course. Like there was never a question whether Shane would do this for him.

"Ilya?" Shane lifts his face from Ilya's shoulder, puts a hand on his elbow. "I know the Cens are terrible right now, so if you wanted to try for a different team, I'd obviously still help. Like, Montreal and Ottawa are only a couple hours apart, so if you played for the Metros we could still see each other pretty often. We'd be rivals, but —"

"I don't want to play for Metros." He sounds hoarse. He has had more feelings in the past twenty four hours than he has in years. It is fucking exhausting. How does Shane do this.

"No?"

"No."

"Uh, like. So you — you do want to play, but not for the Metros? Or."

Again with the wanting, like this is all that matters.

"I don't know."

It's impossible. It should be impossible, but it's hard to remember that with Shane looking at him like he's just waiting for Ilya to say the word and he'll make it happen, easy as booking ice time and buying Ilya a new pair of skates.

"Think about it? Please? I know it would be — but. Just think about it, before you say no."

He swallows again. "Okay."

Ilya thinks about it. He thinks about it while they make dinner. He thinks about it while they sit on the couch.

Ilya's life for nine months has been almost entirely made up of this little circuit between his bed, the kitchen, the couch. Sometimes the gym, the store, the nature reserve. Shane's house, a few times. But mostly this.

It had felt too big, last year. Maybe now it is starting to feel too small. But Ottawa would mean a whole new city. He would have to find somewhere to live. Training, travel, games. Dealing with coaching staff. Expectations. Fans, eventually, if he plays well enough.

Teammates.

Media.

Ah. It's like he's finally turned the idea around enough times that he can see something that Shane won't have an answer for. Because Shane might be right: maybe Ilya could do it, physically, for a team like Ottawa, or get close enough that it's not worth arguing the point; and maybe Shane and his single minded determination could bulldoze through the logistics of PTOs and agents and visas. But not this.

"Shane." The Raiders are playing Calgary tonight, with their backup goalie and without Shane, who is on Ilya's couch with his head in Ilya's lap and Ilya's hand in his hair.

"Yeah?"

"You did not even want to get out of car with me yesterday. At grocery store."

The difference between an animal at rest, and one ready to run: nothing relaxed about Shane's body now, even though his voice sounds normal when he says, "Yeah."

"But you want us to play hockey for same team."

"Yeah."

Ilya waits.

"I checked, there's nothing in the rules anywhere to say that players can't be in a —" Shane hesitates, "a relationship?"

An unexpected benefit of the league's homophobia, Ilya thinks; and also, relationship, what is this nothing word that Shane is using for the implosion of everything Ilya knew about himself and what he is allowed. But, "That is not what I meant."

"Yeah, I know."

Ilya traces the curve of Shane's ear.

"I'm sorry," Shane says, eventually. "That I didn't, yesterday. I haven't even really figured out how to be around you in private, like what's normal, or whatever. But."

"But what."

Shane keeps his fingernails neatly trimmed. Ilya can still feel them digging into the side of his knee, through his sweatpants, Shane probably not even aware that he is doing it. Then Shane says, "I just want to play hockey, you know? I don't want to be Shane Hollander, gay hockey player."

"You have been gay whole time you have been playing hockey."

"Ilya."

"If you want us to be — something," Ilya starts, carefully. Lovers, they say sometimes, on television shows. Partners. Boyfriends. None of these sound right, none of them explain how he is so aware of Shane, all the time. "And also play on same team. I think maybe people will know."

To his surprise, Shane just says, "Yeah."

Ilya squeezes his shoulder, muscles like rock under his fingers. "Oh, is no big deal then. You are okay with everyone knowing you are gay."

Shane is still pretending to watch the game. "I'm not saying I'd want to make a big statement or whatever, but I'd deal with it, if people found out."

"Really."

That finally gets him eye contact, Shane turning his head in Ilya's lap to look up at him, frowning. "I didn't say I'd deal with it well. But I'd deal with it."

Ilya raises his eyebrows.

"Ilya, I'm not. I wouldn't have suggested what I did, if I hadn't thought about this."

"You would not."

"I've been thinking about it a lot. Too much, probably. And freaking out a bit. And I don't — it'll be shit, and I'll hate it. But what's the alternative, you know?"

Not blowing up your life for me, Ilya should say. Doesn't.

Shane turns back to the game. The Raiders lose the puck, get it back, lose it again. They go to a commercial break. Play resumes. Shane sighs, rubs a thumb on Ilya's knee, says, "And anyway, then I thought. What about you."

"What about me."

"I've been reading some stuff, and if people — the media, or whatever — if they found out that we were together, it probably wouldn't be safe for you to go back to Russia. Like, ever. Right?"

There is a smell to the water in Moscow. It gets into everything: clothes, food, so familiar, home but not homely. He didn't notice it when it was all around him but it takes him by surprise here, when he catches it on a pair of socks, somehow unworn since coming to Boston, or a jacket, or the lining of his suitcase.

Ilya thinks about never smelling it again. He waits for the thought to land, for it to hurt, but there's nothing, just the warmth of Shane's shoulder under his hand, the sharp clean scent of his deodorant, the lingering wet-dog smell of Chernysh's blanket. He takes a breath and fills his lungs with it. "Yes. Is true, probably. So what?"

"So what? Ilya, that's — I'd prefer if people didn't get to know about my private life just because I play hockey, sure. But that's nothing compared to what you would be giving up."

"I don't want to go back to Russia," Ilya says. It is easy to say it, now.

Shane's hand finds his. "I don't want you to go either. But there's a difference between don't want to right now, and can't ever. Right?"

Ilya doesn't say anything. How could he explain to Shane, with his boring Ottawa childhood, the feeling of homesickness for a place that doesn't exist; or his relationship with Alexei to an only child with two parents who call and say love you and we just want you to be happy. And Shane doesn't let go of his hand, so maybe it doesn't matter.

"So that's — it's not fair," Shane says. "For me to ask you to do that. But I realised, that's what I'm asking, on top of, you know. Dealing with my bullshit, and hockey, and everything else."

"Is not bullshit," Ilya says. "You are not. Shane."

"So, I can put up with people being assholes, and articles on Deadspin, or whatever. It's literally the least I can do."

Ilya would have argued with Shane, probably, a month ago. But he is starting to think Shane might be an unstoppable force, and maybe Ilya is not as much of an immovable object as he'd thought.

"Ilya? Are you —"

"Okay," Ilya says. He's not sure what his face is doing. Shane keeps looking at him and looking at him, eyes shifting back and forth, until finally he nods and turns back to the TV.

On the screen, another commercial break ends and the third period starts. They watch in silence until Carmichael scores. Marleau gets the assist. They knock helmets. Marleau slaps Carmichael on the back. So manly.

"Pretty sweet goal," Shane offers.

Shane could do better. So could Ilya. "Marleau," Ilya says.

"What about him?"

"Did he say anything to you? After he saw me, at your house."

"Oh. Yeah. Kind of." Ilya lets the silence stretch out, and Shane adds, "I mean, I didn't — but I'm pretty sure he thinks that we're, you know."

Ilya hadn't thought to ask, before, whether Marleau was in the Raiders' locker room when Shane was outed. Whether Marleau had stood up for him, or joined in on the chirping, laughed when others went too far, or took it too far himself.

"It was a problem?"

Shane sits up, like just the reminder of what a teammate might think is enough to make him uncomfortable with contact. Ilya waits for it made things really awkward, or maybe I wish you hadn't come to the door. But Shane looks at him, bites his lip, says, "I actually. I didn't mind?"

"You did not mind."

"Well. Marly already knew about me. And I guess — I've always just thought about the bad stuff. Of people finding out. But." Shane stops, teeth in his bottom lip, tugs at the corner of a cushion. "The other guys, with their wives or girlfriends or whatever, they're always showing them off, you know? Like fucking cavemen or something. And you're — so I just."

Ilya raises his eyebrows. "You just what."

Shane's eyes keep dipping down to Ilya's mouth, then back up again. "I mean, you're so." He stops again.

"I'm so what."

"You know." Shane had felt warm, under Ilya's hands. Now there is another kind of warmth creeping up his neck, across his cheekbones. Ilya wants to taste it, but not as much as he wants to hear Shane say this.

"I don't know. Tell me."

Shane shakes his head. He tips forward, slow, lands with his face in Ilya's armpit. His chest moves as he takes a breath.

Ilya cups the back of his head. "Shane."

Shane shakes his head again, the pads of Ilya's fingers sliding over his scalp. His back arches and falls again and again with his breathing, until the crown of his head is pressing against Ilya's shoulder.

"You know the funny thing," Shane says, into the space between them.

"What is funny."

"Before you, before this. I just. I had no idea."

Ilya traces the bumps of Shane's spine, down, down. "Does not sound very funny."

Shane finally lifts his head. Maybe it's a good thing he rations out his eye contact, if he is going to look at Ilya like this. "No," he says. "Guess not."

His mouth on Ilya's is hot and demanding, like it's three months since they did this, not three hours. Ilya is trapped against the arm of the couch. There's nothing Ilya can do but take Shane's need and feed it back to him, try to press up so Shane can fit their bodies together, feel Shane's dick getting hard against his own, kiss him breathless and deep and too much tongue, perfect.

Ilya probably isn't going to come in his underwear. He's not so sure about Shane. His hands are on Shane's ass, urging him on while Shane pants into his neck, and he's wondering whether he could convince Shane to stop for long enough to get his dick out and fuck Ilya's face, when Shane suddenly pulls back.

"Wait," he says. "Wait, wait."

His mouth is pink and wet. Maybe he wants to suck Ilya's dick? But no, he's getting up, awkward, dick tenting his sweatpants. "I just — hold that thought, okay? I need to go home for a few minutes. But I'll be right back."

"You need to go home," Ilya repeats. "Right now?"

"Just for a few minutes."

"You don't want to come first?" Ilya has a theory he'd really like to test, about Shane's refractory period.

Shane looks genuinely conflicted. Ilya thinks, too late, that if he'd just put his mouth on Shane's dick he would probably have stayed. "I'm going to go. But I'm coming back, okay? Fifteen minutes."

Ilya puts the dishwasher on. Turns the television off. Drinks a glass of water. Tries not to lose his mind.

What the fuck is Shane doing? Did he forget his phone charger? No, it's upstairs. Or maybe he's gone to get something from his bedside table. Ilya hasn't had another opportunity to snoop, he's not sure if Shane was joking or if he really does have a drawer full of sex toys. Maybe he's gone to get handcuffs and a blindfold and a spreader bar and Jesus fuck, Ilya needs to stop thinking about that right the fuck now.

Eventually Shane rings the doorbell, wearing a fresh set of clothes, nothing in his hands, hair damp where it meets his collar.

"You went home to shower," Ilya says, when he has let Shane in.

"Yeah."

"There is problem with shower here?" Maybe it isn't giant like Shane's with double showerheads, but Ilya had thought it was okay.

"No, your shower's fine. I just wanted to get, like, really clean." He ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, looks through his eyelashes at Ilya.

Oh. Oh.

"Okay. Yes. Bedroom, let's go." Ilya claps his hands and hustles Shane toward the stairs, hand on his lower back to hurry him along because if he touches Shane's ass they're not going to make it upstairs.

"Ankle," Shane reminds him, but Ilya can hear the smile in his voice, then, "Ankle, Ilya, slow down, fuck."

"You need me to carry you?" He almost certainly couldn't, not up the stairs, but he could try.

"I do not need you to drop me down the stairs."

"Next time you will have shower here, okay?" Thank fuck the bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. He ushers Shane through the door. "Keep things here."

Shane stops. He doesn't turn around. "It's not, uh. Very sexy?"

"Of course is sexy. Shane." Hands on Shane's hips. Shane lets himself be turned; his eyes land on Ilya's mouth, better than nothing, so Ilya kisses him, a quick scrape of teeth on his lower lip when he pulls back. "Getting ready for me so I can make you come on my dick, this is very sexy. Now take your clothes off and get on the bed."

"So, what, now I'm just meant to do whatever you tell me?"

Ilya had turned to drop his sweatshirt out of the way, but he turns back at that and looks at Shane. Shane's gaze darts away, the bed, the window, then back to Ilya, caught, pinned. Shane's throat works and he swallows audibly.

Huh. "I think maybe you would like that. Yes?"

"Um. What?"

One step. One hand on his jaw, one kiss, deep, open mouthed, claiming. "Shane. You want me to tell you what to do?"

His jaw is tense under Ilya's hand. His whole body is strung tight. Ilya could lift him just like this, maybe, move him wherever he wanted; or put him on his knees, thumb his mouth open for Ilya's dick.

"You don't like, you say. We will stop. Okay?"

This time he can feel Shane swallow against his hand. Finally Shane nods. Ilya steps back.

"Good. Now take clothes off and get on the bed."

"Jesus. Fuck. Okay."

Shane folds everything into a neat pile on the dresser, then sits on the bed, adjusts a pillow behind him, moves it back, restless. "Okay?"

There's no chair in this room. What was Sveta thinking. At least the dresser is the right height for Ilya to prop himself against, to fake a casualness so far beyond his grasp it's in a different country. Shane's breathing is shallow, hands by his sides.

"Did you touch yourself? In shower?"

A tiny jerk of the head. "Not to — just to get clean."

"Good." Ilya curls his fingers around the edge of the dresser to stop himself reaching. "Touch yourself now."

"What?"

"I want to see. Show me how you touch yourself."

Shane's eyes fall shut. Ilya wants to demand he opens them, but he doesn't want Shane to think he has done something wrong, it's just that Ilya is too greedy — and then Shane does anyway, all by himself, opens his eyes and looks straight at Ilya, one hand sliding across his chest, his collarbone, down to his dick, fingers curling around, just holding. And then he stops.

"This is all you need?" Ilya's voice is steadier than he could have hoped.

Shane blinks at him. "What?"

"When you jerk off. You just hold your dick like that until you come?"

Hand back to his side, fist clenched. "I don't. I thought you were going to tell me what to do."

"Yes. I have said, already. Show me."

"I don't — I mean, it depends."

"On what?"

"If I'm in a hurry, or."

"Show me lazy day."

Another jerk of the head. "Can I. I need, uh. Lube."

"Yes. Good." Ilya crosses the room, gets the lube out of the drawer, hands it to Shane; their fingers overlap on the bottle, just for a second, almost enough to break Ilya's resolve and make him push Shane down on the bed cover his body with his own, until there is not even air between them.

Not yet. Back to his station against the dresser.

On the bed, Shane is clicking the lube bottle shut again, setting it aside, careful. Then — yes. One hand back on his cock, but he bends one knee up and then other, right hand sliding between his cheeks. He pushes in, not far, angle not good for any more than a fingertip. Shane still arches into it, gives himself just a few seconds and shifts again. Two fingers. His eyes have closed.

"Shane. Look at me."

It's slow, but Shane obeys. He looks hazy, drunk. His hand is still moving between his cheeks, dipping, circling, dipping in again, almost unconsciously, Ilya thinks. Fuck he is beautiful.

"Good." He watches Shane swallow. "Keep your eyes open. No hiding."

A noise of protest.

"You know you are beautiful like this." Another denial, but Shane's hand is still moving, and he hasn't looked away. "You are beautiful all the time. But very beautiful like this, when you take what you need."

"Ilya." He shifts his hips, restless, wrist flexing as he tries to push deeper. So easy for it, his Shane. Ilya would like to keep him like this always, soft and open and wanting.

"Fuck," Shane says. He shifts again. "Ilya. I need."

Still he can't say it. That is okay, Ilya can wait. "Did you like it?" Ilya asks instead.

"Like what?"

"When I fucked you."

His gaze sharpens a little on Ilya's face. "Yeah."

"Tell me."

His eyes close, longer than a blink, but he opens them again. "When you're — it was so much, I couldn't think about anything else."

"And you want to stop thinking. Yes?"

"Yes."

"You are thinking right now. Wondering what I am going to do."

Shane nods. His tongue darts out over his bottom lip.

"I will tell you, so you can stop. First I am going to get you ready for me with my mouth. And then I am going to fuck you."

Another noise, but not protest this time: a needing, wanting little sound.

"Shane. Do you want that?"

Another nod.

"Tell me."

"I want it. Ilya. Fuck."

Ilya has still got his fucking pants on. He shoves them down, nearly trips as they get caught on his ankles, recovers, makes it onto the bed. Shane has slid his fingers out and is moving to meet him, straining up to catch Ilya's mouth in a kiss, and Ilya lets himself be caught for a moment before he pulls away.

"So good for me, moy lyubimyy." He kisses Shane's breastbone, his stomach, ignores his dick entirely, slides his hands along Shane's thighs, folding him back on himself. "Hold your knees. Like this. Don't move."

"Fuck. Okay."

Ilya kisses the softness where Shane's thigh meets his ass. "Has anyone done this for you before?"

"No."

"I think you will like it. Feels like maybe you should not, but you can't help it, feels too good."

The noises Shane makes when Ilya puts his mouth on him. His thighs are trembling under Ilya's hands, but he doesn't move and he doesn't move. Ilya works him open until his jaw is aching and then fumbles blindly for the lube, too much on his fingers, presses one into Shane, so easy for it, sinking deep with just a little punched-out gasp. Another finger, curling as he pulls back, and finally Shane's control breaks and he shoves down into it, chasing it. Ilya sits back. Shane's dick has smeared precome across his abs. His fingers are white-knuckled on the inside of his thighs. Ilya adds a third finger, slides deep, watches Shane's dick jerk, does it again, and again. So fucking wet.

"You think you can come like this?"

Shane's staring at the ceiling, unseeing, bottom lip red like he's been chewing on it, mindless. "Maybe," he says. "I don't. Fuck."

Ilya twists his fingers, tugs on his rim, slides them deep again. "You want to try?"

"Nngh."

"Words, Shane."

"I want you to fuck me."

"Ask nicely."

"I want you to fuck me. Ilya. Please fuck me."

"Okay. I will give you what you need."

One last kiss to the inside of Shane's thigh, and Ilya pulls his fingers out. He wipes them on the sheet, already a lost cause, and reaches over to the drawer for a condom.

"Wait, wait." Ilya stops. Shane looks more focused than he has since they came upstairs. "Sorry, I should've — uh. I was reading about immigration stuff?"

What the fuck. "You think now is time to talk about this." Shane's dick has practically made itself a lake, he's so wet.

"No, I — it said you needed, like. Health checks. Right? Before they let you come here?"

"Yes."

"And. We — I mean, we have to get tested regularly. So I'm definitely — and I haven't, with anyone else. So if you haven't, then we could. If you wanted."

It takes him a minute; no one could think clearly with Shane under them like this. Then, "You don't want to use condom."

Shane has pushed up onto his elbows. "I thought it might be better, without. For you. But if you prefer with —"

"I don't know," Ilya says, stupid.

"You don't know?"

"I have not. Before." Never with girls, not even at his worst, and not with Sasha or his friends: Ilya knew where they had been.

But Shane looks like Ilya has confessed to something astonishing. "Wait. Really? You've never —"

"No."

"Do you want to?"

Does he want to. Does he want to feel Shane tight and hot around him, nothing between them. He swallows. "Will make a mess." One last chance for Shane to pull them back from the edge. But Shane holds his gaze, nods.

"Yeah."

Fuck.

Ilya leans in to kiss him, hesitates — maybe Shane won't want to, after Ilya has — but Shane reaches for him, pulls him down, licks into his mouth, insistent. Ilya can feel his thoughts fracturing and fading away as Shane shivers and goes soft under him. Shane wants this. Shane asked for it. Ilya can give it to him. Easy.

They don't stop kissing. Shane somehow gets hold of the lube and presses it into Ilya's hand, and Ilya slicks himself up blindly, knuckles bumping against Shane's dick, his abs. Shane folds himself up, ankles crossed over Ilya's lower back. Ilya gets himself lined up. Already it feels different, hotter. He's going to lose his mind.

Shane rocks against him. "Come on. I want it."

Fucking hell. Okay. Ilya pinches the base of his dick, hard, nyet, and pushes in.

Shane is so wet and open for him that Ilya sinks in deep on a single stroke, catching Shane's gasp on his tongue, demanding, molten-hot. Ilya was right, there's no coming back from this, but what a fucking way to go.

They are both too far gone to kiss properly, Ilya's lips catching on Shane's jaw when Shane arches under him, noses bumping when Shane curls forward, feet on Ilya's back urging him on, more, always more. Shane's hands are everywhere, too, like even this is not enough, even Ilya bare and hot inside him just makes the wanting worse. He drags his blunt nails across Ilya's shoulders, grabs at his chest, mindless, hand on Ilya's face.

"Okay?" Shane asks, like Ilya has words left, like Shane hasn't clawed them all out of him. "Ilya. Is it —"

Fuck. "Ya tebya lyublyu." Garbled, past Shane's thumb pushing into his mouth, past his teeth. Ilya might drown in this feeling but it's okay because Shane is here with him, holding on. They will drown together or be washed up together on a far shore, wrung out, salt-crusted, alive.

They fuck for days. Weeks. Ilya could have come the moment Shane opened for him; he could come any moment after, balanced on a knife-edge. Shane doesn't make it easy, doesn't let Ilya pause for more than a second, shifting under him, more, move, but that is Shane, and Ilya can match his greed. Finally Shane starts gasping out little punched-out breaths with every stroke; when Ilya gets the angle just right they go high pitched, surprised, five breaths, ten — and then his whole body pulls taut as he comes, dick jerking in the space between them. Ilya can barely move, Shane is gripping him so tight. He doesn't need to; he has only been waiting for Shane. He grinds in deep and comes, and Shane's mouth finds his, just for a moment, completing the circuit.

Ilya collapses. Shane can take his weight. Could push him off, if he doesn't want Ilya there. He doesn't. Ilya doesn't move. His dick is slowly going soft inside Shane's body, because there's no fucking condom so he doesn't have to pull out, can stay until Shane won't have him any more. He doesn't want to ever leave. He would crack open Shane's ribcage, if he could do it without hurting him, so he could look at all the soft parts inside and know those too; would make himself a little home beneath Shane's sternum, curl up there next to his heart and listen to it beat, steady, feel the pressure of his lungs from the inside.

"Fuck. That was." Shane says, muffled by Ilya's neck.

"Yes."

Shane shifts his hips, barely any movement at all, but enough to make him go tight for a moment around Ilya's dick, which twitches valiantly. Would Shane let him stay inside until he gets hard again?

"Sorry," Shane says. "My hip is —"

He shifts again, straightens his leg, and this time it's enough that Ilya's dick slips out completely.

"Oh my god," Shane says. Then, a second later, appalled: "Oh my god."

Ilya lifts his head, a mammoth effort, frowns down at Shane. "You are okay?"

Wide eyes. "I can feel you. It's — oh my god." He stretches his leg, goes almost cross eyed at whatever the moment triggers.

"I did not hurt you?" They had gone harder last time, Ilya thought, but he had fucked Shane on his stomach that time too, maybe this was too long in one position for Shane's hips.

"No, but your." He stops again. "It's, uh. Wet?"

Ilya's thoughts are syrupy slow. But oh. Oh, yes. "I want to see."

He pushes off Shane, slides down the bed, suddenly full of energy.

"No, Ilya, that's gross, don't —"

But he doesn't stop Ilya nudging his knees up and out, doesn't resist when Ilya spreads his hands across his thighs, soothing, thumbs rubbing across the tendons.

"Are you serious?" Shane says. Ilya looks up. Shane has a forearm over his eyes, hiding. "Why would you even."

"I like to look at you," Ilya says, a simple truth.

"Not — "

"Yes."

Fuck, he is pretty, shiny-slick-smooth, asshole pink from taking Ilya's cock, and a little trickle of Ilya's come trailing down. Ilya catches the end of it on his thumb, gathering it up.

"Ilya." Half playful, half warning.

Ilya slides up further, collecting as he goes, until he can feel Shane's hole flutter against the pad of his thumb.

"Ilya." A little hitch in his breathing, this time, that means he likes it but isn't sure if he should. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning you up," Ilya says, voice calm but feeling anything but. He presses gently, a nothing, and watches his thumb being swallowed up.

Shane's legs jerk, the one not held down by Ilya's palm almost knocking into the side of Ilya's head. "Fuck."

"Too much?" Ilya turns his thumb carefully. He can feel his come inside Shane. It's maybe the best thing he's ever felt.

"I don't — know. Fuck."

Ilya pulls his thumb out. A little trickle of come follows, so he has to catch that, too, and slide it back in. Shane's breath catches and his hips jerk.

"Is not all staying in," Ilya observes, when he takes his thumb out a second time, and it happens again. "Maybe I have to use my mouth."

Shane's hand is in his hair. Ilya waits for the grip to tighten, for Shane to pull him away. He doesn't.

Shane is louder, this time, when Ilya puts his mouth on him, and he doesn't stay still either. He moves under Ilya's lips and tongue until Ilya has to pin him down for it, feel the muscles of Shane's thighs bunching under his hands as Shane struggles to get more, or less, or both, and then all at once the fight goes out of him and he goes boneless and pliant, just shivering when Ilya fucks his tongue in deep, gasping when Ilya slides a finger in beside it. And on his knees between Shane's legs, messy with lube and sweat and come, a cool clear wellspring of certainty rises up in Ilya: no one else can have this. These sounds, these smells and tastes, the way Shane looks when he has given himself over completely: these are Ilya's to draw out of him and Ilya's to hold. Ilya would do anything to keep this, do anything so that Shane can keep having this. Selfish, yes, but selfish for them both.

He lifts his head. Shane is hard again. He looks almost feverish, colour high in high cheeks and blotchy red over his chest. Ilya kisses the base of his dick, watches his eyelashes flutter. Slides two fingers back in where Shane is soft and warm and yielding and watches Shane's mouth fall open in a silent gasp.

"Shane."

It takes Shane a minute. He blinks, blinks again, finally focuses on Ilya's face. "What?"

"In boring Ottawa. You have farmers' markets?"

Another blink. Ilya is being ridiculous, he knows this, but the feeling is bubbling up out of him, fizzing pops through his chest, and he can't help it. Doesn't want to help it. "Probably," Shane manages. "Jesus fuck."

"Hmm." Ilya kisses Shane's knee, twists his fingers, thoughtful. "Yes, I think so. They have to sell apples somewhere."

"Apples?"

"Your apple man. Harris. His family has apple farm, yes?"

"I think they make cider with them. Oh my god, Ilya."

Ilya curls his fingers, just to see the way Shane's dick jerks. His poor dick. Barely touched all night. "Shane. I want to go to farmers market in Ottawa with you."

"You do?"

"You can buy lots of green things to make your terrible smoothies." He slides his fingers out, tucks a third in, pushes deep. Shane could take four right now, probably. If they spent a whole day in bed, maybe Shane could take his whole hand. "And I will buy you donut. You will eat it."

"I don't —"

"Say yes, Ilya."

"Yes, Ilya."

"Shane."

"What."

"I want to come to Ottawa and play hockey with you."

Hazy as he is, Shane pushes up onto his elbows. "You do?"

"Yes." He wants, he wants, he wants. The whole world could be swallowed up by the vastness of this wanting. But he is not the only one, and that makes all the difference. "Also I want to fuck you again."

He feels the shiver that passes through Shane inside and out. "Yes. Fuck. Do it."

Later, after Ilya has practically held Shane upright in the shower to scrub away the mess of come and lube while Shane mouthed kisses into his collarbone, and after Ilya has changed the sheets and deposited Shane into bed, pulled him close and tucked him in tight against him, Ilya kisses the back of Shane's neck and says, "You were right."

Shane sounds sleepy and satisfied, muffled by the pillow. "About what?"

"That was twice in one hour." Ilya slides his hand down Shane's front and cups his dick. "Next time we will try for three, okay?"

A half-laugh. "I think three might kill me."

"Mm." He likes it, feeling Shane's dick soft. He doesn't usually get the chance. He would like to get his mouth on Shane like this, feel him get hard on his tongue. "Was too much?"

"No. Not — no."

"Good."

Shane's breathing is slow and steady. Ilya thinks he is maybe asleep, or nearly, when he says, "Hey, uh. Did you mean it? About Ottawa."

"Yes." Ilya kisses him again, the spot just behind his ear that started everything. "Unless you have changed your mind."

"Why would I do that?"

"Will be a lot."

"You mean, like —?"

"A lot of work, to make it happen. Then a lot, to be playing together, and also to have this."

"You know, I was thinking," Shane says, as though Ilya hadn't said anything. "We should probably start looking for a place in Ottawa. Somewhere big enough so we can each have our own space when we need, and not too far from the rink. Might take a while to find something we both like."

"Shane."

"Or we could look for two places, apartments, if you'd rather, and be neighbours again? I don't know if — I mean, you'll just be on an ELC to start with, but I can — I don't need keep my place here, I can sell it, so —"

"Shane." A week ago, he would have been saying this to try to scare Shane off. Now he just needs Shane to know. He does take his hand off Shane's dick, though, and wraps it around his chest instead, thumbing lightly over a nipple because it's there, and because he can. "Before you buy apartment, or house, or two houses, you should know. About me."

"About you what?"

How to say it; how to explain the emptiness in his head, to someone whose head always seems so over-full of thoughts. But Shane is waiting, patiently for a change, and Ilya kisses his shoulder and says, "My head is — not good, sometimes. A mess."

Shane's hand covers his, fingers interlaced, tight. "I mean, I kinda knew that. I did see you in January. Also you saw me in January, so. Same."

The bedroom is too dark, but Ilya knows there are freckles here, over the wing of Shane's collarbone. He presses his mouth to them. "Yes, but is not the same. It can be bad, with me. Like my mother. Maybe one time it does not get better. I don't know."

Shane's heartbeat kicks up under their hands, but his voice is steady as he says, "You mean you've thought about — "

"I don't know." The plain truth. Probably Shane will not like it, but there it is. "Not right now, but. Maybe sometimes."

Four slow breaths. Five. Shane's heartbeat has slowed already. So healthy. "Okay. But, like." Shane turns, moving under Ilya's arm, until he's lying on his back, still tucked close. "We know things that helped, right? Exercise, getting out of the house, eating properly. Uh. Chernysh helped, I think?"

"Mm." Ilya has a whole new landscape to explore, now. He traces under Shane's pec, up to the dip between his collarbones.

"So, I think," Shane says, determined, even as he takes a deeper breath, chest rising under Ilya's hand. "When we're looking for a house, we should put that on the list. Backyard big enough for a dog. "

Like it's as simple as that. Ilya spreads his fingers wide over Shane's sternum. "You don't mind?"

Shane turns his head so their foreheads are touching, the mint of his toothpaste sharp in Ilya's nose. "Of course I mind. But, like, I mind for you, because you feel bad. Not for me."

"You will, though, I think. Maybe I am angry, or don't want to talk. Would not be nice for you."

"Ilya. Ya loo-blue-tee-baa, yeah?" Shane puts his hand on Ilya's chest, mirroring. "All of you. Messy parts included."

That fizzy-pop feeling starts in his chest again. He wonders if Shane can feel it. "So you love my mess."

"That is not what I said."

"Like when I leave shoes in big pile by the door."

"Ilya."

"Or when I leave clothes on floor instead of in laundry basket. And when I wash pots wrong way. And never make bed. And —"

"Ilya."

"Anyway I am thinking is only fair if I am messy sometimes. Since you are always getting come all over my sheets."

"Ilya." Shane shoves him onto his back and straddles him. He doesn't look sleepy now, his eyes bright. "Pretty sure you were responsible for that mess. Not me."

"Oh, no. I cleaned up my mess. Very neat." He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and watches Shane's eyes drop.

"Fuck," Shane says, succinct.

"Really? Again?" Ilya shrugs. "Okay, if you want." He puts his hands on Shane's waist. "You will have to do work this time, though. I am tired." He really needs to start doing more hip stretches like a good little hockey-player-to-be. Also, so he can get Shane to make those noises again.

"I really don't think I can go again tonight," Shane says, even as he's rolling his hips. The window for Ilya to get his mouth on Shane's dick while it is soft looks like it's closing. "That was really fucking hot, though."

"What was," Ilya says. "When you came hands free? Or you were begging me to fuck you harder so you could come for second time?"

"Ilya."

"Yes?" He's not going to touch Shane's dick for him, but he slides his hands lower, around to his ass, helps him grind forward. "I think you can come again tonight. If you want to."

"While you just lie there."

"I told you I am tired."

He's trying not to smile but it keeps happening anyway. This is ridiculous. And he is going to have this every day. He will play hockey with Shane and go home with Shane; score beautiful goals with him and then suck his beautiful dick against the front door the minute they get home.

Shane has his hand on his dick. "So you just want me to jerk off on you?"

"You can use your imagination, yes? Always you are coming up with ideas."

Shane shuffles forward a little, knees spread wide over Ilya's chest. His teeth are in his bottom lip. "So if I wanted to —"

"Yes."

"You didn't let me finish."

"I did not need to. Anything you want, answer is same." Ilya opens his mouth a little, though, a not-so-subtle hint, come on.

"Okay." Shane nods to himself. "Yeah. Okay."

But Ilya should have known better to think Shane would do anything so ordinary as fuck his face. No. Not his Shane, made of puppy dog tails and endless wanting. His Shane slides down and takes Ilya's dick in his mouth, sucks him back to hardness, slicks him up then sinks down on him and then just sits there, grinding down occasionally, shuddering, hand working his over-tired dick until he finally comes over Ilya's chest for the third time that night, almost dry and shaking with it.

"Hardly any mess at all," he says, looking down at it, sounding breathless, a little disappointed, and Ilya laughs.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Epilogue

Ilya Rozanov has only ever shaken hands with Shane Hollander in Canada. Maybe it is something in the air that makes good manners. Probably it's just a coincidence.

The first three times they shook hands they were seventeen, and Ilya had no idea who Shane Hollander was, not really. Hollander had just been a rival, someone who had had everything come easy and didn't seem to realise. Ilya had wanted to get under his skin even back then.

The fourth time Ilya shakes hands with Shane Hollander they're in Harris Drover's office, and Harris is taking pictures of Shane handing Ilya a Centaurs jersey.

"Okay guys," Harris says. "I'll get a couple like this and then we'll do one with the jersey on. A bit higher on your side, Shane? Great, hold it there."

And Ilya likes Harris, he really does; Harris is exactly as cheerful and uncomplicated as his Instagram had suggested. But Harris had asked him and Shane to come in early today, and posing for pictures for social media is not compensation for Shane refusing to let Ilya blow him in the shower. It wouldn't even have made them late, because Shane is so easy for it.

"This is not fair, Harris," Ilya says. "You promised me surprise if we came early, but Hollander's face is not a surprise. I see it every day."

"But what a handsome face it is, right?" Harris says. "Okay Ilya, jersey on."

Ilya lets go of Shane's hand to shrug it on. "Also Shane is not even captain, only alternate, so why are you making him take pictures with me?"

"We don't have a captain, Ilya," Shane says mildly. "Remember?"

"You wait. Next season they will make me captain."

"In your dreams."

"No, really. And then you will have to do what I say, yes sir captain sir."

He isn't really thinking, doesn't mean anything by it, but he is never going to be upset about making Shane blush. Also, Shane looks good like this, Harris will get some nice pictures now.

"When you two are finished," Harris says, which makes Shane blush some more, "Ilya, your hair's a little — thanks, Shane. Looking at the camera, both of you? Great."

Harris takes a few pictures and then lowers the camera. "Okay, so the surprise should be waiting for you in the large conference room, if you want to head down. I'm going to be filming, though, so keep it clean, okay?"

Maybe he just means keep the language clean, though maybe he means in other ways too. Harris has not asked, and Ilya and Shane have not told, but that does not mean Harris hasn't guessed. And maybe this is okay. They are in Ottawa, together, and the sun keeps coming up and setting again; no one has taken hockey away from Shane and no one has taken Shane away from Ilya. And now Ilya is officially a Centaur, only on a one year contract, but there is nothing in any of their fancy English words that says he can be sacked for fucking one of their alternate captains. He had asked Farah to double check before he signed.

In the large conference room down the hall is Ryan Price, looking utterly bewildered, and then, when Shane comes in after Ilya, guilty. Three weeks of preseason training together and Price's face keeps doing that every time he's in the same room as Shane. Ilya even thinks he overheard Price in the locker room garbling out an apology to Shane for Toronto having beaten Boston in the conference final. What a weird guy. Ilya kind of likes him.

"Hey, Shane, hi, Roz," Ryan says. "Do you know why Harris wanted — oh, hi, Harris — uh, Harris, are those puppies meant to be in here?"

Puppies? Ilya rounds the table. Yes. A pile of fluffballs of golden fur, tumbling over each other in a playpen. "Shane," he says. "Puppies. Puppies, Shane."

He hears Shane's smile rather than sees it. "Yeah, Ilya. I see them."

"Oh, great," Harris says. "They made it."

"Harris, this is your surprise?" Ilya steps over the playpen fence and plonks himself down on the floor. Immediately, one of the fluffballs comes to investigate his shoelaces. "This is best surprise. Good job. I promise to never doubt you again."

Harris laughs. "Thought you'd like it. Yeah. We partner with the local shelter. I thought it might be fun to get pictures of you with some of the dogs up for adoption. You know, you boys have found your new homes here in Ottawa, but these little guys are still looking? Something like that, anyway. Needs workshopping a bit more."

"You do not need to explain," Ilya says. One of the puppies is now chewing on the sleeve of his new jersey. He scratches behind her floppy ear, gently pushes his thumb into her mouth to detach her, and she promptly settles in to chew on his thumb instead. "Bring puppies every day, no reason needed, I am happy."

"I can see you're a man after my own heart." Harris leans over the fence to let the closest puppy sniff him. "To be honest, mostly it's just an excuse for me to play with these dudes and call it work."

Harris lays out the plan: a few photos, a couple of short videos of each of them with the puppies, to be posted on the shelter's social media as well as the Cens'. The lady from the shelter is bringing in some older dogs who are up for adoption, too, and they'll take some more pictures when they arrive.

Ilya volunteers to go first, because Price looks like he's afraid he'll squash the puppies — maybe a reasonable fear with those giant hands — and Shane can be weirdly uncertain sometimes around dogs, given that he is one. Was one. Is one? Ilya isn't sure; he hasn't seen Chernysh since April.

There hadn't been time for Chernysh in May, between the playoffs and Ilya trying to work himself into the shape he'd need to get Ottawa to take a chance on him. Then, in June, they had gone to Shane's cottage in Lanaudiere; Shane's cottage, and wasn't that English word doing a lot of work. Ilya had fucked him in every one of the three king-sized beds, and also jerked him off in the lake, Shane holding on to the edge of the dock, water lapping at the bite marks Ilya had already left on his chest.

One lazy afternoon a few days into their stay, Shane had looked over at him after lunch and said, "I was thinking I might try to change, this afternoon, if you wanted to go for a run with Chernysh? There's a cool trail around the lake we could check out," and Ilya had wanted, but it turned out Shane couldn't. Half an hour of waiting outside the bathroom, while Shane said things like, "I can't — but I don't — fuck."

They'd skipped the run. Shane hadn't said anything the next day, but he'd been quiet, and then the evening after that they'd been outside because Shane wanted to sit and stare at a fire for some mysterious Canadian ritual, and Shane had put his head in Ilya's lap and said, "I'm really sorry."

"Yes. You should be." Ilya's ankle had been itchy already despite Shane's industrial strength repellent; he was sure he'd been bitten again. "You did not tell me cottage is home to one million tiny vampire bugs."

"Ilya." Genuine misery in his voice. Ilya had put his hand on Shane's head, slid around to scratch behind his ear.

"Sorry for what, moy lyubimyy?"

Shane had described it like the switch in his head having vanished. No, he didn't remember it being like this before, but then he'd never really been in the habit of changing for fun, only as an escape.

Ilya had hummed, and rubbed the back of Shane's neck. "Is easier for you to do, maybe, when you really need."

"You think so?"

"I don't know. Is just an idea."

Shane hadn't said anything more, but he hadn't relaxed, either, drawing tight little circles on Ilya's knee with his left hand. The hiss-pop of the flames had filled the silence. Ilya could maybe see the appeal of the fire after all, though it would be better if Shane wasn't so tense. He'd tried scratching behind Shane's ear again. Nothing.

"Stop thinking so much, Hollander. You said fire is meant to be relaxing, yes? So relax."

Shane had made an anguished sound and wriggled in Ilya's lap until he was lying face-down, words muffled. "But you loved him."

Ilya had smoothed long lines down Shane's back. Shane had still theoretically been taking it easy this week before he got back into preseason training, but for Shane this only meant slightly shorter gym sessions, and his lats were insane, even under two layers. "Of course. But he is you. And you are still here, so is okay."

"But —"

"Stop. Ya lyublyu tebya. You. Not magic tricks. Is okay."

Shane had taken a deep breath and turned again, nuzzling into Ilya's groin. Ilya had let him for a minute — it was easier to play with Shane's hair this way, and it was getting long again, enough to really get his fingers tangled in — but then Shane had started mouthing at his dick through his shorts, and then tried to get Ilya's dick out, which is when Ilya had stopped him.

"Wait, wait. What are you doing?"

Shane had looked up at him like Ilya was the one doing something stupid. "You don't want to?"

"Not out here!"

"Says the guy who jerked me off in broad daylight in the fucking lake the other day."

"I am not shy, Hollander, I just don't want mosquitos eating my dick."

"If your dick is in my mouth, how are the mosquitos going to get to it?"

"You can't fit whole thing in your mouth."

"Yes I can."

"No. I am too big."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Wanna bet?"

Anyway, they hadn't talked about Chernysh again while they were at the cottage, and not in Ottawa either. Maybe Shane was still trying to change and just not saying anything when it didn't work. Ilya hadn't wanted to ask. What was he supposed to do, hope that Shane was miserable so he could see Chernysh again? No. Better not to mention dogs at all.

So Ilya takes his turn in front of the camera, repeats the lines Harris gives him, then gets back in the pen to enjoy himself while he can. Shane does a good job when it's his turn, Ilya thinks, even if he does have his media face on the whole time. Price's puppy pees on him, which is hilarious.

Shane comes over while Harris is off finding Price a clean jersey and Price has gone to the bathroom to wash up, and leans on the playpen fence behind Ilya. "The puppies are really cute," he says.

He doesn't sound like he's particularly happy about it, though, so Ilya shrugs and tips his head back to look up at him and says, "Don't worry. I know is not a good idea." There is no way they could manage a puppy who needs house training, socialisation, obedience, not with the season about to start.

Shane smiles at him, close-lipped, media safe. "Hey, uh. Bood texted. He's on his way in, wants to grab coffee or something with me and Chewy when we're done here."

"Okay."

"Did you want to come?"

"Is secret alternate captain business, no?"

"I'm sure Bood wouldn't mind."

Probably he is right. Bood is a good guy, and this is lucky, because at the pre-season barbeque Bood had hosted, Ilya had caught Bood looking at Shane while Shane was looking at Ilya. Shane's face had not been subtle, either. Bood hadn't behaved any differently since, on or off the ice, and he hadn't said anything, but then — he is a good guy, so maybe he is waiting for them to say something. Maybe someday they will.

A knock on the door, then it swings open. "Anyone in here missing some good dogs?" It's Wiebe, followed by a woman Ilya doesn't recognise. "Morning Roz, morning Shane. This is Patricia, from the shelter, I ran into her in the carpark looking for Harris. You boys know where he is?"

Both Wiebe and Patricia are holding leads, three dogs each. Ilya stands and gets out of the pen, since it looks like they might need a hand. Then the doorway gets even more crowded when Harris bustles in, followed by Price in a fresh jersey.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm here," Harris says. "One of the puppies had a little accident on Ryan here. Thanks for helping Patricia bring them all up, Coach."

"My pleasure." Wiebe gives the tallest of the three dogs he's holding — maybe a Great Dane or something, practically a small horse — a solid pat on the head. "Can't keep me away from good dogs, and all dogs are good dogs, isn't that right?"

"You and the kids looking for an addition to the family, Coach?" Harris asks.

"Maybe someday. Waiting until the right one comes along. When you know, you know, right?"

This is a very Wiebe thing to say. He's as easy-going as Cherchesov had been a hardass, unironically drinks his coffee from a 'World's greatest dad' mug, and the only player he's made cry so far is Shane when he gave him the A.

Patricia says something about how many people come to the shelter with a particular breed in mind and go home with another altogether, but Ilya has stopped listening, because hiding behind the Great Dane and a chocolate Labrador is another dog, and Ilya can't take his eyes off her.

She's a beautiful mottled blue-grey, like the night sky beginning to fade toward sunrise. She's curly where Chernysh was sleek, but her eyes are the same, clear and bright.

Now that the door is shut, Patricia is unclipping the leashes. Ilya crouches where he is and holds out his hand and the dog comes trotting right over, fearless, and sniffs his hand.

"Privet," he says, always easiest to slip into Russian when he's talking to animals. The dog bumps its nose into his hand again, wanting more. Yes. Good. Ilya sits down right in the middle of the floor so he can concentrate on patting this good dog properly. The dog's ears are floppy, not like Chernysh's, but they're even softer, and the dog melts just like Chernysh when Ilya scratches gently behind them.

"Hey." Shane has appeared, a funny expression on his face as he looks down at them. "Her name's Blue."

Blue has sat down in front of Ilya, now, and he scratches under her chin. She likes that too. "How do you know?"

"I asked Patricia."

Ilya looks up at him.

"What? You were busy."

"You should be busy also. Sit down and say hello."

Shane does, settling on the floor next to Ilya. Their knees bump. It still gives Ilya a thrill, when Shane touches him in public. Maybe because he knows the calculation that goes on behind it. Such a little thing, to sit like this, but not nothing, not in Shane's head.

"Apparently she's about two years old," Shane says. "They're not sure what breed she is. Pretty chill, likes going for walks, but loves naps even more. Belonged to an older lady who had to go into care and couldn't take her along."

"You asked Patricia many questions."

"Thought it might be important."

"Mm." Hard to know whether Blue likes chin or ear scritches best. Ilya stops patting her to see what she'll do, and she immediately climbs into his lap, paws slipping until she gets herself turned around and settles herself comfortably.

Shane knocks into his shoulder.

"Hey," he says.

Ilya puts a hand on Blue's side. Her fur feels a little like crushed velvet.

"Hey," Shane says again, and Ilya drags his eyes away from Blue to find Shane looking at him, one eyebrow raised.

Oh. "You are serious," Ilya says.

Shane shrugs. "Backyard's big enough. And didn't Galina agree a pet might be a good idea?"

She had said that. But she has also said things like what do you think Shane would tell you, if he heard you say that, and I think it might be helpful if we talk a bit about your father, so Ilya tries not to think about her too much between their sessions.

"We will be away a lot."

"I hear there are these things called dog hotels," Shane says. He puts a hand, palm up, on his thigh. Blue stretches her neck to sniff his fingers. "Ilya. Do you want to?"

"We don't even know what will happen after this season —"

"Ilya," Shane repeats, patient, not looking away. "Do you want to?"

Hard to shake the feeling, each time he reaches for something more, that this will be the time it's too much. But Blue's heartbeat is steady under his hand, Shane's eyes steady on his, so Ilya nods, and Shane smiles, his real one, the sun coming out. "Okay. Good. Then we'll make it work."

Ilya is grateful there are no other Russians on the team, because sometimes it feels like there's not enough room in his chest to fit this feeling and his heart, and his lungs, and he has to let it out somehow, even if it's quiet: "Ya lyublyu tebya."

"Ya loo-blue-tee-baa," Shane says back, just as softly, but Blue nudges at his hand. "Yeah, I said your name, huh Blue? My accent is a work in progress, so be kind."

Blue wriggles, follows her nose, climbing over Ilya's lap to investigate Shane's.

"Oh, hey. Hello." Ilya waits for Shane to stiffen up, but he doesn't, even when Blue gets right up in his face and licks his chin, just laughs. "Yeah, yeah, ya loo-blue-tee-baa too, Blue. Fuck, that's a tongue twister."

Noise from the doorway: Bood and Chouinard coming in. Harris is introducing them to Patricia, inviting them to meet the dogs. Shane doesn't get up, so nor does Ilya.

"Roz, Shane, you boys doing okay over there?" Harris calls.

Probably he should be worried about how this looks, him and Shane sitting together like this. Probably he should stand up, make a joke, deflect. But Wiebe, Harris, Price, Bood, Chouinard — they are good people, Ilya thinks. At least half of them have probably guessed, and no one has made problems. Maybe he and Shane are really going to be allowed to have this.

"Roz, you look like you might've found the one," Wiebe says.

And sitting shoulder to shoulder with Shane in front of everyone, their new dog — their new dog — licking Shane's laughing face, Ilya answers Wiebe with his eyes still on Shane. "Yes. I think so too."

Chapter End Notes

"Why'd you pick 45? Shane asks, later. "Was it your number in Moscow, or?"

Ilya doesn't tell him, but he does fuck him while wearing the jersey, leaves Shane wrung out, panting, head hanging over the edge of the bed while he goes into the ensuite to get a washcloth, hears Shane swear, and then:

"Did you. Ilya. Did you put my fucking initials on your back?"

Ilya sticks his head around the door frame. "Only upside down," he corrects. "Would not want to be too, how did you say, caveman about it?"

Three times in one hour nearly kills them both, but it's worth it.

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