Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

M/M, Multi

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya Rozanov/Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Child Abuse, Consensual Underage Sex, Complicated Relationships, HIV/AIDS, Internalized Homophobia, Self-Worth Issues, Ilya Rozanov Has PTSD, Mental Health Issues, Medical Inaccuracies, Period Typical Bigotry, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Porn with Feelings, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Sexting, Lack of Communication

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-26 Completed: 2026-05-21 Words: 19,799 Chapters: 4/4

bed, half empty

Summary

In 2000, Russia had 31,000 cases of HIV. In 2010, there were 530,000.

By fourteen, Ilya Rozanov is sleeping around Moscow. It's a complicated outlet, but he's good at two things: hockey and sex. At 16, he's diagnosed with HIV.

Notes

Please read the tags.

Okay. So how did we get here? I set out to write about Ilya's teenage experiences with sex and abuse. I was trying to figure out if he was using condoms. I got three studies in before finding out about the massive HIV epidemic of 2000's Russia. I messaged mxmushroom 'it's crazy ilya didn't get hiv' and they replied "what if he did?"

So now we are here. HIV is a deeply complicated topic that I'm certain I got details wrong about. Our understanding of HIV has changed so dramatically since 2008. I have represented those changes/lack of information and stigma to the best of my ability.

All HIV laws are real, on the books laws at the time.

A NOTE ON THE UNDERAGE SEX: Ilya has a good amount of sex underage. Russia's age of consent is 16. Ilya is an enthusiastic participant for all the sex he has in this fic. My goal was to write enough details in order to portray how it affect's Ilya. YMMV.

Sasha and Svetlana's backstory and nicknames are lifted from llamallamaduck's incredible fic "we cannot waste time - only ourselves"

Chapter 1

He's thirteen the last time his father hits him with a belt. A long stretch between the last time and the second last. The second last is the first day back at school after finding his mother. Ilya doesn't remember the reason for every time he was hit. Not by his father, not by Alexei, not by opposing players. It all boils down to a few basic reasons because of the way Ilya is. Some of those reasons are even things he does on purpose. 

The last time it's about hockey. 

“You play like a child, you will be punished like a child” 

(Ilya is still more than decade away from changing his beliefs about what it should mean to be a child) 

There's still a scar on his hip from the buckle when he loses his virginity. It wrapped around his waist too high and caught him hard on the hip bone. The girl scratches him there pulling down his underwear. 

They were making out on her couch. The couch in her family's apartment, which was also her bed, but he didn't know that. She was in his lap, bird bones and long brown hair. Sticky lip gloss. Cold hands that warmed up under his shirt. She was 15. He was 14. 

First their tops came off. The world melted away. He struggled with her bra too long. She kissed him anyways. He kissed like an apology. He opened his lips and let her tongue in, and he knew he was forgiven. He was breathless with it. He could feel all his blood working toward one thing, though he wasn’t exactly sure what that thing was. He was hard, obviously, but his hands were hot now, his mouth buzzing. 

“Do you want?” She asked. Her hand was on his pants just above where hip meets torso. She could probably feel the warmth from his cock. 

“Have you done it before?” He asked.

“Once,” she admitted. Her eyes were bright. Determined. 

“Yes,” he said, kissing her again. She moved her hand to cup him. Light and unsure. 

It was different than it is when he takes himself in hand. Obviously. Her nails were painted blush pink. She guided him inside. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. It felt really fucking good. She made small noises when he did certain things. He repeated them and she moaned. Her eyes squeezed tight. 

“Okay?” He asked.

“Yes. Don’t do it in me.” He pulled out before he finished. It made a mess. Normally he’s prepared. Instead she had to grab a towel from the bathroom. He lets her clean herself up first. 

He watched her closely. She had a hazy smile on. Clear eyes. Her panties were back on, shirt but no bra. 

“You are so beautiful,” he told her. She looked at him like there was something worth seeing. He wanted more of that look. 

He gets more. He gets a lot more. He learns to use his hands, trusting them with delicate and firm work. Girls, mostly. He’s the youngest on his team at 15 when Emelin’s girlfriend brings a friend to a game, and she teaches Ilya to eat her out. He loves it. It’s all consuming. He likes how her thighs feel under his hands and the gasps she makes. She’s loud. They’re in her house alone. He finds out after she’s 17. He likes the things she says, and learns to find the right words. 

Then there’s Sasha. 

Sasha has the most beautiful mouth Ilya had ever seen. He has muscle from ballet. Tight and controlled. When Ilya sucked his cock he groaned low and satisfied. It’s like tuning in on a radio frequency and getting a full symphony. Ilya learned to make him feel good. It fuels something in him. Settled something else. At least temporarily. 

Sasha says things too. Says them when Ilya’s throat is full of his cock and can’t reply, jokes when he takes them in hand together, rubbing together. Ilya can’t tear his eyes away and the afterimage is the only thing he gets off to for months. 

It is three in the morning. Ilya has to be on the ice at 5:30. He hadn’t slept yet. Sasha’s hands are in his hair. 

“I want to leave,” he said. “I want to be so great it carries me away.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Sasha replied. Then softer, continued, “You are perfect at this.”

“Can’t I have it all?” Ilya asked. Ilya wondered if Sasha knew how it was all bullshit. Ilya had nothing but impossible hope. Ilya wanted. Ilya had been good enough so far. The hope was dangerous. It made Ilya dangerous. It also needed to make him great. The kind of great that would make him famous. 

He figures sex out fast. This is not that surprising. Ilya is not that smart academically - he goes to school these days with his teammates and he’s only middle of the pack there. Ilya knows his body, knows what it can do and how to push it. He knows how to react to someone else. He knows how to read what someone wants and what they will do. The sex is great. When hockey is not good, he can get sex right. 

When he is sixteen he makes the National Junior Team. He drops out of the school his mother used to walk him to, and his education is taken over by the team teacher. It is sandwiched between ice team, practice, and conditioning. The older boys get a three hour free block of time while they finish their education. He is still the fastest, but it’s a much closer race. He is still fucking Sasha. He is still fucking girls. 

There’s a span of four months after his father dropped a glass during some important party where they are hosting biweekly parties. Every other week Ilya is there in his suit, some minor injury hidden under it. His body aches all the time, just a little bit. It’s good, sore muscles and earned injuries. Love bites hidden on pecs that are developing as every day puts muscle on his frame. Every time, Alexei brings his girlfriend. She is much too pretty for Alexei, and he tells her so. Each party he flirts. Gentle at first. He lets the desire run through him, lets it show on his face. He’s allowed to want. 

She’s twenty two. He’s only ever slept with other teenagers. He is burning through the competition in Juniors in every sense. She shaves her cunt with a landing strip. She runs her fingers through his curls. He gets her off with his mouth, and she whimpers “Rozanov” and he doesn’t pause, just dives back in. It’s a competition, it’s an order, it’s his fucking name. 

Fucking her is so good he almost embarrasses himself with how fast he comes. He loves how she feels under him. Her hips are perfect, her breasts sensitive, and he feels like a king. The body he built is his to command, and it feels like this. 

It’s four more months and another two stolen liaisons before Alexei finds out. That also feels good. Alexei wants him fucking dead. Ilya can read it in every line of his body. Alexei can’t actually kill him. Even though he is police now. Alexei doesn’t have Ilya’s commanding loyalty, they’re going to make him captain of the National Junior Team and Alexei couldn’t even keep his girl. Alexei gives killing him a good shot anyways. He fights back, obviously. Ilya is still six months from being taller than his brother. He’s two years away from being heavier. Ilya gets knocked off balance, too used to fighting on ice. Once he’s on the ground, Alexei kicks his stomach until Ilya pukes. 

“Now you look like the pathetic child you really are,” Alexei says. Ilya can’t breathe yet, but manages a “fuck you”. He pisses blood for a few days and wins the next few games on pure spite. Alexei didn’t even break ribs. 

Then he is on a flight across the ocean, bound for Saskatchewan. Regina is a funny name for a deeply unfunny place. It claims to be a city, but Ilya can see sky between buildings. It’s also fucking cold. Buryat, defence from fucking Siberia takes a deep breath when they step out of the Regina airport and says “feels like home.” He’s grinning. He’s not even wearing a hat, his impossibly light blonde hair shining under a sun that doesn’t deserve to be so bright for it’s complete lack of warmth. It feels like he’s specifically mocking them. Ivankov, who normally plays for the other Moscow team informs him this so-called city does not even have a Metro. He seems distraught. Ilya manages to contribute that they do not have an NHL team either, which allows the conversation to drift. 

Ilya is shivering in his jacket that is not warm enough. His ears no longer hurt, he refuses to take off the beanie protecting them. The inside of his nose is cold. He didn’t know that was possible. All he wants is a cigarette. And then there is Shane Hollander. Polite but deeply irritating. Too beautiful for words. The only thing running in Ilya’s veins is desire and nicotine, and then they are world fucking champions. It is only when the desire does not fade on the hours of international travel home does he realize it has a second focus. Shane fucking Hollander. 

He steps off the ice one day after training. Tough practice. Slept bad. Has three hours of class on math he’s probably going to be too concussed or wealthy to ever need before afternoon ice time and conditioning. Instead, he gets pulled by their doctor. Normally the Juniors get pulled by trainers, maybe the head of PT. Not Dr. Zalessky. 

“Fuck any crack whores recently?” Zalenssky growls at him the second they reach the man's office and the door is slammed shut. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ilya starts, because while he has no idea what has gone wrong, he knows how to handle an angry man. Zalenssky has a vein bulging in his neck. His hair is gray. His hands look strong. He wonders how hard he will hit. 

“Rozanov, you have fucking HIV,” Zalenssky tells him. “We caught it on the blood panels we had to send for World Juniors.” 

Dread. Every part of him that is an elite hockey player is replaced with shame. “World Juniors knows?” 

“Of course not. You think I’m a fucking idiot?” 

No. Because Ilya’s the idiot. Zalenssky can ruin his life right here, right now. This information is the kind of thing that will not only kill his hockey career, but will probably have his father destroy him.

“If anyone finds out, your career is over.” The doctor tells him, like Ilya doesn’t already know. 

“If?” Ilya asks. That sickening hope, desire, something hits full force like a damn breaking away. 

The doctor sighs. “I will hide this. If you do anything stupid, we will both go down. Then I will kill you myself.” 

“Yes, sir.” Ilya replies. 

“You take these now.” The doctor hands him two prescription bottles. One has dark blue cylinders and the other has yellow ones. “Each one, once day. Do not fuck it up.” 

“I won’t sir,” Ilya replies. 

“You’re getting biweekly blood tests from now on. You have a stupid high viral load.”

Ilya does not ask what that means. It must be on his face. The doctor sighs. 

“There’s two numbers we care about. One is your viral load - that's how much of the disease is in you. The other is your CD4 count. That tells you how badly it’s fucking your immune system. That’ll be what kills you.”

Ilya nods. He is not ready to die. 

“That’s why you take your meds. Viral load goes down. CD4 goes up. No one is any fucking wiser.”

Ilya commits it to memory. Later, he’ll wish he asked for his numbers. 

“I’m gonna tell coach you got flagged by World Doping. If anyone asks why I need so much of your damn blood.” He shakes his head. 

“Condoms are mandatory for you. Have less sex if you can think with your brain not your cock. If you give this to anyone I will get you kicked off this team.” 

The threat barely registers. If anyone finds out his career is over, Zalenssky killing him would be a mercy. What sticks in his mind is condoms. Condoms are one of those things that ebbs and flows in availability in the city. English names and packaging, obnoxious. If Ilya was a rich adult, not the son of a powerful man, he would have connections to not worry. He could just have what he needs. As it stands, he thinks he’s maybe used a condom twice, both times supplied by the girl. He does not ask if condoms would have saved him from this. He doesn’t think he could handle the naive words leaving his mouth. 

“Yes, sir.” He feels pathetic. Shame threatens to drown his lungs. He breathes anyways. Tucks the pills in the inside pocket of his jacket. He wonders if this is how mama felt, hiding pills away. Thinking about dying. Feeling trapped. 

Zalenssky writes him a note for the teacher, and Ilya walks to a small classroom in the team building for math. 

They learnt a little bit about AIDS at school. Not hockey school, his old school. Kids joked it was the disease of drug addicts, whores, and fags. Teacher gave a timeline. First you were a little sick, then you weren’t sick at all, and then you got so sick you died. But it took time, maybe ten years before you got to the so sick you’re dying part. If you were healthy. Ilya realizes he doesn’t know if that’s with or without the pills in his pocket. 

Ten years is not very long. He’ll be 26 when he can’t play anymore, based on that estimate. That gives him eight NHL years. He wants twenty years. But if he’s only going to get eight, at least it’s nearly a third of his whole life. If he thinks about it that way, it’s easier to manage the sword of Damocles above his head. 

He’s walking home when he realizes he has to tell Svetlana and Sasha. He vomits in an alleyway. 

Svetlana has him over under some pretense of another. She goes to kiss his checks, and there’s a terror in him. Cheek kissing isn’t sex, but it is touching. Her eyes narrow, seeing the way he’s tensed. He doesn’t react this way to her, at least not unless he’s delirious with pain. 

“Lanochka, you need to get tested,” he tells her, when they are alone in the parlor. 

“What do you have?” she asks. 

“The bad one,” he whispers. 

“Fuck,” she says. Lanka gets a negative result and pages of real information. It’s from a folded paper he reads in the locked bathroom that he finds out he probably has longer than ten years to live. Finds out he cannot pass this with saliva or touching or kissing. That the risk is low for someone blowing him. That he needs to always use a condom. He cries in the shower as he dissolves the paper. 

Sasha also tests positive. Ilya is sick with guilt, his treacherous blood boiling. Sasha’s mother was a figure skater, and she gets him his meds without alerting his father. Sasha mostly feels guilty over the bribe money. 

“I’m so sorry, Ilusha,” Sasha says. 

“I am sorry,” Ilya tells him. “Probably my fault.” 

“No,” Sasha says. Touches Ilya. Hand on his shoulder. “It does not matter.” 

For almost four months, he only sleeps with Sasha. At the end of the four months, he mostly believes Sasha’s insistence it doesn’t matter who gave it to who. Sometimes Ilya thinks about fighting an older teammate who said some shit to Sasha. Thinks how he wanted to protect Sasha. Maybe failed this one. He has to keep playing the game in front of him. Sasha manages. Sasha’s body is safe despite how sharp it looks. It does not change as he starts medication. He does not look sick. He even laughs sometimes, like when Ilya gets trapped in his own briefs. It is good. 

It’s bad, sometimes. He thinks about the person he was when he met Shane Hollander. He had HIV then too. Was still at risk of infecting the perfect Canadian. All the desire is something burning. Hollander is electric. Brilliant. Lightening. Ilya wants to lick the sweat from his face and win. Hollander is too dangerous to want. 

He trains. His Moscow Junior team plays well. He buys three boxes of condoms, uses every single one in less than two weeks. He can’t get more and is stuck with thinking about fucking Hollander and his hand. He practices English. It sounds choppy and dull in his mouth. He tries to use it on the ice, the contrast of being at home on the ice and the foreign words stuck in his throat. 

The last time he talks to Dr. Zalenssky before the draft, the older man informs him he can’t bring his antiretrovirals to LA. 

“There is a travel ban to America. For HIV. You cannot go if you have been diagnosed.” He says it so casually. This fucking law that makes Ilya’s dream illegal. 

“How am I supposed to play in the NHL then?” Ilya feels like a whining child. 

“Don’t tell them. Buy your own doctor.” Zalenssky keeps his casual regard. Like he doesn’t know how long Ilya has been hoping for a safer life in America. 

Whatever. If the draft goes well, Ilya will be able to buy a doctor. He will be a rich man. LA is the immediate issue: “You said I have to take my pills everyday. What happens if I don’t?” 

“Your numbers will go up. Hopefully only a little bit. If they go up a lot, we have to change medicines.” Zalenssky shrugs. He’s a true Soviet doctor, trained when things were what they were. 

Ilya is a fucking star. He’s going to be something more. “Will I feel sick?”

“After five days? No.” Good enough. 

Ilya walks home, and gives in and smokes three cigarettes, back to back to back. He’s been trying to quit, but only half heartedly. He’s sick with it now, since it's been weeks this time since he last smoked. He was good through the playoffs. 

He plans. At any given time, Ilya keeps his meds on him, with five days back up hidden in two separate places in his room. It’s not a perfect system. He ends up leaving his main dose with Lana. She kisses his mouth, because her papa isn’t home. 

“Am I the last person to kiss Ilya Rozanov before he becomes number one draft pick?” She teases. 

“Depends on the women in LA,” he teases back. 

“Brat,” she says. “Remember who loves you now.” 

“You are unforgettable,” he tells her. 

He would rather die than admit it, but he is afraid walking home without his pills. He goes through American customs, wonders if they will know to test his blood. In Los Angeles, he is dressed in a suit and it hides that he is not legally allowed here. He is getting away with a crime. It is the largest crime he can think of, look at his payout: wealth and fame, his name on an NHL jersey for Boston, a podium, number 1. Shane Hollander beside him, face strained, shoulders brushing his. 

Fuck them all. He thinks. He is getting away with this thing because he is better than their fucked up rules. Tonight, he is the best. 

His father disagrees. In the hotel room, he receives a backhand. His nose bleeds. He wonders how much poison has built up in his blood. Wonders if his father might take it on. Ilya wishes the man would feel some share of his helplessness. 

His father goes to sleep. Ilya goes to the hotel gym. So does Shane fucking Hollander. 

Ilya passes the water bottle. Hollander is so beautiful when he obeys. His body settles like he needs it, drowning for it. Ilya couldn't tear his eyes away. If he wanted to. He’d kill anyone who asked. 

Ilya’s biggest dream came true a few hours ago. Watching Hollander swallow makes his body feel like any desires he’s had have never been sated. 

Then he is alone again. He wonders if Hollander would have shared a water bottle with him if he fucking knew. Would Hollander look at him that way? It kills him not to know and he’s terrified the truth will hurt worse. 

He spends the summer training. His viral load goes down the way it needs to. Packs clothes. He flushes his extra pills. A countdown starts in his head until he sees his new American doctor. 

The first important thing he spends his NHL check on is the doctors appointment Lanka finds for him. It is more than a blessing for her to have spent time in Boston. Personal doctor. Not team doctor. 

Dr. Pereira is the most different from Dr. Zalenssky that Lanka could find. She’s much younger, early forties instead of mid sixties, much darker in skin colour. She has a signed Brazil football jersey in her office. She gives a warm smile when Ilya compliments her on it, warmer still when she jokes about how Americans call it the wrong name. 

Ilya’s numbers are still good. She gives them when he asks. 

She frowns when Ilya can’t tell her which meds he was on. After describing them, she tells him the names. Then she asks if he had any side effects. Ilya is politely baffled. He mentions the nausea from the first few weeks. Throwing up once after a bag skate he was more than capable of managing. Eight months ago. 

She keeps him on them, explains words like protease inhibitor and NRTIS. It’s weird knowing what the pills are actually trying to do. She writes him a prescription and recommends a discreet pharmacy. 

She nods. “If there’s anything serious, you need to call my emergency number.” Her voice is sharp and clear. 

“No one can know,” he says. 

“Yes. We pride ourselves on discretion, Mr. Rozanov,” she tells him. She also gives him a binder of information about managing HIV, facts, myths, managing relationships. It’s very discrete, for what it is. 

“It is important to me that my patients have the best possible information about their condition,” she says. 

Huh. 

Looking through the damn thing, there’s drug information, support groups, a guide to “disclosure”, myths and facts, and options for therapy. A good half the book talks about laws. It has a lot of very dense paragraphs, which lose him at a few places. A lot of words he has to google. Fortunately, each page has a box with “Key Info” above it. In addition to his crime of being here, he has to tell people he has HIV before they have sex. That detail has a little star which says “In about half of the states.” Handwritten on the side says “Not in Massachusetts." That’s a relief, considering he isn’t fucking doing that. 

Current research says he is unlikely to spread HIV with a low viral load. He’s unlikely to spread it with condoms or non penetrative sex. He can’t spread it with spit. 

Condoms are laughably easy to get in Boston. He can sleep with all the women he wants. There’s virtually no risk to eating pussy, and he enjoys it. It’s a relief to not be expected to speak with his mouth full. He learns English dirty talk on his knees, fluent with the lips in front of him. 

He takes a “less is more” approach with his own dirty talk. It gets easier with practice. He figures out fast who will find a word in Russian hot and who barely tolerated his accent. He is fastidious with condoms. Paranoid even. 

Lana comes over, something approaching a house warming, except it’s November. They drink the good vodka she brought. They cuddle in his bed, her in panties and a shirt of his he’s sure she’ll steal. It’s a relief to feel her. It’s a relief to smell her. 

“It might be getting to me,” he whispers. 

“What about it?” She replies, just as conspiratorially. 

“I do not want to make anyone feel like this?” He has to whisper it. 

“What does it feel like?”

If he had to look at her, he wouldn’t be able to answer. “Dirty.” 

“You are not dirty,” she tells him. She kisses him for good measure. Blows him for even more proof. When she rests her head on his thigh it feels like she’s holding his body together. 

She’s read the things he has. Probably understood them better. His English is coming in leaps and bounds. Everyone in Boston talks so fucking fast, but he’s always been a sink or swim kind of man. If he’s drowning in a harbour of an unfamiliar chorus, that’s for him to manage. 

“If I do spread it,” he starts. He doesn’t say infect only because he’ll feel sick. 

“It will be an accident,” she says. “Honest. Risks are part of life.” 

It is not only Lanka who tries to convince him. He calls Sasha after reading comments on a news article. He’s not exactly sure what the point of not loathing this is when so many people are disgusted by it. He isn’t crying when he calls. Thinks about the line in his binder from Dr. Periera. Anyone's life can change at any point every day. Sasha says it's selfish to make himself more special than random chance. It doesn’t settle what it needs to. Until the new year, he only gives oral. Pretends to get a call. Says once he’s had too much to drink to get it up. The women have a good time. 

His viral load stays low. His CD4 count keeps ticking up. 

“You’re in excellent health,” Dr. Pereira tells him. 

After Russia loses World Juniors, after Ilya loses World Juniors, and after the phone call with his father about losing World Juniors, Ilya is watching the news in his hotel bed. The HIV travel ban has been lifted. Given Ilya had his meds delivered to him in Ottawa in a way he’s sure isn’t fully legal, instead of taking them across the border, it gives him so much relief he might pass out. He tells his roommate he’s going for a walk. 

He walks by the river. It’s a quiet night. The sports bars are busy. Ottawa is several degrees colder than Moscow. Several degrees colder than Boston. He breathes in the cold air. It almost hurts his lungs. His lungs, which are fine, supplied by blood which is also doing fine. The things in him aren’t criminal here. Russia is complicated, because home is always complicated. The things he wants are dangerous in Russia. Americans are more direct about these things. They can still hurt him. But they cannot deport him in one fell swoop. This secret won’t shatter his life if he shares it. It occurs to him in a brief moment of lucidity, that he wants a life more honest than this. 

It would be so fucking stupid to share it with Hollander. He cannot stop thinking about it. 

Hollander is hard in the showers. He was so fucking pretty on the ice in his makeup. Ilya isn’t sure if they put mascara on him, or if his eyelashes are just like that. 

Ilya has never wanted anything more. Hotel room. Hollander is kissing him. 

Kissing Hollander is what he imagines freefall is like. Hollander's lips are soft, if slightly dry. His mouth is inviting, and Ilya dives in. He wants to touch. Wants to feel the freckled skin that shone in the locker room. Wants to push Hollander so he can’t even try to lie, as terrible as he is at it. 

Hollander is perfect. It only fans the flames of desire. His body packed muscle during the season, just like Ilya’s own. Ilya has never done this with a body so similar to his own. He wants to laugh hysterically. Hollander's body will never be like his, not in the most important way. Hollander is a perfect competitor, but there is one thing he has won before the game was ever set. 

Ilya holds Shane’s face and Shane brings Ilya’s fingers into his fucking mouth. Licks them. His mouth is so fucking wet. His tongue is curious and deliberate. 

Ilya is going to show him how to use it. Pins Hollander’s hips to the wall. Feels for the hardening cock in Hollander’s briefs. Hollander is so hard he’s leaking pre. His dick is fucking ridiculous. The patchwork of hair doesn’t take away from the length. Hollander is staring down at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. Ilya holds eye contact and lowers his lips to the head. Hollander looks away first. 

He makes little noises, gasping and low as Ilya gives attention to every inch of his damn cock. Ilya takes him deep into his throat and Hollander yelps, “Rozanov, fuck!” He bobs his head up a few times, Hollander tries to buck his hips and Ilya doesn’t let him. He’s biting his lip when Ilya looks up at him. 

Ilya wants to tell him to be loud, to make noise and show this whole hotel what Ilya Rozanov does with his desire. Fortunately for that terrible idea, he’s occupied with the cock in his mouth. Hollander doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Ilya takes one and guides it to the side of his face. Hollander’s fingers curl into Ilya’s own curls. The weight of his palm on the side of his face is almost more intimate than anything else. Ilya wants Hollander’s touch everywhere, and it might drive him to madness. 

Hollander can feel him at work. Ilya wants to watch Hollander fall apart forever, but he also wants to make him cum. Hollander barely gives him any warning, just a loud, “Shit!” 

Ilya finishes with a kiss to Hollander’s public bone. Rises to his feet, running his hands up Hollander's body. Does not know the words to say. In Hollander’s eyes is the promise to run away. Ilya knows it well. 

“Do you want,” Hollander says, using his head to gesture to Ilya’s crotch, in what Ilya thinks might be a real feat of bravery. It’s so sweet it takes his breath away. 

“Do you want to touch my cock?” Ilya asks. It’s a challenge, but he is genuinely curious. He does not know how deep Hollander's want runs. 

Hollander pushes down Ilya’s own briefs in response. The air is cool once he’s exposed. Hollander stares at Ilya’s cock. His hand flexes, stills. It makes Ilya's mouth run dry. He takes his own cock in hand. 

“Spit on it,” he says. The fraction of wet heat of Hollander's mouth lands. Hollander is blushing, high on his cheekbones. “You want to touch?” He asks. Hollander fucking nods. Ilya guides his hand down. Hollander takes some fucking initiative. He gropes at Ilya’s chest with his left hand. Uses his thumb on the head of Ilya’s cock, getting more wetness. The friction is delicious. Hollanders’ focus is too. Ilya feeds two fingers to Hollander's open mouth. Hollander glares, as if he’s interrupted his focus, but then takes them, the weight. He hollows his cheeks and Ilya is going to cum. He closes his eyes and immediately regrets it. He wants to look at Hollander every second he’s allowed. 

When Hollander leaves, Ilya wonders how much more time he’ll get. 

By the end of season, their time together can be measured in minutes. Hours if you were good at decimals. For a man who keeps saying it’s stupid, Hollander is desperate for it. It must be hard for Hollander to debase himself. Ilya cries in the shower and is certain each time is the last one. He sends dick pics certain Hollander wants it the same way he does. 

It would be easier, probably, if it wasn’t the best sex of Ilya’s life. Hollander watches with his pretty mouth open while Ilya rolls the condom on. His face is so often impassive, and Ilya is learning all his tells. He’s so tight on Ilya’s fingers. His cock is nearly purple with blood and desperation by the time Ilya has three fingers in him. They’re going to make a mess of this bed. Ilya is making a mess of the masterpiece under him. Hollander is making a mess inside of him. 

Hollander takes him beautifully. His breath hitches. He moans. His back muscles tense and relax. Hollander was built for excellence in both hockey and sex, and Ilya is the only one who knows about the second one. 

“Rozanov,” he moans, once Ilya is seated deep inside. 

“Yes?” He asks, barely keeping his voice controlled. 

“Move,” Hollander commands. Ilya find the rhythm, uses Hollander’s punched out moans to guide him. 

“You need my cock,” Ilya says. Hollander’s hands are grasping at the sheets and Ilya wishes they were clawing up his back, but knows drawing blood would be a step too far. Hollander has started to collapse into the bed, chest first. His ass is under Ilya’s full control. It’s making his back arc. Ilya imagines his cum pooled at the lowest point. His hips stutter. 

“You-” Hollander tries. Whatever it was it dies in a moan. 

“Mine, yes,” he responds. Words are harder. Hollander’s hole is all consuming. “You’re going to cum for me,” he says, squeezing Hollander’s hips. 

The rhythm is rough and Ilya gives it all to Hollander. Hollander swears, and Ilya can feel his balls draw up as his paints the bed. The way he tightens around Ilya’s cock sends Ilya over the edge. He spills into the condom and slowly draws out. 

After, the kisses are so sweet it borders on something uncomfortable. If Hollander stopped it all, Ilya would die missing the kissing the most. Hollander’s mouth is loose and relaxed. Ilya did that. Ilya made his muscles go soft. Shane Hollander is a force of nature. For their stolen minutes and fractured hours, Ilya has some insane claim. 

Boston makes it to the playoffs and no further. Ilya plays very well. Hollander plays very well. 

Vegas has such a pretty skyline and Ilya keeps wondering if he should throw himself off the roof. Hollander won. The desire is sour in him. Hollander is better than him. Not at hockey, his ego isn’t that bruised. Hollander is good in a way that Ilya was locked out of a long time ago. 

Of course, that’s when Hollander arrives. He’s so bright, even in the dark. Ilya stares at his face and Hollander is talking. The darkness doesn’t illuminate his pretty eyes. 

Hollander is angry. He’s angry at Ilya. Ilya’s a sore fucking loser, whatever. Except Ilya, for a stupid moment, wants Hollander to know. Wants him to know 

“Not everything is about you! I have fucking HIV, okay?” Hollander goes pale. There’s something in his eyes that flashes and makes Ilya wish he had jumped instead of opening his mouth. 

“Did you just find out?” Hollander asks. His voice is too level. Dangerous. Ilya is practiced at that tone. 

“No,” he replies. He knows from Hollander’s tone that Hollander isn’t asking because he cares about how Ilya feels. That’s fine. Ilya’s lived with this since he was sixteen. 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?” he spits. Ilya didn’t know his lips could hold that contempt. Yet another secret of Hollander's body only he knows. 

“You didn’t need to know,” he tries. He wants to sound reassuring, so Hollander knows Ilya can still be trusted with whatever the fuck this is. He wants to sound confident, because no one will ever say he is weak for this. He splits the difference and it comes out apathetic. 

Hollander reaches a rage. “Bullshit. What. Is this some fucked attempt to eliminate the competition?” 

“I wouldn’t do that. Hollander, I did not give this to you. I will not.” Even while the man is shouting at him, Ilya wants him to know that Ilya would rather die than ruin the thing that is good in Hollander. 

“Then why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

Ilya doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have the words in any language. 

He is watching Hollander run off, when he remembers how much he thought he wanted to be honest. Stupid. How could he think he could live an honest life when he barely can keep from drowning in the lies the world believes about his body?

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

yes the chapter count went up. 2 was optimistic. 3 chapters was always more likely. 4 is because i got too into deciding what the fuck was wrong with ilya's olympic team.

enjoy some Shane pov!

In the days following Rozanov's screaming confession, Shane spends hours googling. Googling HIV is objectively terrible. It’s a messy jungle of information. A good amount is bullshit, but he doesn’t know how much. It’s less humiliating than his other search google, which is how to get tested for HIV. He’s negative. 

He's home in Ottawa, he's home in his parents cottage. He's rookie of the year. He's losing his damn mind.

It would be easier if he could stop thinking about Rozanov. He jerks off in the shower, and is watching his cum wash down the drain. He wonders why it feels so much more gay to have slept with Rozanov now that HIV was an option. He hates that thought. He wants it to be less gay. The thought buzzes under his skin so unpleasantly he has to run ten kilometers before he feels better. Showers again. 

Wanting Rozanov is too much to think about. 

A website about HIV tells him Rozanov was taking reasonable precautions. They used condoms. Shane’ never swallowed for Ilya. The facts are reassuring. He needs more information, the kind only Rozanov himself can give.

Rozanov hasn’t texted. 

Jane: What's your viral load?

He doesn’t really expect a reply. Rozanov is a loud guy, but that night in Vegas could have reasonably been burning the bridge. 

Shane hasn't even finished his smoothie before he gets a reply.

Lily: less than 50. 

That’s really good. He’s unlikely to be contagious. Shane flinches from his own thoughts. It feels wrong to describe Rozanov as sick. 

Lily: I told you. No danger

Rozanov is probably telling the truth. Shane wouldn’t consider a guy who jerked off in a public shower, let alone someone who acts like that on a power play, someone who was good at risk management. Thinking about either of those things doesn’t make him want to fuck him less. 

Rozanov doesn’t want to hurt him. Shane is confident in that. But Rozanov could hurt him, and that’s completely out of Shane’s control. 

It doesn’t change the fact Shane wants Rozanov’s cock down his throat so badly it makes him crazy. He wants Rozanov to fuck him again. It hasn’t become any less absurd. He actually just feels more guilty about it, which shouldn’t be possible. 

Rozanov isn’t texting him. Shane types out a message at least once a day. Sorry I freaked out. How long have you known? Does anyone know? Do you tell any of the women you fuck? He doesn’t send a single one. One night he wakes up and wonders if this a convoluted way of telling Shane he doesn’t want to fuck anymore. Shane is pretty sure that isn’t what this is. But Shane can’t be certain about that either. 

The summer stumbles on aching. There’s no clarity of 82 games, no team decided structure, no Rozanov fucking all the thoughts out of his head. Shane has to follow his own training program. He has to put on the mass playoffs stole from him in their intensity. He has to think about Rozanov. He has to decide if he can keep Rozanov. 

He’s alone in his family cottage. He paid for his parents to have a fancy anniversary dinner in the city. Shane craves the quiet. His parents know something is up, and its exhausting. He makes a pros and cons matrix 

Continue Risks: 

• get it
• get it and not notice
• lose hockey
• die

End Risks:

• no one else makes me feel like this

It feels overdramatic looking at his own words. It’s honest, which is worse. Shane can’t afford to be a diva. He has two empty squares labeled “Continue Rewards:” and “End Rewards”. He doesn’t actually have it in him to write Rozanov’s name in a box that says Rewards. He’s not a prize. Shane might have pissed him off too bad already. The blank space underneath “End Rewards” feels mocking. Whatever benefits are in ending this thing are irrelevant. Both him and the stupid paper know he isn’t doing that. 

He makes a fire in the firepit, which is sort of silly with just him to enjoy it. He burns the paper matrix. He watches the fire consume it. The fire is more light than heat. It’s not a cold night. The stars are out and the lake laps in small rhythms. He knows he doesn’t mind being alone. He truthfully told his parents that when they headed out early that day. He doesn’t know why he feels so lonely it hurts to breathe. 

After the fire burns out, he lays on the couch. It’s too late. If he had training tomorrow he’d be fucked. He checks the time in Moscow. Google's “safe sex with hiv”. Deletes his browsing history. 

Jane: training hard? 

Lily: wouldn’t you like to know

Lily: or is something else hard? 

He rolls his eyes, but the lightness of his heart betrays him. Rozanov isn’t angry, hasn’t changed. Shane still has to be careful, but everything else about this has to be careful too. He can plan. He doesn’t even have to get tested in a clinic, he can buy at-home test kits.

After the schedule comes out, Shane places an order at a local pharmacy for four at-home hiv test kits. He puts a vague “check in” 12 weeks after each of the three Boston Montreal games in his calendar, the one his mom doesn’t have access to. Wishes the fourth test had a different lot number in case one test fails. Thinks about writing the date on the kits themselves, doesn’t. Hides the kits in the shoebox that holds his singular dildo and expensive lube the online store recommended for it. It’s comforting that everything about Rozanov can once again be managed by a shoebox and his phone. 

The season start, and Shane isn’t the Rookie anymore. ESPN calls it sophomore season for him and Rozanov, which is vaguely annoying because sophomores are an American thing. When it comes up in interviews, Shane simply says “second season”. Last season was good. This season has to be better. 

The first time it’s in Boston, Montreal won 4-1. Rozanov scored once, Shane twice. The Bears played sloppy, not getting the team cohesion they needed. Shane can Rozanov talking during commercial breaks and off his shift. Trying to set it right. It’s not enough. The crowd boos loud. Shane lets it fuel him. Rozanov sends a hotel address and room number. Rozanov plays with his nipples in a way that feels filthy. Rozanov sinks to his knees and blows him. Looks up at him with his blue eyes turning glassy until Shane has to look away. Rozanov brings him to the edge. Shane has his hands in Rozanov’s curls, tight and desperate. 

“I’m gonna,” he manages, before Rozanov backs off completely. Blows a stream of cool air over the wet tip of Shane’s cock. 

“Fuck,” he sobs. He squeezes his eyes shut again, and misses Rozanov bring his face deeper. Doesn’t miss Rozanov starts sucking on Shanes fucking balls. That’s when he cums, a groan replacing any sort of warning. He gets cum in Rozanov’s hair. Rozanov has that grin on, satisfied. 

“More?” Rozanov asks, still grinning. 

“Fuck you,” he pants. 

“That was not my plan,” Rozanov drawls. He still on his knees, wrapping a hand around Shane to grab his ass. It shouldn’t feel so good to be possessed by Rozanov like this. Shane wants to touch too. Rozanov’s shoulders look broader again. Summer training. His NHL profile has him up 15 pounds from last year. Shane pulls him up, kisses him. He didn’t think he liked kissing much, before Rozanov. Rozanov is hard against Shane’s naked thigh. He’s so hard, and Shane can’t stop thinking about how it felt when Rozanov was inside him. Already, he can feel his dick getting interested again. Apparently, so can Rozanov. 

“You do want it,” Rozanov says, breaking apart. 

“Yeah,” Shane admits. 

It’s still 3 weeks before Shane can test himself when they have their next game. In Montreal, Boston wins, 2-1, in overtime. Shane will take the pity OT loss point, but he’s still annoyed, arriving at the hotel. This disappointment from the home crowd lingers on him. Shane blows Rozanov this time. 

Three weeks later, he tests negative. 

He spends Christmas Eve and Day with his parents. No World Juniors chaos. It’s nice to be home. He googles Russian Christmas. December 25th isn’t their day, according to Google. He wonders what Rozanov is doing in Boston. Wonders if he’s lonely. Imagines receiving a corny Christmas themed dick pic at his parents dinning room table. Doesn’t text. 

Montreal snow is slush when he tests negative a second time. He wants to ask Rozanov if his viral load was still less than 50 when Shane blew him, because Shane wants to do it again. Often. He’s craving the weight of it in his mouth, the taste of it, the weight of Ilya’s hands on his face and head. Doesn’t text. 

Boston comes to Montreal again, finally a home ice win. 3-2. Respectable. Both of Boston’s goals get scored in the second. It’s maybe the Metro's worst period as a team all season. Shane gives corrections during the break. He’s only wearing an A this season, but Shane thinks that’ll change. They tie it up within the first minute of the third. Shane assists Hayden’s goal. Marlow gets a penalty he only sort of deserves for icing, and Shane scores on the powerplay. 

Shane’s booked a different hotel. Lays Rozanov on the bed and sucks his cock. It’s easier to kiss bruises into Rozanov’s legs when the muscles aren’t in use, and Shane likes the noises Rozanov makes. Rozanov flips them before Shane can make him cum, and he had exactly half a second to be vaguely disappointed before Rozanov starts fingering him with Shane’s cock in his mouth. He doesn’t have it in him to think after that. 

He tests negative again after losing in the third round of the playoffs. Its not a super effective way to soften the blow.

In Vegas, Shane swallows. Rozanov looks dizzy. Spends all summer training, trying to shut his brain off so he doesn’t worry he’s tested his luck too far. Tests negative on the fourth kit before Pre-Season Camp. Closes the deal for an investment property in Montreal the same day he gets the call that he’s Captain. Sends his first text all summer when he sees the announcement Rozanov made Captain too. 

Shane brings Rozanov to the investment condo before he's placed the order for five more test kits. Rozanov races him up the back stairs. Rozanov’s skin is tanned from the summer. Not dramatically so. Shane wonders if the Russian sun is strong enough to need sunscreen, or if this is Rozanov’s skin’s natural summer glow. Remembers Rozanov belongs to Russia in the summer and the NHL the rest of the time. Holds tighter to Rozanov’s jacket and tells himself to stop thinking about it. Kisses Rozanov against the wall of a building he owns and knows is empty. 

“You want me to make you scream?” Rozanov offers, his hand heavy between Shane’s neck and shoulder, when Shane tells him so. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

“No,” says Rozanov. 

He is noisy, but only because Rozanov doesn’t let him cum for far too long. He gets Shane so fucking close he can’t control his mouth or limbs or anything. Can’t lift his head after the third time, Rozanov with his fucking mouth and hands on his chest. 

“If you don’t fuck me, I’m -”

“Yeah?” Rozanov says, before licking down Shane’s dick. 

“Rozanov,” he says. Puts as much as he can into the word. Rozanov’s face does something, and finally gets the damn condom on and pushes in. They’ve never done it in missionary before, Rozanov can watch Shane’s face and his cock leak on his stomach. Shane gets to see Rozanov’s face, concentration giving way to bliss. It’s a lot. Shane isn’t sure if it's too much. He makes his mind up when after, Ilya is still softening inside of him and pressing kisses into Shane’s mouth. That part is good for sure. 

It’s too soon to test when the Olympic teams are publicly announced. Shane refuses to be jealous that Rozanov is Team Russia captain. Shane is just as good a captain. It’s fine. During the first conversation him and his mom have about it, she sighs bitterly. Shane doesn’t like saying stuff is racist. It makes his mom get one specific look that hurts his stomach. His mom can call stuff racist, and she’ll be right. Shane wants to think about his public image as little as possible. If he thought about all the little things as racist instead of rude, he’d have to think a lot more about Shane Hollander, the brand. Something that 1) he would be very bad at and 2) would make him worse at hockey. Canada has more famous, better established Captains all over the NHL who have had the title for years not months. One will do a great job. The fact the Captain and both A’s are white isn’t remarkable. The three guys have five cups between them. Shane hasn’t been proven better than those guys (yet). Neither has Rozanov, his brain whispers, and he’s captain. Eventually, he decides the problem is Rozanov. Going to the Olympics is a dream come true. If Rozanov wasn’t Team Russia captain, Shane wouldn’t even want it. Shane wears his Team Canada jersey and he’s proud of it. End of the story. 

In the taxi to the airport, Ilya sits quietly and decides on how exactly he is going to pretend he’s never even heard of HIV for the next ten days. He took his last dose before he called the cab. He can’t justify bringing his pills through an American airport, let alone back into Russia. If the games were in Moscow, he would have been able to get them through heavy payment to Dr. Zalenssky. If it were St. Peterburg, Sasha would probably be able to hook him up. But Sochi is so far from the capital. Ilya doesn’t know anyone connected there. Lana doesn’t either. Sasha might, he has strange connections, but Sasha would probably only personally help him. Ilya was mean enough during their last call that Sasha won’t be calling in a favour for him. 

He called Dr. Periera, and they have an appointment for the day after he gets back. 

“I’m going to play in the Olympics. I’m going to miss eleven doses.” It’s risky, but Ilya can’t say no. Dr. Pereira might drop him, which would suck. She doesn’t hang up on him, at least. 

“Eleven days isn’t ideal,” she said, honestly, frowning. “But your general med adherence is outstanding. You’ve missed what, three doses in two years?”

“Two,” Ilya says. Western roadie, whole team trapped on a bus off the highway in a snow storm between Edmonton and Calgary all night, Ilya couldn’t take his meds without all eyes on him. Now he keeps one extra in the inside pocket of his jacket so he doesn’t have to open the bottle to get his dose. The other time he was at Marlow’s and the Jello shots were so much stronger than they planned and by the time he realized he was in trouble, Ilya couldn’t keep the pills down. When he’s gone back to Moscow he pays Dr. Zelenssky very well to keep him supplied. 

“The better your med adherence is generally, the more tolerant your body is to things like this. There’s still risks. Your viral load will still spike. Your physical health is excellent, so the risk of your CD4 crashing is low. Especially after only 11 days. You have to take the best care of yourself you can.” 

“Okay,” he says. Healthy diet and exercise will be easy in the Olympic village. Low stress and decent sleep is out of the question. 

“There’s a risk that your current meds won’t reduce your viral load after 11 missed doses. You might have to change medications. It can be harder to get viral loads under control after a spike and no reaction to a medication. It might be months.” 

Months. The months following the Olympics will be the second half of the season. He might not get to fuck Hollander until next year, if things go badly. He for sure will miss out on their scheduled March game. 

He isn’t allowed to say no to the Olympics. He isn’t going to. His father called about the captaincy. His father didn’t remember what team he played for last time they spoke. Took a stuttering thirty seconds to name which Moscow team he had played for in Juniors. 

Ilya leaves the Olympic village for practice knowing he has four days before their first game. Three quarters of the guys are KHL. Both his A’s are among them. The other guys are all from the NHL. Ilya has never had a full Russian conversation with any of them. Four days is not a lot of time to pull a team together. He’s not the youngest, there’s one KHL guy who just turned 20. Only two guys are older than 30, and both are NHL. There’s something going on, but Ilya hasn’t ever met the coach yet. Ilya has been an NHL captain since September. Coach in Boston gave him a lot of good advice for the Pre-Season, and Ilya already has ideas where to grow it next year. Ilya is young, but Ilya is excellent. He can use that right now. 

He’s been watching games and highlights since the team was announced. He doesn’t have the same familiarity as with the Raiders, but that’s not possible. (Hollander could probably have done it, but Hollander maintains an encyclopedic knowledge of NHL players.) He played with a number of guys in Juniors. He’s not walking in blind. 

The locker room has a weird tension. Lines have been drawn around the room. Ilya’s stuff is in the middle. Ilya is in the middle during stretches. It’s the same guys on either side. It’s not just along team lines. It’s not some old rivalry fracturing violently at the worst time. No one tells him anything. Any insults hurled are whispered out of his reach, so he can't even learn the stakes 

The playing lines don’t obey the social ones. It’s a fucking disaster. They can’t complete passes even Raiders rookies can manage. Their goalie is obviously hiding broken ribs, and the massive amount of painkillers to manage. Ilya’s on the first line with a Left Wing who looks like he’s ready to slit Right Wings neck, and at least one Defence who looks ready to rip Ilya’s C off with his teeth. Second line is worse, and not just because Ilya isn’t on it. They’re splitting up the NHL players which is a strategy that almost makes sense.  It mostly looks like they are there to block lines of sight between guys who can’t stand each other and wouldn’t pass to each other at gunpoint. Ilya thinks about the ones he’s played with. At least two thirds of them are capable of being better than this. While the team changes before conditioning, Ilya tries to talk to coach. 

“These lines can’t score, Sir,” he’s asking to have the man admit the nightmare on the ice they both partook in. The factions and lines that couldn’t be more obvious if they had separate jerseys. 

The coaches eyes narrow. “Are you too good for Russian players?”

“No, sir. There is a social issue, it’s impacting cooperation-” he tries. 

“You are captain,” 

“Yes, sir,” he says. He doesn’t call coach in Boston sir, except in very specific moments, usually when it’s funny. Ilya isn’t sure when Russia coaches stop hitting players, but at least one guy his year got backhanded in Juniors. And he doesn’t know who’s punishment this shit show of a team is intended for, or if it’s a side effect of some political machinations several steps above them all. 

“Good. If there is problem, you will fix,” it’s clearly a dismissal. 

Through sheer force of his childhood, Ilya doesn’t shout. Doesn’t beg to be let in on the secrets tearing the group apart. Doesn’t ask why at least three KHL legends aren’t where Ilya is standing, why they aren’t wearing the C. Why his A’s are two guys who won’t make eye contact.  His father isn’t important enough to set him up to fail on something this massive. Someone, somewhere is being punished, and Ilya is the fall guy. 

In the locker room, guys are clearly talking about doping. Ilya doesn’t get angry. He wants to scream. Thinks, If you motherfuckers get my HIV caught when you go down for doping, I’ll kill you all and then myself. Breathes. Anger and judgment won’t win him any social points, and he needs any leverage he can get. He needs to shape this team into something that can put up a fight. He speaks, briefly. He wonders if they can hear America in the shape of his words. 

Four days is not enough. Bag skate are not enough. Speeches aren't enough. Leading my example isn't enough. Ilya starting conversations over meals isn’t enough. Invitations to go with others to celebrate other Russian athletes isn’t enough. Nothing Ilya does is enough. 

Hollander and him are in the same rink for the short program figure skating. Ilya wonders if in another world, he would be here with his mother. She came fifth in Nationals on her best year. She was seventeen. Soon after, she was introduced to his father. Alexei when she was twenty one. Ilya would have snuck her into the village to meet the skaters. Ilya would have hung onto her every word. The Russian fifteen year old comes second but gets disqualified for doping. He thinks his mother would be sad, then feels something violent ache at the imagined version of her having anything to say about drugs. 

For the first round, they have to play Slovenia, Slovakia, and Scott Fucking Hunter’s Team USA. Ilya can’t beat a team full of America’s best NHL players. They could put up a fight if his own team had an ounce of teamwork. They probably still couldn’t win, but they could at least put up a fight to keep the goal difference reasonable. They only beat Slovenia 2-1, and Slovakia 4-3. Two wins is two wins, but they won’t be guaranteed one of the quarter final slots given to the best four teams after the rounds with a goal difference of 3. 

Hunter is only three years older than him, but he has something Ilya doesn’t. Lots of things Ilya doesn’t, generally Ilya is most jealous of the American citizenship and Stanley Cup. Ilya watches during warm ups. Hunter’s team respects him. His team, which is full of other captains and A’s, let him run things. They work together. They’re hungry for a win. Ilya should know better than to play a game trying to lose as painlessly as possible. 

Hunter’s eyes are bright and determined at the faceoff. He looks different in blue. 

“Blue suits you,” he says. It’s a weak chirp, his heart isn’t in it. 

“I think gold will too,” Hunter replies mildly. “Can’t fight your way out of this one, Rozanov.” 

Ilya can’t laugh at the way it deserves. It would probably become hysterical, which would be even more personally disastrous than whatever this game has in store for him. 

Russia loses, Ilya loses, 6-1. -2 for a total goal difference is fucked beyond belief. They’re ranked 8th out of 12. They have to play the extra qualification round to even get the chance to go to the quarter finals. 

“We can fucking beat Latvia,” he says. The locker room has energy, even though they are tired. This is their home ice. For an awful few seconds, Ilya has some measure of hope. 

They don’t score in the first. They fumble a powerplay. They can’t keep possession. The passes are sloppy. The defense can’t find the right positions. Latvia has multiple lanes to choose from at all moments.  Ilya gets a penalty, deserved. He’s itching for a fight. These aren’t guys he’s taken hits from. Maybe if he bleeds over this ice they’ll see how fucking sick he is and put him down like a horse. They kill horses on the race track if they break a leg. Someone should do Ilya the same mercy. Ilya scores his last Olympic goal in the second period. Latvia scored again on the power play. Before the third period, he tries to tell the team they can recover from 2-1. Latvia scores two minutes in. 3-1. Just for the humiliation, Latvia manages one more in the last minute. Russia loses 4-1. 

They are in the bottom four teams. There’s no official effort to rank them this low. Failures at home. It couldn't be worse.

Then he’s gathered into a black car and taken to the house his father is occupying for the week. Something hurts in him. He tries to smooth himself away. Pictures a zamboni. Shining, fresh ice. 

He arrives before all the important people who will no doubt refuse to speak with him from shame. Ilya gets a moment alone with his father. Even in the months since August, his eyes have gotten hazier. His skin fits worse. Ilya’s father is old. 

He’s staring at his father’s face. Grigori is not sure where they are. Ilya knows, because his father keeps looking between the windows, trying to place the landscape outside. He doesn't know if his father has been to Sochi, if that would be helpful to orient himself. His fathers hands are shaking. Grigori stares at his face. Ilya is filled with certainty of several facts:

1. His father is sure of nothing in the world right now except for the fact he is disappointed in Ilya.
2. One day, probably soon, Ilya’s father will not recognize him anymore, and his touch will be that of a stranger. The hands that hit both him and his mother will fade into helpless tools of an empty old man.
3. His father is going to hit him now.
4. Ilya, despite the fact he is no longer a child, is going to let him. 

It doesn’t feel the way he remembers. It doesn’t feel the way he wants it to. He might bruise, but only on the small spot his father’s wedding ring hit his cheekbone. 

There’s no apology. Ilya doesn’t want one. There’s nothing this man can give him. Whatever his father wanted from him, he got it after four hours. Or he gave up on getting it. Ilya gets in the car and returns to the Olympic village. No one says anything. Alexei calls, mocks him, and Ilya gives him ten thousand American dollars. Alexei has exclusively called him faggot since Ilya stole his girlfriend. He normally thinks it’s hilarious, but the one time he tried to get Marlow to get the joke, Marlow frowned and poured them two more drinks. Had a sad look for days. Ilya couldn't stand it. 

There’s so much more Olympics, and his part is done. He’s a public failure, a bad luck charm. He lingers at the rinks and hides from the press and his phone. He tries to not think about his viral load climbing with every passing day. Thinks, absurdly, I want to go home. He wants to lie in his bed in Boston. He wants his mama. He wants the comfort of things not getting worse. 

Instead he gets Shane Hollander tracking him down. Canada played well enough for an automatic quarterfinal slot. Won that game. Hollander still has to play the semi finals, but Canada always makes the gold medal game. 

Hollander wants to talk. Ilya has nothing to say to him. Not here, when anything the two of them could be is legally dangerous. Not now, when Hollander wouldn’t touch him if he knew Ilya hasn’t taken an antiviral in eight days. 

He watches Hollanders meek retreat. Turns back to the ice. Waits for it to be over. 

Back in Boston, Ilya arrives at the clinic before coffee, gets his blood taken, and waits for his number to come back. His viral load is the highest it’s even been. Granted, he never found out his number from when he was 16. Dr. Pereira doesn’t ask if it was worth it, because she’s a fucking professional. She also doesn’t care about hockey. 

Two weeks later, his viral load is even worse, despite restarting his meds. Dr. Pereira frowns. Puts him on new meds. Two new pills, same category of drugs. Books him for more blood in two weeks. 

Montreal is coming the week after. He gives in and texts Hollander. 

Lily: Can’t give you want you want next time

Jane: Did you wear it out?

Lily: Viral load spike. 

Missed Call: Jane

Lily: didnt feel like getting arrested for bringing pills to across borders. new meds. should fix soon.

Lily: you will get your fav toy back soon. 

Missed Call (2): Jane

Jane: gross

Jane: asshole

Hollander presumably uses the forty five minutes to google viral load spikes. Ilya makes and eats a sandwich. The new meds are making him crazy hungry every night at eleven pm, almost to the minute. It’s turkey and cheese and fancy lettuce from the plastic tub that comes in his meal delivery service. 

Jane: thats so fucking reckless. your cd4 could drop. does new meds mean your old regiment didn’t manage the viral load spike?

Missed Call (3): Jane

Lily: I manage. txt if u want phone sex. 

Hollander doesn’t text. Ilya’s viral load finally goes down enough for Pereira to wait 6 weeks before she takes more blood. Boston beats Montreal 5-2. He lies in bed after. The drinks worn off, headache building. Can’t sleep. Thinks about Hollander in some hotel room, a car ride away and completely untouchable. He still has to get Boston ready for playoffs. 

Chapter End Notes

a peak behind the scene at my brain writing this chapter:

1) shane is taking mostly reasonable steps to have safe sex. using condoms and getting tested are sensible, especially in 2014 when u=u has not taken off yet. imo, he is doing so in the most neurotic way possible. part is the stigma, part is his internalized homophobia. he's delicious.

2) i went on SUCH a deep dive on the real 2014 russia olympic team. they had 3/5 nhl players to 2/5 khl players, and a much older team. it is CRAZY to make a 22 year old captain of the olympic team. I needed a reason as WHY this happened, which is how we ended up here. the structure of the olympic tournament is WEIRD and hopefully it was not too confusing to follow.

3) scott hunter is canonically only 3 years older than shane and ilya. relatedly, the game changers wiki has a timeline page, with a graphic showing the duration of each book, which is hysterically funny.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

this chapter took so long because Rose is so much fun to write.

u=u means "undetectable = untransmissible", a movement that really started gaining traction in the mid 2010's.

Boston is going to win the cup. This is the year. Ilya is captain, and he’s a fucking good one, fuck the Olympics, fuck Russia. The Raiders are his team. 

One team, one goal. 

Hollander hasn’t texted. That’s fine. Ilya doesn’t need Hollander. Ilya doesn’t need anyone, other than his team, here, in Boston. 

They’re on the plan. Ilya is looking around. He’s looking for the places where there’s tension or friction. Places where they aren’t rock solid. Spots an obvious teamwork failure. Ryan Price. Price is his this year. He’s a damn good enforcer. He also universally sits alone on the plane, poorly hiding fear. Unacceptable for Ilya to have left him to suffer alone. 

The first time Ilya was on a team flight, it was a remarkably shitty plane. It jumped and bounced and was cold. Ilya had laughed over one drop. That would be the wrong energy to give to Ryan Price. Hockey players are not gentle creatures. Ryan Price is an enforcer, not a gentle role. 

Ryan Price is scared shitless, and starting to slip in his ability to hid it. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a kindness to be so close. God knows if Ilya was ever so afraid, he’d want to be hidden away somewhere. Price has Ilya here. Ilya might as well try. He asks himself what Hollander would want, but Hollander would want to fight about it or to suck Ilya off. Neither seem Price’s style. 

“You are good here. Plane is safe,” he says. 

Price nods. “Thanks, Cap.” He closes his eyes. Ilya is useless. 

“When we land in Vancouver, there will still be hours before game. Marlow and the rookies want to go to Japadog. You should come.” 

“What is a Japadog?”

“Japanese style hot dogs. Apparently they are excellent.” 

"Doesn't a hot dog take like seven minutes off your life?”

Ilya almost makes a joke about how HIV has certainly taken more. Then he thinks about Hollander telling him not to smoke. Then he thinks about his mother. She died when she was 37, and he’s always been more like her than his father. Most days Ilya is optimistic about making it through his twenties. Forty seems completely out of the question. 

Then he remembers he’s in the middle of a conversation. 

“Sorry,” Price says, apparently seeing something on Ilya’s face. 

“You do not have to come,” Ilya offers. 

“No. I want to,” Price says. Ilya is really doing a terrible job in this conversation. Hopefully when they land, one of the rookies can get Price to come out of his shell. Maybe Ilya will manage if they beat Vancouver, which isn’t hard. 

Price does come with him to Japadog, and eats two hotdogs. Considering he is six seven, Ilya thought he’d eat more. But Price gets into a long conversation with Sebbin, so Ilya has done some part of this successfully. Then they beat Vancouver. 

Three games later, their playoff slot is confirmed. 

They make it through the first round in five games. Round two takes six, and then it’s conference finals. They battle it out against Tampa. Seven games, two weeks of flying and fighting and pushing. 

It’s a relief to be in San Francisco. It’s insane to be in the finals. Ilya is twenty two and captain of a Stanley Cup final team. 

And then they fucking win. Ilya wins the Stanley Cup. It doesn’t feel real. The final buzzer rings and Marlow says, “Thank fuck we don’t have to fly to San Francisco again.” Thousands of people are screaming in the arena. However many more are watching in Boston, in sports bars across the country, in people’s living rooms. 

Ilya has precious few moments to assume Hollander is watching. He is, because Hollander loves hockey in a way no one else does. Ilya played a very good game. A good series. 

Then they bring the cup out on the ice, and Ilya doesn’t have it in him to think. 

The Raiders celebrate Ilya’s twenty-third birthday three days before the NHL awards. Marlow and Lanka take him out to an exorbitantly priced restaurant. It’s one of those places with menus that don’t have price tags. The maitre die, she’s clearly not a hostess, gets a look from Lana, and once they are sitting, Ilya has the menu without prices on it. They eat, treating it like a small plates restaurant. Really, it’s Ilya and Marlow ordering multiple entrees and Lanka eating whatever she thinks looks best. 

He never finds out how much the bill costs. He’s still a ways off from being back to his pre-season weight, hungry constantly. Dr. Pereira has confirmed his CD4 levels are fine, he just needs food and rest. 

Food he feels he’s nailed, but then they are off to a club. Private table, bottle service, outrageous tips. He argues loudly with Lanka about which fairly accessible Russian vodka is better, and within twenty minutes are presented with bottles of each. It’s fun. Everyone there is happy to see him, or willing to pretend. He has all the attention he could ever want. Women and men. He knows exactly how this shirt fits him, how his ass looks in these pans. 

He goes to the smoking alley. A drunk girl yells, “who wants the other half of my cig?” and Ilya’s hand raises. He plucks it from her hands when she offers. 

She doesn’t leave the alley. Instead, she stares at his face. “Want your mouth on anything else?” she asks. She is beautiful. She’s got dark brown eyes and black hair. There’s a small dusting of freckles on her bare shoulders. Ilya is pretty sure she isn’t wearing a bra, just the halter neck top. 

“Maybe,” he says, taking another drag. He eyes her carefully. She’s not Hollander. He doesn’t want her to be Hollander. 

Her place is a short Uber. She keeps her hand on his upper thigh. She’s an objectively good kisser. She ride and then soaks his face, which is fun. He hasn’t done that in a while. He rolls on a condom and she’s still so wet and open from his mouth. It’s good sex. 

He walks the twelve blocks back to the club. It’s nearly closing time. The team has paid. He takes another Uber home. It’s a good birthday. He’s happy. He doesn’t understand why his bed feels so empty. 

Vegas has historically not been great for him and Hollander. Which is of course why someone has made them co-presenters. There’s a script. Ilya is allowed to touch the man. On stage. In front of lights and god and people and cameras and Hollanders fucking parents, probably. Then he has to fly back to Russia. His meds are sorted, fifteen grand to set that up. Ilya is so tired and he’s not even on the plane. 

His father is doing worse. Much worse. He is seventy two. He does not always recognize Ilya  over the phone. Calls him Alexei, or his own brother's name, Dmitry. Ilya answers the questions as best he can. It’s a gamble. He doesn’t know what truth his father needs to hear. 

He’s in the bathroom. He is never going to be anything new to his father. It does not matter what he does tonight. Nothing Ilya has done for years now has really mattered. He has no say in what memories his father’s disease consumes. Statistically, most of Grigori Rozanov’s memories are of a disappointment. A failure, an embarrassment, a faulty tool. Ilya will keep bleeding money into his care. Whatever late game miracle Ilya foolishly hoped he’d get has been off the table. The game is over, the crowds have long gone home, and Ilya is still on the ice like there’s something more he can do. 

He wants to cry. His chest hurts and it’s hard to breathe. He’s due on stage any minute. He pulls it together. 

Hollander is so fucking beautiful. Ilya puts his hand on Hollander’s low back. He can feel the heat, even through the jacket. He knows the divots of Hollander’s back. Knows the curve of his spine. Pretends otherwise. 

He wins MVP. Hollander is back in his bed. Ilya watches him. Hollander comes undone with Ilya’s words before anything else. When Ilya finally touches him, Hollander is sweaty and hot and desperate for it. He is so good. He is perfect. And for these minutes, Ilya can pretend that Hollander is his. 

Hollander leaves bruises on Ilya’s hips. He flies first class to Moscow and the seatbelt digs into them. When they fade, Ilya only has training to keep himself in his body. He puts on the most muscle of his career so far. He misses American food, the variety and the amount. He misses capsaicin. He does not enjoy Polina’s cooking. It tastes the same as it always does, but it doesn’t taste the way he was remembering it. It doesn’t taste like he imagined it, when he was homesick in Boston. He wonders if this is his curse forever, where he remembers home wrong and never makes it back. If he is stuck always wanting what he doesn’t have. Selfish. Stupid. 

The food is fuel. He spends endless hours training. It keeps him away from Alexei. It reminds him that there is a different life he will return to. The life where he is Stanley Cup winning NHL captain. 

His father withers. He is confused and angry. He is scared. It occurs to Ilya that he could stop giving his father gentleness. Ilya could hurt him so easily. He used to want to. If Ilya could meet the Grigori from Ilya’s twelve year old memories, he would probably enjoy hitting that man. Tells himself it would make him feel better somehow. The man here is something else. It’s probably rude to think of his father as a thing. Grigori is not less than a person, he is more than. Symbol, idol, something Ilya doesn’t have words for. 

He wonders what his mother would do. He has a much better sense now of exactly what kind of monster his father was to her. Grigori asks Ilya for his own mother, and Ilya is too exhausted to be cruel. All the once human pieces of Ilya’s father have already died off. Withered like leaves on a tree. The only thing left of his father is a duty. Other families have love and shared experiences and memories and things Ilya had only managed with hockey. Now Ilya just has duty. Easier, probably. 

(Selfishly, Ilya thinks he is not worse than his father. Maybe if his father can find peace then Ilya can find some reason to hope for his own. Selfishly, he does not want to watch a sad old man die.) 

Ilya flies first class home to Boston, twenty pounds heavier with unblemished skin. 

The year after Rozanov, Boston, win the cup, Shane decides it’s his turn. It’s more complicated than that. Hockey is a team sport. Their defensive line comes together. They get a better alternate goalie. Shane knows what kind of captain he is: smart, observant, direct. It all starts working. 

Eighty two games (and four HIV tests - three Boston games and All Stars) later, they’re second in the Eastern conference (fucking Florida) and then they’re in the finals and playoffs. Despite injuries and tape and so many flights and losing weight, Shane is holding the fucking cup with a C on his jersey and it’s the best moment of his life. 

He’s on the ice, at home, where he belongs. He’s surrounded by his team. He fucking did it. He did the thing every kid in Peewee hockey wants and it’s so good he never wants it to end. 

After the parties and parades and endless media, he sleeps for thirteen hours straight. 

When he wakes up, it’s eleven am and there’s texts from Rozanov. 

Lily: congrats

Lily: needed me to show you how? 

And that’s when Shane’s thoughts of “I wish I could have this feeling forever” crystallize into a clear objective: we’re going to do it again next year. 

Hayden tells him that he’s nuts, but then says, “alright, what’s the plan?” Which is why he’s the best A alive. 

Montreal goes to Boston early in the season. Early November, and Shane is in Rozanov’s bed. Shane might be obsessed with kissing. Kissing the way he and Rozanov kiss. Shane sinks his body into Rozanov’s hands when they kiss. His skin comes alive. On the ice it’s his muscles. When they are together, his skin is on display and hot and claimed. Rozanov puts his hands on Shane’s face and his fingers in Shane’s mouth and his skin is warm too. Once their clothes are off, Rozanov eats his ass and fucks him so good it’s embarrassing. 

On the flight home, Shane double checks he has a calendar alert in 12 weeks. 

Shane has taken so many at-home HIV tests he can see them in his dreams. In one, he tests positive. He has to work himself through a mindfulness exercise from the sports psychologist before he can even think after. Then he has the thought. If Rozanov gave it to me, part of him would be mine forever. It’s the craziest thing he’s ever thought. It isn’t even true. HIV doesn’t belong to Rozanov, and neither does Shane. They would be equally crazy things to want, which is why Shane doesn’t want them. It takes a ten kilometer run, and leg presses until failure, then doing each leg until failure, before he’s able to stop thinking. 

Despite the fact Shane is very careful about deleting his history and cookies whenever he researches, he starts getting PreP ads. It feels like he’s been seeing so much more HIV related things. 

(It’s probably something to do with the fact that when he can’t sleep, he opens an incognito browser and watches coming out videos on youtube. The language they use doesn’t fit in his mouth, even the ones he learns by heart. That’s fine. He isn’t gay, not really. It’s easy to find all the little differences between himself and these men. Shane isn’t gay. He’s going to play hockey until his body gives out - hopefully early forties. Then he should probably marry a woman. Or he can retire quietly, and without the eyes of the hockey world, can be alone.) 

After winning the Stanley Cup for the second year in a row, Shane goes to bed at six am. He’s so tired he feels it in his teeth. The morning light is streaming in from under his curtains. He’s not designed to sleep at this time. He’d be a danger walking around so fatigued. After twenty minutes with his eyes closed, he fails to fall asleep. Opens his phone. 

Something like ten hours ago, he texted Rozanov, the luckiest. He wants more from Rozanov, which is embarrassing. He’s too tired to fuck the man. Couldn’t ride him the way he teased weeks ago, after Montreal beat Boston in the playoffs. 

What he imagines now is Rozanov naked, his chest pressed against Shane’s own. His hands worshipping Shane’s body. He’s not gentle in Shane’s mind, but all consuming nonetheless. Like the tide coming in, his cock breaching Shane. Shane, too exhausted to be tight for him. Shane taking it, possessed with it. Alone in his bed, Shane is naked other than his underwear. He’s too tired for the weight of pajamas. He’s also painfully hard. He doesn’t even open his eyes. He takes himself in hand and the images continue. Rozanov would cum first, for fucking once. He would jerk Shane off himself, his cock still inside. 

He finally sleeps. At noon, when he wakes up, his skin is tacky with cum. He also realizes that in his mind, Rozanov wasn’t wearing a condom. 

Rozanov is undetectable. He’s been that way since he won the cup. Two cups for Shane later, an explosion of u=u ads, and not a word from Rozanov about it. Shane doesn’t want to think about Rozanov without a condom. Shane probably wouldn’t even notice. Would Rozanov? Is Rozanov fucking other guys raw? Surely not. Rozanov could still get chlamydia. Rozanov wouldn’t get chlamydia from Shane. Or anything. The science says Rozanov couldn’t transmit the virus. Probably hasn’t been able to anytime they fucked. 

Shane tells himself it would probably be gross to have cum inside him. Texts Hayden to make sure he’s alive, and what their first dinner plans are as two time cup champions. 

It occurs to him, after, that he should have just said no to staying at Rozanov’s. It would have been easier. But Rozanov makes him stupid, makes him want things he has no business needing. Shane wanted Rozanov pressed against his skin. Shane wanted hours, not just minutes, alone with the man. He doesn’t know what to make of the cold ginger ale and the tuna melt. Rozanov is changing the rules, Shane can feel it. Rozanov pulls up the anchor and unmoors them, Shane can feel the foundations crumble. 

Rozanov says “Shane,” and it hurts his heart. There’s probably other words, but Shane doesn’t know them. Shane’s been playing this game too long, and now it has to end. Rozanov won the shootout, or Shane earned a game ejection. Whatever the fuck is wrong with him has caused his chest to feel this way. 

He leaves, and it doesn’t help, which is fine. He needs space to recover. Rozanov will only make it worse. 

It hasn’t been the required twelve weeks when he meets Rose. He likes her, genuinely. She’s wonderful to talk to. She’s kind, and funny, and it’s easy to hold her hand in public. 

He’s missed kissing, even if it’s odd with someone shorter. She’s very good at it. He learns where to put his hands and keeps them out of her hair. Long hair tangles, apparently. Rose has to be public appearance ready at all moments. 

In his condo, on his couch, Rose in his lap. Her hands are undoing his shirt buttons. He has his hands on her waist. When she breaks this kiss to take her own shirt off, he helps, not like it’s a two person job. He wants to show enthusiasm. She’s wearing a dark green lace bra. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since he was eighteen. She had put his hands on her boobs. He doesn’t want to touch Rose. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He might be supposed to touch her. 

“You can touch me,” Rose says, after another kiss. 

“I am touching you,” Shane replies. His hands are on her hips. 

Rose laughs. “My tits, Shane.” 

“Right,” he says. His hands don’t move. 

She stops kissing him. Leans back. “Are you okay?” She asks. 

“I can’t tonight,” Shane tells her. 

“That’s fine,” she tells him. She looks like she means it. There’s something effortless about her. She makes things look easy. Shane has never minded how much work goes into his life. There’s training and conditioning and physio and meals and sponsorships and emails and travelling and games. There’s a Boston number he can text sometimes. His life is a lot of work, but it’s a fair trade. He gets to play hockey in the NHL. Hockey is his first and deepest love. When he was nine, his mothers day card included the lines: “I love watching hockey with you. Thank you for taking me to hockey every day.” 

His life is a lot of work. He’s lying awake and Rose asleep on the other side of the bed. She’s wearing nothing but green lace panties and one of his shirts, and her bra was a matching green lace, and Google says that means she was expecting to hook up tonight. It occurred to him that he is not the way he is simply because of how hard he’s had to work. Because in three weeks he’s seen Rose work just as hard, if not harder. Certainly while eating less. Followed more closely. And there is something effortless about her. 

She said, “It’s fine if we don’t tonight. Can I ask why?” 

“I need to get tested first.” 

“Wow. Shane Hollander. You know we aren’t fucking raw the first time, even if you were all clear, right?” 

It takes Shane a second too long to remember that most people are using condoms to prevent pregnancy. 

“Right, of course.”

“Is that like, a thing for you?” She asks. “Like I have an IUD.” 

“No, it’s not a thing. I just -” He’s better media trained than to stop in the middle of sentence, but there’s nothing else to say. He simply would rather die than keep talking. He’s not telling Rose that the only person he’s slept with in years is HIV positive. 

“You’ve had sex before. If you’re getting tested.” Rose states. 

He nods. 

“Is that the only reason you’re waiting?” she asks. 

He shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to rush you.” She sounds genuinely sorry. 

He shakes his head again. 

“It’s okay, really.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re so beautiful.” He says, because it’s true and because he’s supposed to. I’m supposed to want you, he thinks, and it’s such an awful thing his breath catches in his throat. I’m supposed to want you, and I would do a good job if I could. 

“But you don’t want me,” she finishes sadly. He can only stare at her. “Is there someone else?” She asks. 

And just how the fuck is he supposed to answer that. He can’t even look her in the eyes while he nods. 

“And. Shane. Is it a man?” 

“Yeah,” he whispers. He’s thinking of Rozanov, of Ilya, and the hours they spent together in the man's own home before Shane ran. “But I fucked it up.” 

She’s smiling now. It’s soft and kind. She’s so nice to him it’s insane. People aren’t nice in hockey. Kind, sometimes. Shining moments of thoughtfulness. Rose’s stories make him think Hollywood has even less in terms of niceness. But here she is. Kind in a way that feels like Rozanov’s brave little smirk. 

Shane is a coward, in comparison. 

“I still want him,” he says. 

“Did you guys like, break up?” 

Shane laughs, humorlessly. It’s driven him insane for years now not having words for Rozanov. The man and their time together defies language beyond “stupid” and “temporary”. He takes a deep breath, “It’s not like that. We weren’t dating. It’s hard to explain.” 

“Right,” Rose frowns. “You’re a really good guy, Shane.” 

“Okay?” That seems only tangentially related, and Rose knows a different version of him than anyone else. Nice of her to say, given that she knows he’s gay. “I’m gay,” he says, trying to fit the words in his mouth, desperate to see what she does when it’s undeniable. 

“That’s fine. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering.” 

“We’re breaking up now though, right?” He says it like a joke, and he’s pretty sure he means it. Is he allowed? 

Rose laughs. It’s a weight off his shoulders. “Yes, Shane. We are breaking up now. Broken up. Done. We’re still having a sleepover though.” 

Shane has never had a sleepover with a girl before. This might be part of being gay. Or it might just be Rose. He’s kind of glad. He’s not ready to be alone yet. Not when this is the most relaxed he’s ever felt around her. 

“Sure. Do you need pyjamas?" Shane gives her a shirt and she takes her makeup off and lays down in his bed. 

“I think you could probably fix things with this guy. If you wanted,” Rose says, once they’re sharing covers and the lights are off. It feels like sharing a hotel bed at a peewee tournament, whispering secrets after lights out. If this is what being gay is like, then maybe he’s always been gay. Or maybe his life was cross training for being gay. Maybe he has most of the pieces, just has to slot them into place. It’s a reassuring thought. So is Rose’s weight on the other side of the bed, her breathing, her warmth. 

“Okay,” he says. Otherwise he’ll spill all of Rozanov's secrets and that will kill them both. “Do we get to be friends?” He hopes so. 

“Yes,” Rose says. He can hear her smile. Shane will see Rozanov at All Stars next month. He can try to fix things. 

Chapter End Notes

Japadog is real and delicious! I went last time I was in vancouver (pre covid, BC i miss you!!)

The drunk girl who offers Ilya half a cigarette is based on a real experience I had several years ago on st patricks day. Still unclear if I smoked that cigarette, or at least if I tried to.

I think Shane and Rose should get platonic sleepovers. I'm here to be the change I want to see.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

This story has grown massively in the people who have read it!! Thank you so much for all your kind words and comments. I've had such a meaningful time researching, writing, and talking about this fic. <3

I've been looking forward to parts of this chapter since the start. I hope you enjoy.

Also, just so you don't have to rely on Shane and Ilya's unreliable narration for your HIV safe sex: U=U means someone with undetectable HIV status (which Ilya works hard to maintain) cannot pass the virus on. The campaign started in 2016, which means it is fairly new in 2017, but the understanding behind u=u was known before 2016. It is fully safe to have unprotected sex with an undetectable partner. Ilya and Shane have not had sex where there was any infection risk, and that's not a place I am interested in going with this story. <3

It’s a few days early, but Shane could finally use the test kit before he flies out to All Stars. It’s been the longest twelve weeks of his life. He doesn’t even open the damn thing. 

The evidence is so strong at this point. Rozanov has not given him HIV because he can’t. He’s undetectable. Rozanov has been more than on top of his medication and his viral load. Every time Shane has asked, he’s gotten an honest response. 

Shane is certain, despite the pained look on Rozanov’s face when Shane left, Rozanov would tell him if there was a risk. Rozanov can be trusted with this. 

Shane feels good arriving in Florida. It’s warm. He’s dressed well - his new stylist is a friend of JJ’s who seems to know what textures he likes and which are too slippery. He’s captain, which is an honour. Shane already thinks he knows how to set up lines with these guys. He’s got theories about a power kill line up. 

It’s also a whole weekend with Rozanov. His first time with the man since everything with Rose. 

The game itself is electric. Him and Rozanov are something else on a line together. All those years knowing where the other one was on the ice has paid off into something incalculable. Hollander looks clean, Rozanov looks dirty. Rozanov on the wing lets him turn dirty into clever, and lets Shane go sneaky. It’s good fucking hockey. 

And then the hockey game is over. And then they are two men inside of the enormous shadows they cast. And Shane wants something. 

Shane has never worked harder to put something into words. Shane and words have never been close friends. Not trying to use his deeply limited Japanese to tell his grandparents about a hockey win at twelve. Not trying to talk to his mom about the Calvin Klein contract. It’s this. 

Even if Rozanov laughs at “I think I’m gay,” even if he won’t answer the questions Shane asks. Shane’s been in front of cameras for so long, Rozanov too, and there is something to answering a slightly different question than the one asked. He can hope, he can want, he can fucking dream.

They can’t be anything. Shane knows it. Rozanov knows it. 

Shane wants it. Except the thing he wants is so big and so consuming. He must have grown into it, over all these fucking years. The way he feels has always felt so big, but it’s so deep now he could drown in it. He’s sitting on Rozanov’s lap, and Rozanov is sobbing into his chest. His bones sing with the relief of being exactly where he’s meant to be. It’s a lot. But so is playing at the biggest hockey arena in North America, and he’s really fucking good at that. He can be great at this too. Right now Rozanov is letting him. 

He holds Rozanov. It would be really nice, he thinks, if the circumstances were different. The picture Rozanov paints is fucking bleak. His living family is two cops, one who is dying of Alzheimer's. His mom died young. And Rozanov wants to be able to go back, return to some place that might do anything to him. Why? 

Shane thinks of the July his grandparents flew from Japan and stayed with them. He must have been eleven, before his summers were dedicated to conditioning and training camps. Specifically, he thinks of the first night, where he accidentally watched his mom sob into a cup of the tea his grandparents brought. He didn’t mean to, but his parents were in the living room. He had never seen his mom cry before. For years after, he looked for signs that his mom was unhappy with life in Canada. He never found any. Angry at racism, sure. But the thing Shane now calls grief, never seen again. 

Shane can’t ask Rozanov to give up Russia, not when Shane has seen some of the cost of living home behind. 

Rozanov’s breathing evens out, the shaking stops. Shane wants to say something stupid. Shane wants words for this, maybe. But words are so hard, so new. Shane knows the man underneath him, and with all the care he can put into it, presses kisses into Rozanov’s lips. Rozanov parts his lips, lets Shane in. Holds his hands on Shane’s waist, runs them up his ribs, under his shirt. It’s so good to be touched by this man. Shane rocks their hips together. The layers of underwear and pants between them make the friction maddening. Rozanov makes a little noise anyways. 

“I want you,” Shane says. The words don’t hurt to say. They cut his guts up when all he could do was think them. 

“Fuck, Hollander. You are going to kill me.” 

Shane wants to stop him. Explain how his brain has started fixating on a something where Rozanov is his. Where nothing else bad happens. It’s so openly naive, but some part of him - not his heart, because a heart is a muscle and those can be torn, not his bones because those can be broken - cries out with certainty that he is exactly where he’s supposed to be. 

“You should fuck me,” Shane says instead one of the much dumber things he could say. 

“Because you are gay, yes?” Rozanov teases, but his voice is still a little rough from the tears. 

“I know you haven’t had that many concussions to forget it so soon,” Shane says back. Rozanov’s face erupts into a smile. 

“Is that how you want it?”

“I want you in me,” Shane says. The words are a lot, but they hit Rozanov just as hard as it hits Shane to say them. Harder, even. Rozanov’s blue eyes are devoured by his blown pupils. Rozanov picks up a condom, and Shane shakes his head. “Fuck that,” he says. 

Rozanov freezes. “What?” He asks, like he doesn’t understand. 

“You’re still undetectable,” Shane says. “For years now, right?”

“Yes, almost three,” Rozanov confirms. 

“And you’re good otherwise?” Shane asks. 

“Yes,” Rozanov says. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but doesn’t. 

“Then it’s safe,” Shane says. He tries to sound as confident as all the research made him feel. He means it, is the thing. He trusts Rozanov. He trusts Ilya, trusted him on the ice and trusts him in bed. “I want to feel you,” he says. It sounds better. Rozanov is still staring at him. 

“You do not want me to use a condom?” Rozanov says, carefully, clearly. 

“Yes,” Shane says. Then he kisses Rozanov before he says something stupid about the porn where cum dripped out of a bottom and Shane watched the video every time for two months straight. 

Rozanov lets Shane kiss him, holding him tightly. Rozanov’s body is not quite familiar, but it’s getting closer to that point. It is a relief to see the muscles under Rozanov’s clothes. His mouth is desperate on Shane’s body, moving lower and lower. Shane lets his hand tighten in Rozanov’s curls. 

“Turn over,” Rozanov commands. Shane has barely gotten his knees under him when Ilya spits on his asshole. It should be gross, but Shane makes a noise that is mostly surprise. Then Ilya is pressing kissing to his ass, and it’s so good it’s embarrassing. Ilya has a hand on his thigh and one on his hip. He’s held in place so Ilya can eat his fill. Ilya makes these hungry moans as he licks into Shane. Shane is hard and he can feel his cock hot against his stomach. 

“God, fuck, please,” Shane babbles. He wants to cum, but he wants Rozanov to fuck him more. 

Finally, Rozanov pulls off. His voice is heavy, “You are so wet and loose now.”

“Anytime today,” Shane says, though the effect is probably mitigated by how out of breath he sounds. 

“You are sure?” Rozanov asks. 

“Ilya. Yes.” Ilya doesn’t ask again. He pushes himself in. It’s a fucking stretch. Rozanov is so fucking big, right on the edge of too much. It makes Shane crazy how badly he needs it. Rozanov grinds their hips together once he’s fully inside. It makes him see stars. 

“You feel so good,” Rozanov says. His voice sounds wrecked. When he starts moving, it isn’t controlled and smooth. Rozanov is trying, and he’s still nailing Shane’s prostate like it’s the five hole. But Shane is doing this to him. Shane is shaking his control and making his desperation evident in every move he makes. 

“Cum in me,” Shane says. Rozanov grabs at his hips and is panting with his mouth open on Shane’s back. One of his hands makes it’s way to Shane’s cock, clumsy and blind stroking. Mostly it gives Shane something to fuck. Shane spills over the hand and it only pushes Rozanov harder. He can feel when Rozanov cums. Not the release into him, that sounds weird. But the groan and the tension and the release of Rozanov’s body. They both collapse onto the bed. 

Shane doesn’t want Rozanov to pull out. He kind of likes being gently crushed by the sweaty man. Rozanov plants a kiss between his shoulders, then pulls himself free. Shane turns to look at him. Rozanov stares at him, licking Shane’s cum off his fingers. It should be gross. It’s not a practical way to get rid of it, especially since Rozanov could walk to the sink. But their legs are still touching and its fucking hot, watching Rozanov’s clever tongue, knowing where it’s been. Looking at how much Rozanov fucking loves it. 

“Go wash your hands,” he demands. Rozanov pouts, another exaggerated and silly expression he’s worn this weekend. But he acquiesces, and returns with a cloth for Shane. Mine, Shane thinks. It won't be true in an hour or two when Shane leaves, but Rozanov curls into him. 

After he’s dressed, once he can feel his legs again, he tells Rozanov goodnight. “Bye Ilya,” he says. He’s bad with words. But he can use Ilya’s first name, even when he likes him so much, even fully dressed. “Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya replies, like Shane didn’t throw it in his face last time. If they could be something, he thinks it would be something good. 

When he gets back to his own room, he deletes all the future calendar notifications for testing. 

Ilya’s father actually died about an hour before the game against Montreal. Ilya played fine. One goal, one assist, a minor for roughing he more than earned. Privileges of home games. He has five missed calls when he gets off the ice. 

He doesn’t need Alexei to say the words. His father is dead. If it was Alexei finally ODing, it would be Polina who called. Ilya calls back anyways. He’s in the locker room, but he puts the phone on speakerphone so he can book his tickets. Alexei won’t have this conversation in English. 

“Father is dead, faggot. Can’t you pick up your phone?” Turkish Air has daily flights with only one layover in Istanbul. It’ll get him there in about twenty hours. Last minute first class is a cool twenty five grand. Whatever. 

“I’ll be there in two days,” Ilya replies. Alexei is high. He’s not getting in a fight, in Russian, in his locker room. Already the boys are staring, Marlow most of all. 

“Because family means so much to you?” Alexei spits. “You aren’t going to honour fathers fucking memory. You’re a fucking disgrace.” 

It’s nothing Ilya hasn’t heard before. He checks in for the flight on his phone. He has to be at the airport in two hours. He really should go get packed. 

“I’ll be there in two days,” he repeats. He can scream at Alexei in person. He needs to remember where his passport is. 

About a third of the team is openly staring at him. Marlow is trying to use his big stupid body to hide Ilya. It isn’t working, but it makes him want to sob. Fortunately, he doesn’t have time to think about why that is. His father’s funeral is in three days, and Ilya would like to attend the viewing. Maybe it’s to confirm the man is really gone, that it’s really over. Nothing is over, he knows. His father has always been fading into this. 

“My father died,” he tells Marlow. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry-” 

“I have to go to Moscow,” Ilya says. 

“Of course,” Marlow says. Marlow’s grandma died in Ilya’s rookie year, Marlow sobbed and bought flowers and took three days off to make cookies with his mom. He brought some back to Boston. They were pretty good. They had jam in them. Americans should do more with jam. When they do use it, they make such insane choices. Connor’s wife, when Ilya asked, explained she put grape jelly in her meatballs. Ilya ate twelve. 

Ilya packs his small suitcase, his most conservative black suit, good shoes, and whatever clean clothes he grabs first. He thinks there's some of his old things in his fathers apartment. Downs today's dose. Tucks the pills behind the leftover oxy in bathroom. He’s not bringing them through customs. Grabs his passport - upper cubby in the closet, alongside several of his old phones - and gets back in the car. 

It feels bad. He can’t stop thinking about how much he doesn’t want this to be happening. He doesn’t want to think about what exactly he means. Which parts of this he doesn’t want to happen. 

It’s not until he’s in the air does he remember Dr. Zalenssky has retired, moved on from Moscow. Ilya has another week without his meds ahead of him. Lana can’t hook him up. Sasha takes completely different drugs these days. The shit Ilya takes wasn't available in Russia last time they talked. 

It’s a problem that has no good options. Ilya has nothing to do for nineteen hours but wallow in the unfairness. It’s a good distraction - it keeps him angry. It keeps him away from the toxic sludge that is however he feels about his father. 

Moscow doesn’t smell like home anymore. Ilya likes how Boston smells, even though the ocean smells sort of gross. Polina has done a good job with the apartment. The clocks are stopped, the mirrors are covered. His father was a traditional man. There are things to be done. 

The three days of home viewing are already underway. There is a steady supply of tea. Food. Ilya should be hungry, but sitting for nineteen hours has dulled his hunger. He puts extra jam into his tea. Jam is very nearly universal, it just needs to have enough sugar to prevent rot. Sugar is energy. 

Ilya drinks his tea, which seems to satisfy Polina. Alexei is speaking with men in uniforms. Ilya does not want to speak to police. 

Finally, he goes to his father. 

His body is cool and stiff. He is bruised. His eyes have been closed, thank god. Ilya could not look into the pale lightless blue. His nailbeds are bruised. He does not look like he is resting. He looks dead and empty. 

(There is no vomit on the side of his lips. There are no handprint bruises around his wrists. Ilya is not a child anymore. His father is not his mother. Ilya is no longer the child who crawled in bed with a corpse.) 

Ilya tries to find comfort in the certainty of death, when it is laid out in front of him. 

Alexei does not share this goal. He and Polina are both trying to convince him to give up his share of his inheritance. Alexei through overt threats and arguments about how Ilya has all the money he’ll ever need, Polina through much gentler show of her fear and vulnerability. Polina wants to keep the apartment, which is far too large for one widow. Alexei wants it for his own family. On and on. 

Ilya sits quietly with his father. The main room stays free of arguments, and someone has to greet the mourning visitors. Ilya is not a good representative of the family, but no one seems to mind. 

He tries to tell himself he doesn’t want to give Alexei money because the man will only snort it up his nose. That he would support a clean version of his brother. Not this terrified, furious husk of a man losing his solid ground. It occurs to him that if Alexei spent any time acting like he gave even a single shit about Ilya as a person, Ilya would live broke for his older brother. He didn’t think he could feel more pathetic. This is a new low, even if his only company is his father’s unseeing corpse. 

Boston beats Nashville, but it’s closer than it should be. Ilya sends his customary, “I love u” to the group chat. 

Ilya’s condensed viewing ends. The funeral is very official. There is black bread and vodka. Ilya resists the urge to get trashed. It would be funny, to humiliate his father in front of his coworkers one last time. Remind everyone here how unreliable and unsuitable he always was, how arrogant and American he has become. 

Ilya is perhaps drunker than he anticipated, team nutritionist meal plan substituted with mostly tea cut with jam. 

He doesn’t resist the urge to hit Alexei. Ilya is bigger and stronger. Alexei still gets a hit in. His nose isn’t broken, but it is bleeding. Ilya’s blood is getting on Alexei’s hands. For a brief moment, Ilya wants Alexei to know. He wants Alexei to be Lyoshka, the older brother who walked him to school and picked blackcurrents with him at the dacha. He remembers when their hands were stained red with the juice. Alexei is terrible now, has been terrible longer than anything else. But he and Lyoshka used to go swimming. Used to skate at the community rink. There’s no one else alive who knows the sound of their mothers' laughter. 

Ilya’s blood is poison on Alexei’s hands and for an awful moment, Ilya wants him to know just how much danger he’s in. Wants Alexei to know the depth of Ilya’s fear and loathing. 

Lanka convinces him to let go of the bastard. 

Lyoshka is scared enough already. 

Ilya walks because he doesn’t want to make any more stupid choices. Then he’s on the phone with Shane Hollander. He’s so fucking in love with the man, and he’s scared to even think his first name. But he’s confessing in his mother tongue. Hollander’s voice is calm and patient. 

Shane’s voice settles something in him. It feels like watching a large frightening dog lay down. 

Ilya shouldn’t be allowing this, not with Hollander. But there is no fight in him. Whatever fire inside him has been snuffed out. Hollander offers to listen and Ilya can’t deny himself the love that fills so much of his body he’s scared the apartment of police can see it.

Shane wants him. Whatever else is happening, whatever fucked thing happens next, Shane not only wants him, but he came back. 

By the time he gets back on the plane to Boston, he’s on track to miserable. He’s spiked a low grade fever. He’s telling himself it’s stress and airports. But there’s a cold pit of terror in him. Maybe his CD4 has crashed after a week without his antivirals. It’s unlikely, but it would be sort of poetic, to get his ass orphaned and then get sick. 

The head cold is not helping his mood. He feels stupid. Ilya remembers he’s an orphan and he burned all his bridges with his family. He’s stupid, but he’s not dumb. Reckless moments are fine. It would be unspeakable to want something with Hollander. He tries to get his head on right, when he’s back in Boston. Gets a blood test. His viral load is up, but not catastrophically so. Dr. Pereira tells him feeling sick can be a normal side effect of stopping his meds. It’s not his body throwing in the towel. 

He’s gotten it on properly when he gets to Montreal. Hollander is right. Everything about them is a bad idea. He texts Hollander to let him know. He’s not sure what insane confidence possessed Hollander back in Florida. But he’s certainly not going to prove himself unworthy of it. 

Maybe it would be easier to end things if he knew he’d get to feel Hollander’s body so intimately against his own. 

It certainly would be easier to end things if Hollander wasn’t taken off the ice on the boards. 

It would certainly be easier to walk away from a man he’s in love with if he didn’t have to watch him unmoving on the ice. 

It would certainly be easier if Shane wasn’t grinning up at him with a smile so big it makes his heart ache. It would be easier if Shane wasn’t asking for time, the thing they’ve never had. Ilya wants to do anything, to do everything for him. Ilya would have taken that hit for him, would take pain and terror. He has a lifetime experience. What Shane is asking for is time together. Time alone, in peace, in luxury, with no hockey bruises. Ilya doesn’t know if he’s able to give that to him. 

He says maybe, like a coward, like his mother said about going to the park when she didn’t get out of bed. They’ll talk when Shane is sensible again. 

New York knocks Boston out of the conference finals. Fucking Scott Hunter. 

Week and a half later, he’s won the cup and is kissing a man. Fucking Scott Hunter. 

Ilya is not in the habit of justifying things to himself. Which is how he ends up in a sheer black top and very tight pants at Scott Hunter Night. It’s the sort of outfit that reads fashionable but has a few steps of plausible deniability from faggot. Ilya loves walking that line. He can push it when he’s out with Lana, because straight Americans see a beautiful woman on his arm and assume he’s one of them. Scott Hunter has walked right over that line and is using it as g string. Scott Hunter is in a tiny, mesh crop top. There’s glitter on his face. He looks happy. 

When he sees Ilya, his body tenses. The long easy lines of his muscle harden. Hunter is friendly, polite as always. He comes across ever so slightly baffled. They ease after a song, a chirp, a round of drinks. Hunter goes back to dancing like it’s a point of pride. Of course it is. Once Scott Hunter has decided that this is a peculiar but harmless showing, he goes to enjoy himself.

It’s the boyfriend who is staring at him. Ilya saw the instagram post. The thousands of tweets, dozens of headlines. His name is Kip, which feels violently American. Ilya has been studying his social media presence since the kiss. First, he told himself it was shock that such an attractive man would go for Scott Hunter. He’s curious. He wants to know what it would feel like to be an openly gay New Yorker. Tries not to be jealous of a man who grew up in the city that hosted the first pride when his own was four years into a 100 year ban. 

Ilya should have taken his pills in the private car from the awards to Scott Hunter Night. The reminder on his phone that pops up everyday at 10pm Boston time goes off. It’s not that it’s a great plan, but no plans about this sort of thing are good. Worst case scenario is that Scott Hunter and his boyfriend think Ilya is doing some drugs. Fine. 

Kip follows him into the bathroom. Ilya makes obnoxious eye contact with him, winks, and downs his meds. The boyfriend’s face goes through several emotions, confusion, then recognition. 

Kip looks around, but the bathroom is mercifully empty. “Are you on PrEP?” Kip asks. Close enough. Ilya’s newest meds is the same one they use for PrEP. It’s a double win, since it fixed the damage his last trip to Russia caused and has plausible deniability built in. 

“You are as well. Hunter alone cannot give you what you want?” Ilya replies. 

“We’re exclusive. I’m not on it these days. And I give him what he wants too,” Kip grins. Ilya doesn’t want to think about Scott Hunter having sex, but the man has an objectively great ass. His face is probably improved when streaked with cum. Too explicit for a chirp outside of the locker room, especially with no build up. 

“This is, a community service for you?” Ilya says instead. “Taking care of the elderly.” 

“I’m older than him,” Kip laughs. “You think I’m decrepit too?”

“You are not hockey player. Is like dog years. You are young and beautiful,” Ilya tells him. He’s not actually drunk enough to be dropping so many articles, because otherwise he’d be spilling his whole guts in some humiliating bid to be seen. It was so fucking good with Hollander, in Florida. Ilya can’t crack his ribcage open in this Vegas club, it would probably kill him.  Kip is still grinning. 

Scott Hunter’s very handsome boyfriend doesn’t ask him any questions. Gives him a very obvious once over. 

“Americans are oblivious, huh?” Kip says. Ilya is so grateful that the man doesn’t actually say anything Ilya has to answer. 

“Hockey players too,” Ilya replies. The look on Kip’s face says he didn’t even need Ilya to confirm. He looks happy to play this game with him. Maybe he is happy for Hunter, maybe he has some misguided belief that Ilya and Hunter are friends. 

Ilya leaves the bathroom, and Kip follows a few seconds later. The DJ puts on a heinous remix of Shape of You. Ilya dances. There’s a handful of Admirals players, and there is Scott Hunter and his boyfriend. Hunter is a good dancer, confident and sexy. Ilya lets himself be consumed by it. The music and the bodies and dangerously warm feeling inside of him. The Admirals are not great dancers, and even worse dressers. They all have blue jeans and ball caps on. Not in a leather daddy way. Ilya doesn’t know this club, but on any night that wasn’t celebrating a fucking hockey player, he bets they wouldn’t have been let in. Figures it’s too much to have Hunter put his boys in harnesses, but surely the hats were too much. 

Eventually, he needs a smoke. There’s a group of men he could stand near. Instead, he lights up alone. Vegas is colder than expected this late. The warmth inside of him - something like hope and pride - is fading fast with it. It was a stupid risk with Kip in there. There’s something ugly in him, jealousy. He wants Hollander. He wants the body he knows against him, moving together. 

Still, he is flying to Ottawa tomorrow. He is going to the cottage. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you reading!!

I have other plans for this universe, but this is where this story ends!

For those of you who were dreaming of Shane on PrEP, sadly, the timeline of Shane's gay self actualization, PrEP's availability (starting as early as 2012, but not widespread in Canada until 2016/2017) and the actual need based on Shane only sleeping with an undetectable partner don't work out. Kip (and also Kyle) were fully on PrEP though, so we have a wide variety of HIV safeguards.