Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Mugging, physical assault, Mentions of Sexual Assault, No actual sexual assault, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grigori Rozanov Haunts the Narrative, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Supportive David Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Autistic Shane Hollander, Hurt Shane Hollander, Pre-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, no AI, Fuck AI

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-28 Completed: 2026-09-25 Words: 19,865 Chapters: 4/4

It's All Gone to Hell (And That's Okay)

Summary

Set several months before the tuna melt:

The officer points at his entryway. “We noticed a doorbell camera when we entered. Is there a way we can take a look at that footage?”

Ilya frowns. The footage would easily prove that he spent the night at home, but it would also prove that he wasn’t alone. And if these cops know Ilya Rozanov, then they definitely know Shane Hollander.

“I’d like to know what this is about.”

“Shane Hollander was attacked outside of his hotel early this morning. The medical staff report he was saying your name."

Notes

Sorry - I had to change the settings to make it so only registered users can comment. I've never had an issue before, but I've had someone trying to scam me and someone else try to intimidate me on this fic. Everyone else has been totally awesome - so thanks to all of you are genuine and just here for some angst and happy endings.

Chapter 1

February 2016 – Boston

Shane throws his head back, cosmos expanding and imploding at the same time. His brain drifts, hums, sings, soars, reaching its apex and then impossibly climbing further. If it wasn’t for the hands gripping his hips, nails digging into muscles, he surely would have floated away with no tether to return. There’s the rhythmic slap of the body above him, thrusting in time with shockwaves of pleasure that send his body to another plane of existence.

A light tap to his cheek brings the world slightly back into focus.

“This okay?” Rozanov asks, his own voice breathless, not pausing in his torment.

Shane nods frantically. He swears his voice is not his own when he moans out, “More.”

Incredibly, the word barely leaves his lips before the thrusts increase to an unrelenting pace. The grip on his hips tightens into a vise. Colors flatten and blur before exploding behind his eyes. He grips his own cock, hand moving of its own accord. He uses his other hand to push against the headboard. Desire and need pools in his lower abdomen before expanding outward. The world buzzes then screams around him, stars bursting and falling as a telltale warmth splatters across his chest. The man above him shudders and collapses on top of him shortly after.

Shane’s body trembles as his consciousness wades through the swamp and works its way back into himself. He looks down at the mop of golden curls beneath his chin. He runs a hand through them once, and then stops himself.

They don’t do things like that. They fuck, clean up, then leave. One. Two. Three. Expectations have been set, and Shane is nothing if not a rule follower.

As if reading his mind, Rozanov stands up and walks to his ensuite bathroom. Shane lazily catches the towel thrown his way, his movements sloppy from post-coital bliss. “I should probably head out,” he says, his voice neutral. “Got an early flight.”

Rozanov walks back towards the bed, stepping over his discarded clothes. He rolls his torso so he’s hovering over where Shane is splayed. “No stay,” he grumbles with the slightest hint of a whine.

Shane blinks in surprise. They have been doing this for years now, a quick but memorable – always so mind-blowingly memorable – fuck after a game. It’s never anything more or less. It’s their simple arrangement, a pattern to follow. And patterns bring Shane comfort. More importantly, it’s a pattern that worked. Ilya going off script fills Shane with unease. If they start throwing in unknown variables it runs the risk of changing their entire dynamic. It’s happened before, when Shane read too much, too soon into their encounters, and it left him with six months of unread messages and heartbreak. Shane choses to remain silent – noncommittal – and focuses on wiping the mess off his stomach.

Rozanov pauses, seeming to catch himself. “Just for a minute. Let me take care of you.” He places his hand over Shane’s, pausing his movements. Gently, he takes the towel from him and cleans him off with a devoted care Shane has only seen once or twice before.

Shane barely puts any thought into letting Ilya take over. His body is so used to registering every, fucking thing from the buzzing of the lights to the seams of his socks. The floaty headspace he can enter with the other man feels like a cool balm over his oversensitive skin. He leans back and watches as his abs are cleaned, first with a few halfhearted swipes of the towel then with Rozanov’s tongue.

Much to Shane’s chagrin, he starts reacting as the other man moves lower. Nothing too crazy, his body still recovering from his spent load. Just a small twitch. But it doesn't go unnoticed by Ilya who gives a slight smirk in response.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks, annoyed. If he leaves any later, he’ll have a difficult time finding an Uber back to the hotel. It’s definitely past the time when he usually heads out. He leans into his irritation. He has to as the only other emotion at his disposal is desire.

Rozanov peeks up from under his mop of curls. “Kissing and making better.” He sloppily moves his kisses to Shane’s hips, mouthing the tender areas.

Shane looks down at where red marks were already blossoming across his hips and thighs. By how sore his backside is starting to feel against mattress, he’s sure it’s even worse in places he can’t see. He leans back and closes his eyes, awareness slamming back to him at the thought of going to practice tomorrow. “Ugh, I don’t know how I’m going to explain those.”

“Just say you like it rough.” Shane glares as Ilya twists his wrist to place a hand over the reddened fingerprint shaped bruises. “And that maybe Lily has gorilla hands.”

Shane scowls but makes no move to stop Ilya as he continues his caresses. “Rozanov, I’m serious. We have to be more careful.”

“Hmmm, yes, we,” Ilya smirks. “I’ll remember next time you are begging for it.”

“Shut up.”

Shane hops out of the Uber in front of the hotel, thanking the driver and leaving a generous tip in the app. Snow started falling earlier in the evening, blanketing an already shin deep layer across the sidewalks and the parking lot. Boston’s well-equipped for the snow, meaning the major roadways and a pathway to the hotel’s main entrance has already been plowed and salted. However, it’s three in the morning – an hour after the bars have closed – if anyone recognizes Shane there would be little speculation as to what he was likely doing.

…Though the details would almost certainly be amiss.

Forgoing the main entrance, Shane steps off the sidewalk and trudges through the heavy snow, grimacing as the freezing water easily seeps into his Reeboks. Once he had left the sanctuary of Ilya’s bedroom, Shane’s consciousness forced its way back into his body, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. He ducks against the dry, icy air, tugging his jacket closer around himself. He tries to ignore the scratchy collar against the nape of his neck. The bruises on his hips make themselves known when they rub against his joggers. He rounds the corner of the building towards the back entrance only accessible by key. He reaches into his jacket pocket, numb fingers fumbling for the thin piece of plastic.

A shadow behind him is all the warning Shane has before a rough hand squeezes the back of his neck and slams his head into the brick wall in front of him. Pain explodes from his forehead and he falls to his knees.

“Wha-” he breathes, bracing his hands against the wall. The same hand grips his hair and tugs him upright, leaving him kneeling with his body facing the wall. While his mind is stunned by the speed of the assault, luckily, his body is no stranger to surprise attacks or to the sharp feeling of ice against his knees. He reaches for the hand clutching the back of his head.

The man behind him crouches and shifts his other arm in front of Shane. “Don’t move.” Shane cringes at the man’s hot breath in his ear. He glances down at the hand to see a small switch blade pointed above his collarbone.

The hand in his hair tightens. His eyes water in response. Shane keeps his gaze fixed on the brick wall. “What the fuck do you want?” He raises his hands by his head, fingers stiff and antsy to attack.

Shane considers his options. The man is armed and very likely dangerous. There wasn’t any instigating factor. Is it random? Or does he know who Shane is? He doesn’t see the man, but Shane likely has size and sheer power on his side.

“Be quiet,” another voice warns.

Great. There are two of them.

He may have to bide his time. It’s late but the parking lot is covered in street lights. Hopefully someone will see them and get help.

The other man starts fumbling with his jacket, prodding and searching as if Shane’s body is of no consequence. A hand slides into the pocket of his joggers, reaching deep and much too close for comfort.

Shane jumps, turning his body away from the roaming hands. “What the f-”

His protest is cut off when his head is slammed into the wall a second time. A warm dampness trickles past his brow and gets caught in his lashes before continuing down his cheek. He tries blinking it away only to have his head wrenched back again, this time with the knife at his throat.

“I said, don’t move,” the closer voice hisses.

Shane compulsively swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. He focuses on keeping his breaths steady as a hand reaches into his other pocket.

“Found it,” the second man grumbles as he pulls out Shane’s wallet.

Oh, just a mugging. Not great but survivable.

Shane exhales through his nose and waits to be let go. What he doesn’t expect is to be shoved to the ground. His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, the snow cushioning his fall. Blood continues to drip from the gash on his forehead. He clumsily wipes it away but keeps his eyes lowered to the ground. He figures if he doesn’t see them, they can finally fuck back off to where they came from.

He watches two blurry pairs of feet as they presumably flip through his wallet, pocketing the cash.

“No fucking way,” one of the men mutters, “Look at this.”

There’s a pause. “Yeah, it’s definitely him. Shane fucking Hollander,” the other man breathes out, a mix of awe and disdain in his voice. He never understood why everyone says his name like that.

Shit. Shane clenches his fists in the snow.

The voices lower. “We could fuck up their whole season.”

In the muted silence of the fresh snowfall, Shane can easily hear their whispers.

Shit, this was bad.

“We would know before anyone. Get some bets in before morning.”

…This was really bad.

Rolling his shoulders back, he leaps to his feet and launches himself at the closest man, tackling him to the ground.

“Oh fuck!” Shane can’t tell who yells it over the ringing in his head. Straddling the man, he lets loose, his fists slamming into the man’s head repeatedly. He’s rarely one to get into fights on the rink, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to throw a punch. He’s spent years using his muscle mass to his benefit. Seeing double barely slows him down. Dazedly, he thinks how proud Ilya would probably be.

Shane is only able to get three or four punches in before an arm around his neck pulls him off. He stumbles up and backwards against the other man’s chest. Gripping the arm, Shane does a cursory glance around. Luckily, it appears that neither man has the knife anymore, likely lost in the snow. The man behind him brings his now empty hand up to tighten his hold, but Shane lunges forward, twisting sideways to block the chokehold. Floundering, the man grabs the collar of Shane’s shirt, ripping it in the process.

One last jab to his temple has Shane stumbling, dizzy and off kilter. The world spins in a kaleidoscope of streetlights and snow-covered cars. Damn, three hits to the head in a night. A concussion is pretty much inevitable. His feet slip underneath him, his body tumbling into the snow.

Both men stand above Shane, one with blood dripping down from an obviously broken nose. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he seethes, his teeth painted red.

Black dots dance around Shane’s vision. He can only think of using his arms to protect his head and neck as a boot stomps repeatedly down on his body. He feels one particularly firm kick shift something in his chest. Tucking his body into himself, he coughs violently trying to get the air back into his lungs. Warm spittle falls over his lips.

“Dude! STOP! Look at him!”

Shane doesn’t move his arms. He had tried submitting. He had tried fighting. Maybe playing possum would get him back to his hotel room. It’s barely an act at this point.

“He’s fucked. We got what we wanted. Let’s go.”

One last kick lands on his ribs. Shane moans through bloody lips.

“Fucker,” the man spits on him.

Shane tries his best to ignore it when the rapidly cooling saliva slides through his hair and down his temple. He hears the receding sound of boots crunching in the snow. He decides to wait a minute to ensure they’re gone before heading back to his room.

His head pounds and his breaths rattle. Snow flurries swirl underneath the streetlight. It’s almost peaceful. He just needs to wait a few more seconds.

Darkness engulfs him.

Awareness feels like emerging from a warm pool.

Twenties… Male… Blunt force Trauma

It comes and goes like the lapping of tides.

En Route…Massachusetts General

His body trembles as they cut through his shirt and joggers. He feels multiple sets of hands pull the wet clothes off of him. He tries to push them away but he can’t find the strength to move his frostbitten hands. He voices his displeasure with an anemic groan, his head rolling from side to side.

Sir…Sir… “SIR, can you hear me?”

A bright light sears his vision. His head throbs with his heartbeat. Each breath feels like a knife sliding through his ribs. Too much. It’s all too much. He welcomes the warm waters as they lap over his arms and legs, pulling him back down.

Shane’s consciousness comes in fits and starts. He first feels way too cold, then way too warm – the thick blankets suffocating him. His head rolls. The world spins and he drifts along with it. He’s untethered again and this time there is no one gripping his body, forcing him back to earth. The feelings of pleasure that usually fill his body are strangely absent. A male voice rumbles above him. It’s loud and clear, but Shane’s brain can’t connect the words.

“…Roz?” Shane slurs. He swallows and tries again. “Rozanov?”

The male voice replies. A low tenor of jumbled nonsense. Shane lets himself slip back under to the sound of it. Ilya will take care of him.

Ilya wakes to the smell of Hollander’s shampoo and sweat. He turns his head and buries his nose in the pillow, inhaling deeply. He smiles at the tanginess of the fresh citrus scent. It’s different from the more earthy shampoo he uses. Each time he sees Hollander, the Canadian unknowingly sinks his teeth in a bit deeper.

Literally and figuratively.

He looks down at his fully erect cock and mentally blames it on morning wood. Surely the fading traces of Hollander wouldn’t be enough to have him this hard and wanting.

If so, he has a real problem on his hands.

He reaches down and takes care of himself, pretending he doesn’t think of freckles against flushed cheeks when he comes.

Ilya’s barely out of bed when the doorbell chimes. He lazily throws on a pair of joggers, hoping whoever the fuck it is will drop off whatever purchase he forgot about and fuck off. He has a few hours before practice, and he has no interest in giving up any of his time with meaningless encounters. He’s selfish like that.

So lazy. Selfish too. But lazy more so.

The doorbell chimes a second time.

Fuuuck.

He thumbs open his doorbell camera app, surprised to see two police officers standing on his porch. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a breath. It’s probably nothing. Something to do with the neighbors. He doesn’t bother with a shirt before opening the door.

Both officers look to be around his age, the one with a buzzcut is maybe a few years older. They can barely contain their glee at being on his doorstep, the younger one is doing an especially bad job at hiding his smile.

Good, they are fans. This can work in his favor.

“Hello. Ah – ” Buzzcut coughs and swallows. Ilya watches as he straightens his shoulders and sets his jaw. Okay, Officer Buzzcut takes his job seriously. “Mr. Rozanov. We are hoping we can ask you some questions. Should only take a minute.”

Ilya thinks back to the past few days. He’s been in town the past week. Three games in six days. He hasn’t had much time to do anything outside of hockey. Of course, there’s been one or two nights out, but he’s always careful – more careful than others – of keeping his antics on the legal side of debauchery. He’s here on a visa, and the expiration date on it looms in the back of his mind.

Best to make nice with the law. He gives his best smile and says, “Of course, come in.” Bribing the police is frowned upon here, and he doesn’t know how corrupt these two are. But he can still get on their good side by inviting them into his home.

He leads them towards his kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya sees the younger cop openly staring around, wide eyed, like kid in a candy store. There is nothing personal or of value in this place. No photographs, no memorabilia. But the man still seems happy to take in every piece of décor as if it tells him something more about the hockey superstar. At least he has the wherewithal to gather himself when Ilya turns back towards them.

“Please, take a seat,” Ilya gestures at the barstools at his island.

“No need. We don’t expect this to take long,” Officer Buzzcut replies.

Ilya nods and leans back against his stove. The kitchen isn’t small but it feels cramped with the two men staring at him. He may need to look at buying a new place soon.

A second or two passes before the younger officer speaks. His voice is deeper than Ilya had expected. “First, we are huge fans. Killer game last night. We apologize for showing up like this. It’s just a box we need to check off.”

Ilya nods again. They are being so nonchalant about the whole thing – so different from Russian officers – he starts to wonder if they would have shown up at all if it wasn’t for the fact he’s Ilya Rozanov. People have the tendency of inserting themselves into his life.

The officer continues, “Mr. Rozanov, if you don’t mind us asking, where you between the hours of one and four last night?”

Well, at one he was buried balls deep in Hollander’s ass.

Despite internally smiling at the image, Ilya keeps his face stoic. “Here. Why? Something happen?”

Officer Buzzcut points at the entryway. “We noticed a doorbell camera when we entered. Is there a way we can take a look at that footage?”

Ilya frowns. He should say yes – he’s expected to say yes. Agree and let the cops be on their way. The footage would easily prove that he spent the night at home. But it would also prove that he wasn’t alone. And if these cops know Ilya Rozanov, then they definitely know Shane Hollander.

“I’d like to know what this is about.” His tone remains neutral. His words more curious than anything. Not enough to be a problem, but it buys time to figure out if there’s something else he can give to get them out of his house.

The older officer speaks again, his voice clinical. “Shane Hollander was attacked outside of his hotel early this morning. The medical staff report he was saying your name. We know it is likely nothing. But we have no other leads, and we have to start somewhere.”

Ilya wonders how the man can sound so detached while uttering some of the worst words Ilya has heard on this side of the prime meridian.

“What. This is joke.” Must be. It’s the only explanation. He grabs his phone out of his pocket and immediately swipes left to his news feed. His phone has the gall to make him scroll down to the fourth story to find what he’s looking for.

BREAKING: MLH star Shane Hollander admitted to Massachusetts General Hospital.

Shane was…attacked? He might be a soft Canadian, but he’s also two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Someone had hurt him bad enough to put him in the hospital. Bad enough that he asked for Ilya …by name. He thinks of Hollander’s voice, breathless with want and desire, moaning out his last name. It’s quickly superimposed with groans of pain.

The hand holding his phone trembles slightly when he clicks the headline. A moment after it loads the officer interrupts him.

“I assure you it’s true. We all know you and Mr. Hollander know each other professionally. So, the quicker we can prove you weren’t there, the quicker we can be out of your hair.”

“Is he okay?” The question comes out in earnest. He looks between the two men, impatiently waiting for an answer. His lungs burn. He’s not sure he’s taken a breath since he read the headline.

His reaction catches them off guard. He can see that. Both sets of eyebrows furrow as they stare openly at him. His behavior is out of character. He can see the switch in their minds. They’re studying him – now police officers first and fans second. They think he’s overreacting, maybe even putting on a bit of a show.

Shit. He’s got to get a grip. He clenches his hands once and forces a breath out. He shoves his phone back into his pocket. He can feel it burn against his thigh.

Buzzcut answers before Ilya is forced to ask again. “We don’t know the details, and we really aren’t at liberty to say.”

Liberty? What is liberty? Shit…Shit. Blyat. English is leaving him. He needs to focus.

“Mr. Rozanov. The footage?...From the doorbell camera?”

He swallows, burying down thoughts of a languid body, sharp tongue, and freckles that mimic the constellations on a clear winter’s night. His hands still and his shoulders relax. He coolly looks at both officers, his face back in its stoic mask.

“No. I cannot show. You need to leave. I cannot help.” His voice is calm and even but leaves no room for rebuttals.

The younger man tries anyway. “Mr. Rozanov, I know he is your rival, but we’re just doing our jobs here.”

The three men stare at each other at an impasse.

“Is there any other evidence you were here last night?” Buzzcut asks.

Ilya thinks for a moment. He isn’t even sure what would constitute as evidence. He had a food delivery service drop off dinner but that was well before the times in question. There was his cellphone. Maybe they could look at his location using cell towers or whatever. He had seen that on multiple TV shows. But that could mean forfeiting his phone, which has just as much incriminating evidence as his doorbell camera.

Ilya shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”

“What about a DNA swab? We can get one done pretty quickly.”

DNA? He knows that from TV shows too. They could use the swab to see if his DNA matches with anything found on Hollander. …Which it would. Even with a condom, Ilya’s imprint was likely in all sorts of places. Last night, it was hot to think about – Ilya leaving his mark everywhere, where everyone can see but no one would notice. There was probably more of Ilya’s DNA on Hollander than Hollander’s. His stomach flipped at the implications.

This test can never happen.

“You need to leave now.” Ilya walks back towards front door, not waiting to see if the officers follow. Laws here are different. He doesn’t need to give them anything. He knows this. There’s something they need first. The word takes a moment to reveal itself. “Get a warrant,” he coldly states as he opens the door. He hopes he’s right. He’s ninety percent positive.

“Mr. Rozanov – ” the younger officer tries. He’s looking at Ilya like someone who is losing a friend.

“Get out,” Ilya grumbles. These parasocial relationships are exhausting at the best of times.

“Of course,” Buzzcut replies, unperturbed unlike his partner. “Have a good rest of your day.”

Ilya tries to ignore how they glance at him suspiciously as they walk past him and out the door. So much for garnering any favors.

Shit. He needs to get to the hospital. And a lawyer. He probably needs a lawyer.

Chapter 2

February 2016 – Boston

“There’s something the doctor isn’t telling us.” Yuna stands from her seat next to Shane’s bedside. She quickly combs her fingers through his hair. There isn’t a strand out of place, she’s been nervously fussing with him since they arrived at the hospital less than an hour ago. They had booked a flight the moment they got the call, but it still took way too long get to Boston from Ottawa.

"If there is, I'm sure it's for a good reason," David replies, ever so calmly. Yuna secretly finds his unwavering faith in the system a bit naïve.

Upon arrival, the doctor had informed them of two broken ribs, contusions in various areas, mild hypothermia, and head trauma from multiple impacts. He had asked them several questions. Some made sense – Any medications? Allergies? Others didn’t – any romantic partners? Sexually active?

Yuna answered as best she could. No. No. None that they were aware of. Possibly…he's a man in his mid-twenties, so probably.

At the end, he had reassured them that Shane had been consistently in and out of consciousness, which was a good sign, though it may be a while before he fully awakened due to the drugs they had him on. Everything was stated in the same detached clinical tone, making it hard for Yuna to get a read on the man.

Shane had a brief moment awareness amidst it all. He blearily looked around the room and muttered, “Roz,” before drifting back off.

At the time, the doctor had frowned alongside Yuna and David. “He said ‘Rozanov’ earlier as well,” he stated, his confusion mimicking hers.  

It all did nothing to quell Yuna’s nerves as she now watches Shane lie uncharacteristically still in his hospital bed. He hasn’t regained consciousness since. Apart from the heart monitor, it’s eerily quiet in the private room. No one else had entered the room after the doctor had left.

...With the exception of two police officers who were there all of seven minutes. They had asked the usual – Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your son? Any recent threats? Any recent altercations?  And then their questions quickly shifted to the nature of Shane and Rozanov’s relationship.

While she's grateful the police are already involved, she's also grateful to have a moment of peace with her son. The entire morning had been a whirlwind that ended in a twisted game of twenty questions she had no way of winning. She huffs out a breath as she reconsiders their line of questioning. 

“Yuna,” David tries to placate.

She absentmindedly readjusts the sheet. “Who would do this? What was he even doing out that late?” She turns to look back at her husband. She finally voices a question that’s been niggling at her but she hasn’t allowed to take hold, “You don’t really think Rozanov has anything to do with this? Do you?”

It’s absurd. They may be rivals, but they are also elite hockey players. To do something so abhorrent would certainly put his entire career and livelihood at risk. Not to mention the legal implications.

David places a hand on her forearm. “I’m sure he didn’t. Shane just played a game against him last night. His brain is likely trying to heal and piece everything together.”  

Yuna nods and turns back to Shane. Her sweet and earnest child. Always giving a hundred and ten percent like there was no other option. Using schedules and routines to make sure everything is perfect and up to expectations. She had planned on having more children, but once that was no longer in the cards, she devoted everything she had into him. Some may consider it overbearing – and there were days where she may even agree – but it came as naturally to her as breathing. And trying to stop would surely be just as difficult.

“There’s something they aren’t telling us,” she repeats. She’s not sure why, but she is sure of it. She ignores David’s objection as she grabs Shane’s chart at the foot of his bed. She flips it open to the first page and breezes past mentions of dosage, frostbite, broken ribs. She’s halfway down the page when her eyes stop on a line.

Bruising – hips, thighs. Possible sexual assault.

Yuna blinks at it a few times. Her brain does something fuzzy. She should react in some way but everything around her has become static and white noise.

Sexual assault. The words twist and fold – morphing and evading – before she can grasp them.

“Yuna, what is it?” Her ever-patient husband has as an edge to his voice. Her face must betray her shock.

She feels detached from her body when she silently hands over the chart. Later, she will wonder if it was the right thing to do. If she should be telling Shane’s secrets so carelessly. But in the moment, it is the only option, her body moving of its own will.

A minute passes before David’s soft, “Oh,” breaks her out of her stupor.

She looks at her son. Her sweet and earnest child. Who always gives a hundred and ten percent. Who needs schedules and routines to fit his idea of perfection. Who becomes restless and irritated when one marginal thing does not fit into his expectations.

 “Oh God,” she softly sobs. Tears start running down her face.

This could kill him. Utterly destroy him and his worldview.  

She trembles as she grabs his bandaged hand and kisses it. She tries not to think about the bruises on his knuckles and how he got them. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” she whispers, even though she doesn’t really believe it. Maybe if she says it enough times, it will be true.

She continues silently sobbing while holding his limp hand.

A few minutes pass before David quietly says, “Yuna.”

She sniffs and glances over to where he’s standing at the foot of the bed. He must’ve put the chart back.

“Yuna, honey, you should probably take a walk.”

She looks at him like he’s lost his mind. Which he probably has if he thinks she is willingly to going leave the room. She so disgusted by the suggestion that she barely registers his red rimmed eyes and pale face.

“But what if he wakes up?”

“He shouldn’t see you like this,” he gently replies.

She looks back at Shane’s lax face. He’s right. She hates that he’s right. Nodding, she stands, giving one soft squeeze before placing her son’s hand back on the bed.

The static returns as she walks down the hallway and enters the restroom. She splashes cold water on her face and tries unsuccessfully to fix her makeup with a paper towel. She feels disjointed and unsettled as she stares at herself in the mirror. The face looking back is not one she’s recognizes. It’s lost and alone. Without a solution or even a plan.

Screw that. She may not be able to fix everything, but she can fix something. She takes a deep breath and thinks about next steps. Shane is going to wake up and need help. He’s likely out for the rest of the season, which will give him time for physical therapy and counselling. He can stay with them in Ottawa for the time being. He already has a closet full of items there. No need to go back to Montreal unless he wants to.

But first they need to get him out of this god-forsaken city. He’s going to need clothes. He’ll hate the feeling of the hospital garments when he wakes. A mission found, she decides to head to the hospital gift shop to buy the softest clothes she can find.

She feels more like herself as she exits the elevator. They’ve got this. It will all be okay. Eventually.

Yuna walks through the main lobby towards the gift shop when an unmistakable voice cuts through all the noise.

“Please, I promise to be quick. Captain duties.”

Yuna turns toward the voice in time to hear the response from the attendant.

“Mr. Rozanov, as I’ve said –”

What. The. Fuck.

Yuna spins on her heel and in a few quick strides is directly in front of the Russian. “What the hell are you doing here?” her voice is low and measured, but the fury is clear behind the words.  

The man looks at her blankly for a moment before recognition dawns on his face. It’s a split second but the delay only serves to enrage her further. What kind of egotistical prick thinks he is important enough to be here?

“I – I…”

Good. He’s flustered. She watches as he swallows and stands straighter.

“I’m here on behalf of the Raiders. Captain duties.”

Her eyes narrow. The captain of an opposing team visiting an injured player isn’t completely unheard of, but it is rare. And it’s only for injuries on the ice. Something that Rozanov would definitely know after spending years with the MLH. “What do you take me for? Some kind of simpleton?”

Her bubbling fury is pushed aside when she looks over his shoulder. People in the waiting room are looking at them. One is visibly recording the two on his phone. She scowls at the man. No one has any shame anymore.

Despite her ire and frustration, she recognizes that she’s on Rozanov’s turf. Anything that happens can be spun to put Shane in a bad light. “Follow me,” she grinds out between her teeth.

She doesn’t bother to look to see if he obeys as she heads down the hallway. Either he follows or he fucks back off to where he came from. She frowns at the sound of feet dutifully following behind her. She had kind of hoped it would be the latter. All this does is take her time away from Shane. She had a mission, and now she is delayed by the most obnoxious and obtuse man in the league.

She should have probably just kicked him out of the waiting room. But there was also a part of her that needs know why this man thought coming here would be a good idea. A man who had just been questioned by the police.

She wanders aimlessly until she finds a quiet spot at the end of a nondescript hallway. Reaching its end, she turns to find Rozanov looking around, confusion clear on his face.

“Where is Hollander?” he asks, looking behind him as if he missed the door to her son’s hospital room.

Yuna stops her mouth from dropping. The absolute gall. “You thought that’s where we were going? Like hell I’m taking you to see my son. The police think there’s a chance you’re behind all of this.”

The man’s face falls in a way that only frustrates her further. He has no right to look so devasted at hearing her words.

“I’m not. I swear.”

“Then why aren’t you cooperating?” She doesn’t know much. The two officers were sparse with their words and her mind was on Shane’s medical condition. If she had known about the nature of the attack at the time, she would have paid closer attention.

But one thing she does know was that they had stopped by the Russian’s home before seeing them at the hospital. They didn't say specifics, but she could tell the interaction didn't go as planned. She was irritated by it at the time. She knew they were following up on Rozanov after Shane “named” him, but she thought it was a complete waste of time. Surely one professional MLH player wouldn’t stoop so low to attack another outside the rink and then leave him for dead.

However…

Yuna looks at the large man in front of her - The professional athlete who has a few more pounds of muscle than Shane. One who gets in fights on the rink often and rarely loses. Few men could overpower Shane, but it is within the realm of possibility that this one could. For a brief moment all she wants to do is ask if he is the one who raped her son. The thought is so absurd, but it is also the one in the moment that makes the most sense. He is the only lead the police have, and he isn’t cooperating.

But, as much as she wants, it is the one question she cannot ask. If he wasn’t – and as much as she detests this man, he probably isn’t – she would be telling her son’s rival about the worst night of his life. Without her son’s consent.

So, she snaps her mouth shut and waits for Rozanov’s answer.

“The police… It’s – ah – complicated. Hollander, what does he say happened?”

Tears well in Yuna’s eyes. Nothing, he says absolutely nothing. Except your name for some reason. She quickly blinks them away. If she didn’t know any better, she would say Rozanov looks paler than he did a second ago.

“Is…Is he not okay?”

She ignores the way his voice lightly trembles. “You should go.” Even if he is innocent, this man cannot know anything. Anything she shares will be taken back to the Raiders and used against the Metros.

“No. No,” Rozanov reaches out to her.

Yuna takes a step back. She stops herself from wrapping her arms around herself. She’s dealt with formidable men before. She squares her shoulders and projects control and power. “You need to leave.”

She tries to end the conversation by walking past him. She thinks for a moment that he’s going to try to physically stop her, but instead he steps in front of her – a respectable meter away to give her space – and raises his hands in front of his chest.

“Stop. Please.”

It’s so desperate that Yuna’s feet stop moving of their own volition.

“I… We’re…” he stutters.

She can hear the man’s breaths. They’re loud and quick.

“We’re friends.”

It almost feels like a slap to the face. Shane’s known Rozanov for seven years and known of him for even longer. She knows her son and he have been in the same space on numerous occasions. Conversations off the ice have always been brief but cordial – the ribbing happening either mid game or behind each other backs at the glee of reporters. Rozanov feeds into it and Shane avoids it. That is the nature of their relationship.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“What?” she asks, incredulous.

“We’re friends,” he repeats, trilling the ‘r’. His accent is thicker than before. “Long time now. It’s secret.”

She narrows her eyes. She is with Shane frequently. Not all the time, but more so than the average MLH mom. “Shane’s never said-”

“Yes, secret,” he interrupts. He takes a deep breath. It rattles out of his lungs on the exhale. “Didn’t want people to know. He didn’t want to disappoint.”

Goddammit. That does sound like Shane. She thinks back to every seen interaction between the two of them. Nothing there tells her he’s telling the truth. But there’s also nothing that tells her it’s a lie – except logic and reason. She knows Shane better than anyone else, and there is no conceivable way he could keep a secret for years without anyone knowing.

But she also recognizes that her son is now in his twenties and has his own life outside of her. Shane and Rozanov being friends makes about as much sense as Rozanov needlessly attacking him at three in the morning. She narrows her eyes and looks over the man in front of her. He is exuding sincerity and desperation. It’s very contrary Rozanov’s usual bravado.

She decides to hedge her bets. Shane will wake soon, and she can ask him. “I can let you know when-”

Rozanov cuts her off again. “He was asking for me, yes?”

She’d be annoyed at the constant interruptions if each one didn’t throw her off kilter. It was true though. It’s the whole reason why he’s a suspect. Maybe Shane wasn’t naming Rozanov at all. Maybe he was asking for the only friend his muddled brain knew was nearby.

Hesitant to agree, Yuna nods slowly. She watches in real time as Rozanov’s face crumbles at the admission.

Why does this six-foot man look like a boy so utterly destroyed?

“Please. I beg you.”

If Yuna was a kinder person, she could say it was the devastation in his voice. Or that her son did ask for him and who was she to deny him of anything. But, really, it’s the curiosity. It’s the need to know. She is Shane’s mother, and she will protect him to the ends of the earth. But in order to do that, she cannot be left in the dark. Whether she likes it or not, Rozanov clearly knows something she doesn’t, and she will find out what it is.

Unable to voice her assent, she gives a quick nod and motions Rozanov to follow her.

As the saying goes, keep your friends close…

Out of everyone and everything David expected Yuna to return with, Ilya Rozanov was probably last on his list. The tall Russian looks completely out of place as he silently follows Yuna into the room.

Rozanov stops in his tracks at the sight of Shane. David can understand the shock. He had a similar reaction. In the span of a few hours, Shane had gone from skating across the ice, playing a commendable game of hockey, to being bloody, bruised, and unconscious in a hospital bed. Shane hadn’t moved a muscle since Yuna left the room – his face lax and his lips pale. If it wasn’t for the heart monitor, he could be confused for a corpse.

What he cannot understand is why Ilya Rozanov looks like he’s about to pass out on the spot.

Yuna heads to the furthest corner of the room and beckons David to join her. As he walks the few steps his eyes never leave the other man. Once David is close enough, his wife starts talking a mile a minute in a hushed tone. Something about a plan to get Rozanov talking and how everyone keeps hiding things.

He’s only half listening as he watches Rozanov silently approach the bed and place a hand over Shane’s. The other man is mummering something. His voice quiet enough that David needs to strain to pick it up. It proves to be useless. He recognizes the words as Russian, with its throaty sounds and rolled r’s. It almost sounds lyrical the way it quietly travels across the small room.

“-vid. David. Are you listening to me?” Yuna harshly whispers.

He looks back at his wife for a moment and nods. He wasn’t – at all. He is completely transfixed by Rozanov. He swears he can see tears in the man’s eyes, even though none have fallen. He is looking at his son like someone who is on the brink of losing everything they had known.

David loves his wife, but Shane got his dichotomous thinking from someone and it wasn’t David. He watches as the other man reaches his hand out towards Shane’s cheek. He seemingly catches himself in the act and brings it back to his side before making contact.

“-says they’re friends. Can you believe that?” Yuna whispers incredulously.

No, he really can’t.

Ilya needs to get a grip. He had almost completely lost it when he first entered the room. He had felt something inside him splinter and crack at the sight of Shane in the hospital bed. The other man was so still, his body limp and his face devoid of all emotion. In that brief moment, Ilya had seen long, golden curls, the smell of kasha and juniper filling his nostrils.

Luckily, he had snapped out of it before making a complete fool of himself.

Weak. An embarrassment.

Still, he can feel himself slowly spiral in his seat next to Shane’s parents. The three of them are sitting at Shane’s bedside, with Ilya being the furthest away, closest to Shane’s feet. He originally wasn’t going to join them. He was planning on standing against the wall and making himself as small as possible so they wouldn’t remember his unwelcome presence. However, Shane’s dad – David, he thinks – had grabbed him a chair from the hallway.

It seemed rude to deny such a genuine act of kindness.

He isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He had already quickly contacted his coach stating there was an emergency and he wouldn’t be at practice. He’d come up with a believable lie later. It shouldn’t be an issue. As much as his hedonist reputation precedes him, he never skips practice.

He’s been watching Shane for any sign of life, ignoring the whispers between Shane’s parents. English is too difficult in this moment anyway. There’s gauze taped to Shane’s forehead, slight bruising around his neck, and his fingers are bandaged together, likely due to frostbite. He had seen it once before in Russia. Everything else is covered by the sheet.

David had mentioned they expect him to wake soon. Ilya had nodded at the time and didn’t probe any further. Any piece of information was a gift.

“So,” Yuna’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “When did this start?”

“What?” he asks dumbly, looking in her direction. He wants to be respectful, but it’s tricky to make eye contact with the three of them sitting in a row.

“This friendship. When did it start?”

She doesn’t sound unkind, but there is an edge to her voice. Like she’s expecting to catch him in a lie. “The, uh, summer before our rookie season.”

Both parents look surprised at the news. He can’t really blame them. It was never supposed to go on for this long.

“You’re telling me that you have been friends for six years? And no one knows.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Rozanov-”

Despite all of Ilya’s faux pas, she is still being civil. He doesn’t deserve her patience or respect. His stomach flips at hearing her address him so formally while he had squeezed his way into their space like a bottom feeding parasite. “Ilya, please.”

“Ilya, if you know Shane at all you would know he is an astoundingly bad liar.”

He lets out an anemic chuckle. “Yeah, tell me about it,” he says before he can stop himself.

He looks away as she openly stares at him. She doesn’t believe him.

Of course she doesn’t. Ilya wouldn’t believe it either.

There’s a long pause before Yuna speaks again. “Where did it happen? Shane was still a teenager. I was with him the entire summer that year.”

Ilya frowns. He knows. He remembers seeing Shane walk around the hotel and attend the commercial shoot with his mom. She was also at the prospect cups. Both of his parents were at the draft. They can often be seen in club seats at various games throughout Shane’s career.

Shane’s parents are very present in his life. And Shane clearly holds them in high regard.

“Mrs. Hollander. With, um, respect, I think it would be best for you to ask Shane these questions.”

He initially doesn’t notice when Hollander’s first name slips past his lips. It happens so naturally, like he had always called him Shane. But it rings in his ears. His stomach is queasy and his chest is heavy and there is an unconscious hockey player lying across from him, unknowingly stealing his breath away.

He is so fucked.

Yuna presses further, seemingly unaware of Ilya’s epiphany. “I’m asking you.”

“And I cannot tell you,” he replies regretfully. “Out of respect to him. I hope you can understand.”

“I don’t.”

Ilya simply nods and looks away. 

Coward.

“Yuna,” David calmly states.

Before he can say anything else, Yuna interrupts him. “David, no. He’s lying. None of it makes any sense.”

Ilya can agree with her there. He is a MLH hockey superstar. He can have any person – woman – he wants. But for some reason, as of late, he has become obsessed with probably the most dangerous person he can attach himself to. He can hide under jokes of how boring and slow the other man is. How he has a good mouth but nothing else of interest. How their hookups are born of convenience and the moment anything changes, he’s out. It can be a clean break. He can close the door and move on to the next conquest.

But, Yuna’s right. He’s a liar.

In the chaos of Ilya’s life, he’s been tethered down by a man so consistent and predictable he could set his watch to him. Ilya constantly feels like he’s being pulled at the seams – people demanding more from him until there is nothing left to give. And when he is reduced to a frail husk of a man, there is only one person who can put him back together. One who looks at him like Ilya has the answer to all of life’s questions but waits so patiently until Ilya deems him to be ready.  Shane may want from Ilya but he never demands it. And for that, Ilya has found himself willing to give him everything.

He’s staring at Shane as his thoughts continue to spiral. If he wasn’t looking, he would have missed the way Shane’s brow furrows, his nose scrunching. Ilya immediately leans forward.

His parents must have caught the movement too. Yuna pulls her chair even closer to the bed and grabs Shane’s hand. Shane squeezes his eyes further and lets out a pained moan.

And suddenly, Ilya has a burning need to track down whoever did this. He’s Ilya Rozanov, he can get all of Boston to start a manhunt.

Yuna is petting Shane’s hair and whispering words of comfort. “Shane, baby. We’re here. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“…Mom?” It comes out as barely a whisper. Shane swallows and grimaces. His eyes blink open once before he slams them closed, turning his head away from the window.

Ilya recognizes that face – Marly got a minor concussion a few years ago. Ilya can’t do much, but he can help with this. He quietly stands and closes the blinds behind the chairs.

“Wha- happened?” Shane rasps.

Yuna voice is thick but controlled when she answers. “Don’t worry about that right now. Just know you’re fine. You’re going to be okay.”

Ilya turns around just in time to see Shane look up at him.

“…Rozanov?”

He lamely lifts his hand in response. He cannot trust himself to speak. He needs to play it cool. In Shane’s mind, he’s still a fun hookup he gets to see a few times a year. If he opens his mouth, he will undoubtedly ruin everything they had built. So, Ilya keeps his face schooled and calm. Nothing to see here. Just a captain checking in on another captain. Boston hospitality.

Totally normal.

Shane looks at his parents and then back at Ilya. The heart rate monitor speeds up to an alarming level.

Evidently, Shane didn’t get the memo.

Shane’s panic is luckily short lived. A few moments later he grabs his hair and tucks his chin to his chest. “Ugh, my head,” he groans.

Relieved to have something to do, Ilya states, “I can go get doctor.” He doesn’t wait for a response before heading out the door. He thinks he hears David thank him as he passes.

Polite Canadians. They’ll be the death of him.  

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

HUGE thanks to How to Make iOS Text Messages on AO3 by CodenameCarrot, La_Temperanza
Seriously, there is ZERO chance I would have figured this out on my own. To make sure you can see the texts as if they were on a phone make sure "Creator's Style" isn't hidden.

Don't worry if you download it, I did my best to make it show up on downloaded versions too - it just may not be as pretty.

Trigger warning: Mentions of sexual assault. NO actual assault.

February 2016 – Boston

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since Shane has felt truly present in his own body. He is cocooned in a thick haze, his awareness fading in and out with each breath. There is dull throb on each inhale. His head pounds in time with his heartbeat, pushing and pulsing against his skull.

The doctor had already examined him, shining a bright light in his eyes that would’ve made Shane flinch on the best of days. Today it made him want to gouge his eyes out. His reaction was severe enough that they immediately upped his dosage of pain meds afterwards. As much as he prefers to live a ‘clean’ lifestyle, he also isn’t dumb enough to subject his body to unnecessary pain.

His body is more than a temple. It’s his career. His future. His life.

It allows him to glide across the ice at a speed few can surpass. It can dodge around defensemen and slap the puck into the high corner of the net with superior accuracy. His brain has always felt like it was missing an instruction manual. He would randomly feel angry or frustrated and sometimes it took years to figure out the cause. But his body never lets him down. It can accomplish any task. And if it doesn’t accomplish the task immediately, Shane trains until it reaches perfection.

He has no doubt whatever injury he has, he can use the same level of intense focus for his rehabilitation. Get his body back to a hundred percent.

There is No. Other. Option.

So intense, Hollander. Relax a little.

The words have an undeniable Russian accent as they float through Shane’s brain. He smiles at their imagined sound.

His mom grabs his hand. “What is it?” she asks.

He blearily looks over at her. “What?

“You’re smiling. What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing,” he mumbles. It’s hard to get his tongue wrapped around the words. It feels too big for his mouth. He relaxes his jaw and gazes around. “Where’s Il-Rozanov?”

The words come out unbidden, his body acting of its own accord. It must be the drugs. He’s in a dangerous state. Too easy to let something slip. He closes his eyes briefly, pushing out any thoughts of curly hair and a devilish smirk.  

Yuna’s brow furrows and opens her mouth, but his dad speaks first. “He didn’t come back after getting the doctor.” Shane frowns. “…He may still be here. Want me to look?”

Shane should shrug or tell his dad its fine. Not needed. Who needs to see Rozanov anyway? He’s an obnoxious asshole.

He nods instead.

Dammit.

He watches his father leave the room. His mom is gently rubbing her thumb in the palm of his hand.

“So, it’s true. What he says?” Yuna asks, quiet and cautious.

“What?”

“Rozanov said your friends.”

Friends?

Shane can feel his face scrunching at the thought. The tape from the gauze on his forehead pulls uncomfortably. Had they decided they were friends at some point? Last he remembered they were rivals who fucked. Years ago, Shane had tried to branch out into friendship and Rozanov made it clear that they weren’t anything.

It had hurt but the feeling wasn’t unfamiliar. Shane had always struggled with reading relationships.

Maybe their relationship developed and he didn’t realize. That can happen. Dynamics morph and change and everyone notices and changes with them – everyone except for Shane. It was hard enough following all of society’s unspoken rules sober, and now he had an entire cocktail of pain meds flowing through his system.

His mom must see his confusion. “Is that not true?” she asks, her concern palpable.

He can almost feel his concussed, drug-addled brain turn and click. It’s a lie. Ilya lied. Shane should also lie.

“No…it’s true. We’re…friends,” his voice comes out measured.

Yuna’s eyes narrow and she softly hums, clearly unconvinced. She leans in closer and brushes a strand of hair away from his face. She is careful around the gauze, which Shane appreciates.

Her hand trails downward to his cheek, guiding him to make eye contact. “You don’t have to cover for him. If he has something to do with this, we can go to the police. Go to Crowell.”

“…something to do with what?” He really wished people would just say what they meant.

Shane watches as Yuna’s eyes flit to the gauze on his forehead before looking back at him.

“This?” he asks incredulously, gesturing to his head with a bandaged hand. “You think Rozanov…? Why would he…?” he trails off, realizing that no one probably knew what happened. Last he remembered, he was left alone with a definite concussion and probable broken ribs in a hotel parking lot. Then he woke up in a hospital bed with his parents and …Rozanov staring at him.

“Mom. It was just a mugging. Totally random.”

He puts as much force behind the words as possible, hoping the conversation will end there. Despite the numerous questions of his own – mainly, What the fuck was Rozanov doing here? – the conversation has him feeling empty and exhausted. God, he wants a nap.

Unfortunately, his mom becomes teary-eyed at his words. “Shane,” she breathes, hesitant and heart-broken.

“…What?”

Yuna immediately collects herself, visibly swallowing and sitting up straighter. “Nothing,” she replies her voice firm.

Recognizing her ‘game face’ does nothing to ease Shane’s nerves. She’s hiding something. He feels like he’s been hit with a shot of adrenaline. He looks down at himself. Was he more injured than he thought? Was something permanent?

Oh god, what if he can never play hockey again?

He starts frantically wiggling his toes and then his feet, working his way upwards. Every muscle immediately responds, though some are more sore than others.  Yuna reaches across and stills him.

“Shhhh. Shhhh. Listen to me. You’re f-fine,” her voice breaks the slightest bit but she recovers immediately. “You’ll be fine.”

Be fine. Not already fine. BE. His breathing speeds up.

“Mom, what is it? You’re kind of freaking me out.” 

“We can talk about it lat-“

“No. Mom, NO. I need to know.” The haze he woke up in has all but vanished. The monitor betrays the way his heart is pounding against his ribs.

Yuna exhales and miserably looks at the foot of his bed. Shane follows her gaze but doesn’t see anything.

“Your chart.”

“My chart?”

“It mentioned sexual assault.”

The temperate in the room plummets. Shane feels like he’s been doused in ice water. He had been conscious the entire time the two muggers were there. At least he thought he was. Did something happen before the ambulance arrived? Or was he missing pieces of his memory? His head did take the brunt of the damage.

He reaches towards the end of the bed, unable to bend forward further due to his ribs.

“Lemme see.” He hates how his bandaged hands flounder. Frustratingly, his mom doesn’t move. She is clearly hesitant to upset him further. He swallows and lowers his voice. He’s a grown adult and he has a right to know. “Mom. Let me see the chart.”

Yuna frowns but she reaches over and passes him the metal clipboard. Shane frantically opens to the first page. The words blur in front of him, each one dancing and swimming out of focus. He swallows bile as he squints at the page.

“Here, hun,” Yuna whispers. Mercifully, she points to a line in the middle of the page. Shane blinks a few times and brings the page closer, determined to read the words as they are written.

Bruising – hips, thighs. Possible sexual assault.

Possible. Not definite. Not confirmed. Possible. He would know, right? He would feel different in some capacity. He knows he’s drugged up, but adrenaline is now pumping through his veins, causing him to be hyperaware. The warmth of the drugs and the chill of the adrenaline are fighting each other to make themselves known. It leaves him feeling shaky and unsettled. But most importantly, the adrenaline is winning as evident by the goosebumps covering his arms and likely legs.

He glances down at his body. It’s covered by the sheet. The thin hospital gown rubs uncomfortably against his skin. Against the finger-shaped bruises he knows are on his hips and thighs. Bruises doctors have seen now too.

Bruises Ilya had kissed less than twenty-four hours ago.

…Oh God.

He looks back at the chart. Bruising – hips, thighs. Possible sexual assault.

They thought…

He looks back down at his sheet covered body. He supposed it wasn’t that far of a leap.

Fuck.

“Mom,” he whispers, his breath shaking on the exhale.

Yuna gently takes the chart from him and places it on the floor. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she states as she raises one his hands slightly. His fingers are wrapped in bandages but he can see the bruises and scrapes on his knuckles. Ointment gleams from the overhead light. “You fought so hard.”

Her voice is strong but Shane can tell she’s holding back tears.

God, he has to tell her. How can he tell her? What is the best way of saying: don’t worry, nothing horrid happened, your son just likes to get railed so hard he can barely remember his name?

He closes his eyes. “Mom, it’s not…” Maybe if he can’t see her, he won’t want to melt into the bed and die.

She jumps in after his brief pause. “Shhh. It’ll be okay.” She gently runs a thumb over his cheek. Shane is transported back to being nine-years-old and out of commission for months with a severely sprained ankle. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll just take it one day at a time.”

“Mom, stop.” Shane moves his head slightly away from her hand. “Stop. Just listen.” He takes a breath, seeing himself reflected back in her gaze. He knows his mom would do anything for him.

Shit. This was going to be harder than he thought. He turns his head to look at the ceiling.

“It was consensual.”

“What?” Yuna breathes.

He swears he can feel the heat pouring off his cheeks. Of all the times to not feel present in his own body, this would be a really good one. “The bruises. Those bruises. They weren’t from…It happened earlier. It was consensual. The mugging happened after.” He can still feel his mom’s gaze on him. He risks a glance – she appears to be frozen in time. “I swear.”

Her whole body crumples at the words. “Oh, thank God.” She leans over and gently wraps her arms around him, doing her best envelop him in a hug. “I’m so relieved.”

It isn’t the most comfortable for Shane, but it doesn’t hurt. And he can tell his mom needs it in the moment. God, how long had she thought… Would he have to tell his dad too? …And the doctors?

His thoughts are interrupted by his mom’s voice in his ear. “So, Rozanov?”

Shane swallows. “He has nothing to do with this. Promise.”

After locating a doctor, Ilya wanders around the hospital before finding a random seat. He’s still on the same floor as Shane, but he figures it would be best to give the family some space. He should leave. There is no reason for him to stay. Shane is conscious and appears to have his wits about him – aware enough to panic when he had seen Ilya standing next to his parents.

He lets out a shaky breath, puffing out his cheeks. He needs to leave. There is no logical reason for him to be here. No explanation for Shane or his parents or any prying eyes. Shane may have asked for him when he was half conscious, but he isn’t asking for him now and that’s…fine.

Totally fine. Normal even. A relief.

Ilya can go back to his day. Maybe catch the end of practice. Shane can go home with his parents. And they can start up again when Shane’s recovered and back on the ice. Months from now. Maybe even longer, depending on how long Shane is on IR.

Ilya goes to stand. He has every intention of standing. It’s just his body doesn’t move.

His body must know more than his mind. He frowns. After a pause, he realizes there is something time-pertinent he had been avoiding. Something he really should’ve done before going to the hospital. But at the time there was no space for anything beyond ‘he was saying your name’ – the officer’s voice in an infinite loop.

Ilya pulls out his phone, dialing quickly and bringing it to his ear.

“Sveta. I need a lawyer. American. No affiliation with Russia. LGB-whatever friendly,” he greets in Russian. He knows Svetlana won’t be put off by his brusque demeanor. Shane is awake and talking, but he also has a head injury. There is no guarantee he has a clear memory of the previous night. Ilya needs to be prepared in case it all goes sideways.

“Ilya, what for? What did you do?” Svetlana responds in Russian. She sounds like a disappointed older sibling. The lack of surprise is expected but still a relief. A clear head means she can get the job done.

“Nothing. Probably nothing. But it could be bad, really bad.”

Her tone softens, “Ilyusha, what is this about?”

“Police think I’m involved in something. I’m not. But I have no proof. The evidence is…incriminating.”

“Tell me everything.”

Ilya runs a hand down his face. “I can’t.”

“Ilya.” The disappointed sister voice is back.

“It’s a secret. Needs to be.”

“Is this about Jane?” It’s the first time she’s mentioned the name unprompted. It catches him off guard. He barely has a moment to think of a response before she adds, “You’ve been texting him a long time now.”

Fuck. He leans his head back against the wall. He supposes if anyone was going to see through him, it’d be Svetlana. “Sveta, please.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe. I’ll make some calls.”

“Thank you. I don’t deserve you.”

“No one does. But if anyone did, it’s you.” Her voice warms his heart. He wonders if she knows how often she has saved his life.

Ilya places the phone back in his pocket and takes a deep breath. He rests his arms on his knees and stares straight ahead, not looking at anything in particular. After the whirlwind of the morning, he needs a moment to gather his wits. He thinks back to being a young teen, riding trains in and out of cities. The hours of deadtime to get to and from the next match had taught him how to reach within to find himself. A glum silence would always fill the railcar after a disappointing loss – their coach demanding introspection. This loss is on each of you. Find what you did wrong. Where did you let the team down? Do better next time.

There are countless ways he let Shane down. But he cannot do better. The repercussions of a single misstep could be devasting to the both of them. There is no foreseeable way for their relationship to progress to where he wants it. He’s an imbecile for having a relationship to begin with.

Durak. His father echoes in his head.

“Hey there, kiddo,” someone says beside him.

Ilya ignores it, continuing to stare at the wall. There’s no way the gentle tone is meant for him. Surely, they are speaking to some else.

“I was wondering where you went off to. Shane’s asking for you.”

The mention of the name catches him off guard. He looks up to see Shane’s dad standing next to him. Ilya does a cursory glance around to ensure he’s the only one the man could be talking to.

David quietly takes a seat next to him.

Ilya automatically sits up straighter, his shoulders parallel to David’s. He should apologize. He should leave. He should never come back here. He should… He can't.

“You know, early on in my and Yuna’s relationship her appendix burst.”

The comment is so unexpected, it breaks Ilya out of his stupor. He schools his face and doesn’t react. This man is Shane’s father. He deserves his attention and respect.

“Her father had already passed and her mother was back in Japan. She drove herself to the hospital. I didn’t even find out about it until two days later when the hospital wouldn’t let her drive home.”

Ilya’s respect for Yuna grew. He knew she was a formidable woman. She would do well in Russia.

David leans back slightly, settling into the chair. “I still remember seeing her in the hospital. Scared the crap out of me. We had only been on a few dates…” he pauses and glances over to Ilya. “But I knew in that moment I loved her.”

Shit. He forces his face to remain neutral as his brain stutters to a halt. He was too obvious. Only a few minutes in the same room with this man and he had figured out his deepest secret. He could ruin Ilya. Destroy his career. Tarnish his family name and make him a pariah in Russia. 

Not to mention Shane is going to be so pissed.

Ilya forces himself to nod. He cannot give the man anything else.

David purses his lips and looks straight ahead again. “Rivals. Friends. Whatever this is, you’ve known Shane for a long time. It must be hard for you.”

Ilya risks a breath. “I’m sure it’s harder for you.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Everything is a competition,” Ilya says, his voice resigned. He isn’t sure why he says it. This man has been nothing but kind to him. And in return, he’s being rude. Boorish. His father would never tolerate such insolence. His father who commanded the room and demanded nothing but the best. Who yanked and tugged and twisted Ilya into the man he is today.

Suddenly, Ilya is so tired. He could fall asleep and never wake up.

He dips his head, his shoulders never losing their posture, and exhales.

He feels a warm hand clasp his shoulder. Internally he flinches, but, after years of practice, it stays within him. Nothing divulges his unease.

“C’mon. Let’s go see Shane,” David says, standing.

Ilya has no choice but obey. He follows the man, a respectful few steps behind him as they walk down the hallway. David waits for him in the open doorway. He can see Shane and Yuna hugging inside.

“Please don’t tell them,” he whispers to the older man. He isn’t even sure exactly what he’s asking. David was vague in their conversation and so was he. The man clearly knows there’s something else going on, but Ilya cannot begin to confirm – even if he wanted to – as he has no idea what’s going on. All he knows is at some point in the last twenty-four hours Hollander became Shane and what was left of Ilya’s sanity has gone out the window.

David turns his head towards him and looks down. “Don’t worry. I got you,” he mutters, before plastering on a smile and entering the room.

Ilya cannot think about David’s response for too long or too hard. I got you. The words whittle and weasel their way beneath his bones.

English can be so nonsensical. Ilya has been on his own for over a decade.

February 2016 – Ottawa

David is relieved to be back home. They had grabbed a late flight the night before, a concussed Shane in tow. His son had slept during most of the flight, ballcap low over his eyes, stretching out as best he could in business class.

The next morning, David and Yuna putter around their kitchen, deep in their morning routine as Shane continues to sleep upstairs. It’s uncharacteristic of his son, he’s often up and out for a run before David gets out of bed, but it’s expected with the pain medication. And it was for the best. The doctor recommended Shane to rest over the next two days before gradually reintroducing exercise.

Yuna slides a mug of coffee across the table as David works on the daily crossword in the paper. He has a subscription to the app, but there’s something more satisfying about doing it the ‘old fashioned’ way.

Yuna sits down across from him. “I’ve been thinking.”

He takes that as a cue to put down his pen. He raises his eyebrows, prompting her to continue.

She has her hands wrapped around her own cup of coffee but she hasn’t taken a drink yet. “You know how Shane said it was all consensual?”

David remembers the conversation. Yuna had filled him in while Shane was sleeping. At the time, the overwhelming relief he felt trumped any feeling of awkwardness. However now, he feels a small amount of heat rise to his cheeks. Despite his best efforts, it’s difficult not to picture it in some capacity, especially when he knows who the partner likely was.

“Yeah,” he swallows a mouthful of warm brew to take his mind off of it.

“You don’t think he was lying, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he replies firmly. The last thing he needs is for Yuna to spiral. As much as he loves his wife, a spiralling Yuna can be insufferable. Seeking and demanding answers until she gets what she wants to hear.

Yuna looks down at her mug and nods. “It’s just they must’ve been pretty significant for the medical staff to make a note of it.” Neither of them had seen the bruises. They only had the one line in Shane’s chart to go off of.

“Yuna, he’s not a kid anymore. As long as he’s being safe, he can make his own decisions.”

She looks back up, her eyes hard and determined. “That’s just it. How do we know he’s being safe? That this is what he wants?”

“Is it really that far of a stretch that our neurotic, perfectionist son may want someone else to…” David pauses to clear his throat, “take charge every once in a while?” He looks pointedly at Yuna and continues, “That’s a bit ironic coming from my neurotic, perfectionist wife.”

It’s rare but there have been moments in their relationship after a particularly tense day when Yuna leads David into their bedroom and all but begs him to ‘take her out of her head’.

Yuna blushes and looks away. “David, stop it. That’s different.”

David can't help but smile at how flustered she is. Admittedly, he doesn’t recall a time where he left bruises. Still, Shane is his own person and has proven himself to be a fully functional adult. Most of the time. “Maybe it’s not,” he shrugs.

He sees Yuna frown as she finally takes her first sip of coffee. The woman is clearly unconvinced. David internally sighs. He needs to work on Shane. David isn’t dense, he knows why his son is keeping this secret so closely guarded. He just hopes at some point his son will trust them enough to let them in on it.

Lily

Fri, Feb 26 9:15 AM
Lily:how’s your head?

Jane:you tell me ;)

Lily:personality changes are a symptom of TBI

Jane:fuck off

Lily:there’s my Jane

Lily:Now get off the phone. Dr’s orders

March 2016 – Ottawa

Shane is slowly losing his mind. He has gone from daily practice and travelling multiple times a week to his typical work out routine exhausting him. Despite changing his diet to include more antioxidants and omega-3s, he’s feeling constantly fatigued. It’s a heaviness weighing in his bones, making itself known with each movement. A slow sludge seeping into his brain, delaying his thoughts, and leading to awkward and stilted conversations.

Frustration builds and grows with each passing day. He orders books on concussion recovery and traumatic brain injury, paying extra for next day shipping. He runs and makes smoothies and works out and watches hockey highlights. And he reads. He reads until the words blur. Then he goes for another run, clearing his head before reopening the book and trying again. At night, he collapses on his bed and sleeps hours past sunrise, starting each day with an inexcusable deficit that he spends the rest of the day making up for.

His parents tsk and object, trying to get him to slow down let his body heal. But they don’t understand. He’s already doing a fraction of what he typically does, exhaustion making it impossible to push further. He knows the moment he stops, he loses. He loses everything he’s worked so hard for. He didn’t become the best – one of the best – by slowing down. He worked and trained and missed living a life similar to his peers. He did everything right, and in return he is at the top of the league with thousands of people depending on him.

He did everything right, and all it took was two average men and one knife to bring him down.

Shane sets his jaw. He should go work out. Even five minutes is better than zero minutes. He heads towards basement where his parents have a small but respectable home gym.

His dad peaks his head through the kitchen doorway. “Do you mind helping out for a second?”

Shane sighs but nods. “Sure.” He walks into the kitchen and sees various ingredients spread out over the countertop.

“I’m behind on prepping for dinner.”

Shane looks longingly at the doorway behind him. “Can I help after my work out?” Despite his muscles aching, he is vibrating with the need to do something of value.

“Didn’t you work out this morning?”

“Yeah, but…” he trails off, not able to think of a viable excuse. As much as he loves his father, he has been a constant presence as of late, always roping him into whatever task he was doing. Asking Shane to pass him the tools while he unclogged the sink or cajoling him into completing a puzzle. And, as opposed to before where the two could happily sit together for hours in silence, his dad has been much more talkative recently.

None of it is necessarily bad, but it does make Shane feel a bit unsettled. He isn’t sure why. Probably one more thing he can thank the concussion for.

“I’ll help now,” he concedes. David smiles in return, making Shane feel guilty about his reluctance. His dad gestures to a small pile of tomatoes by the cutting board.

The two stand side by side at the counter, each focused on their own task. There are only a few moments of silence before David asks, “Have you heard from Ilya?”

Shane slightly startles. It’s the first time either parent has brought up Rozanov outside of the hospital. It had made sense that his parents didn’t mention the other man, choosing to ignore their bizarre encounter. And this is definitely the first time either of them called him by his first name. It throws Shane off kilter. “No. No, why would I?” he stumbles over his words. It takes all of his effort to keep his hands steady as he chops the tomatoes.

He can see his father shrug out of the corner of his eye. “I just figured he may reach out with you being friends and all.”

“Oh, yeah.” That’s right, they’re ‘friends’ now. God, he’s so bad at this. “Yeah, um, he texted earlier.” They’ve been texting every day. Mostly some quick teasing before Ilya scolds him for using his phone. It wouldn’t be so annoying if Ilya wasn’t the one usually initiating the messages. Still, Shane is always quick to respond. It’s secretly become a highlight of his day.

“Good. I’m glad you have each other.”

Shane pauses his chopping and looks at his father. His dad continues to calmly peel garlic, like he didn’t say something truly absurd. “Why?” Shane asks.

David shrugs again, appearing to be completely unaware of his son’s bewilderment. “I just figure it might be lonely in your position. A lot of eyes on you. A lot of expectations.” He pauses in his peeling and looks at Shane. “Unfair expectations.”

Shane nods and looks back down at his cutting board. “I don’t mind.”

“It would be okay if you did. You’ve had to sacrifice a lot.”

“I get paid a lot,” he replies.

“Doesn’t make it any less of a sacrifice.”

Shane doesn’t have anything to say in response that, so he picks up his knife and continues chopping. A sacrifice is giving up something for nothing. The MLH has rewarded him handsomely for his skills. He gets to play a game he loves and earn eight figures a year doing it. He has partnerships and brand deals and is the face of countless products. There are thousands of kids who have posters of him hanging up in their bedrooms, hoping that one day they will be him.

His dad is wrong. He hasn’t sacrificed. He’s lucky to be where he is. He’s reminded of it constantly.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

This was hard – I’m an angsty writer not a smutty one. But I guess ya gotta do what ya gotta do when you enter the HR world.

April 2016 – Montréal

The Metros had another devastating loss. One more and they are out of the playoffs. It was a particularly frustrating game to watch from the owner’s box, especially when the team was on track to win two consecutive cups. Shane had tried his best to boost morale in the locker room but giving invigorating speeches were never his strong suit. And there was something that feels inherently wrong about captaining the team while wearing street clothes.

Luckily, Hayden is there to fill the role in all the ways Shane can’t. Shane passes on his gratitude at the end of the game with a half-hearted ‘you’ll get them next time’ and then heads home.

Shane drives in silence, ruminating on how the Metros sharp decline rests solely on his shoulders. He was the one leading them to their victories, so it’s only fair to say he’s also the one who caused their downfall. Whether they knew it or not, his selfish decisions affected the entire team. His actions seemed so banal at the time but their effects are far reaching. He should have not stayed out so late. He should have used the main entrance. He should have fought back sooner and harder. He should have never placed his tryst over the needs of his team.

Guilt feels like a stone in Shane’s stomach, becoming heavier and heavier as he drives underneath the streetlights. By the time he enters his apartment, he feels nauseous with it. He grabs a ginger ale and sits on the couch, waiting for the inevitable text message. He doesn’t bother turning on the TV or opening his book, choosing instead to sit in his own failures. He has not earned any distractions beyond the one he so desperately needs.

By the time his phone vibrates, Shane has lost all sense of time. He takes a quick peak at the text message, the word ‘here’ barely registering. His brain continues to turn and spin, his body going through motions of opening the door and walking towards the back stairwell. Even now he is being so undeniably self-centered. While his teammates will be at home licking their wounds, he’ll be in his apartment licking …something else. If anyone knew, forget about being ousted from the MLH, he’d be pariah in all of Montréal.

Shane reaches the bottom of the steps, his chest tight and unreasonably out of breath. He opens the door and sees Ilya.

…and it all stops. His body loosens and everything is blessedly quiet. Without thinking, he pulls the Russian into the building and kisses him against the wall, the door clicking shut behind him. 

He hasn’t seen the other man since their awkward encounter at the hospital – when Shane was still drugged and concussed and Ilya seemed happy to stand behind his parents, his hands in his pockets, not saying much of anything. Shane still isn’t quite sure what brought Ilya to the hospital in the first place. But once he got over the initial shock of seeing him, he found he was a welcome presence, even if it was shrouded in lies and secrecy.

Now he’s gone two months without seeing the other man and suddenly it feels like he is the only one that can breathe life back into his lungs. Ilya easily reciprocates the kiss, his tongue searching. His hand comes up to hold Shane’s jaw. Shane melts at the touch, the usual tension in his shoulders dissolving into jelly. 

Ilya decides when to end the kiss, tilting his head only a few centimeters away but keeping his grip on Shane’s jaw firm so he can’t follow. He slides his thumb over Shane’s lips. Shane greedily takes it into his mouth.

“Concussion made you even more desperate,” Ilya purrs. He removes his thumb and places a quick peck on the corner of Shane’s mouth.

“Fuck off,” he responds but there’s no heat behind it.

The two make their way into Shane’s apartment, moving furtively up the stairs and down the hall. Once inside, they make it as far as his kitchen. Ilya pushes him up against the island and resumes their kiss. The countertop’s hard edge is unforgiving against his back. Shane leans deeper into it.

Ilya may be the same height as him, but somehow his is able to cover Shane’s entire body with his, enveloping him in a blanket of warmth and desire. Shane always feels so small and nonconsequential in these moments. Like nothing he says or does really matters. His only job in the moment is to be whoever, whatever Ilya needs.

It is liberating.  

He can feel Ilya’s hard length against his hip. He presses his body against it, his own cock getting some much-needed friction, and deepens the kiss. Ilya gently places his hands on his shoulders, and that’s the only cue Shane needs to promptly fall to his knees. He hungrily mouths Ilya’s cock through his jeans, his hands fumbling blind for the button. He can already feel the heat of it against his face.

Frustratingly, Ilya does nothing to help him. “So hungry for it,” he rumbles above him. It should be demeaning but there’s a strange reverence behind the words.

Shane would bite back another fuck off, but he’s finally gotten the button and zipper undone. He pulls his pants and boxer shorts down in one fell swoop. He proves Ilya right when he takes all of him in his mouth before the pants hit the floor. He moans around his dick, his eyes watering when it hits the back of his throat. Hands lightly grip his hair, encouraging him to continue. It’s much softer than his usual hair pulling. Shane moves without thought – kissing, licking, sucking – until he can feel the body in front of him tremble.

Hands move from his hair to his arms, guiding him back up. They kiss again before Shane turns around, his intention clear. The idea of being absolutely obliterated against the hard countertop already has him uncomfortably damp with precome. He grips his own joggers to pull them off, when Ilya’s hand stops him.

“So eager, I want to take my time with you.” Ilya’s breath his hot against Shane’s ear. He lets out a soft whine when his dick jumps against his sweatpants.

Ilya picks Shane up and gently deposits him on his couch.

“Wait,” Shane says, standing back up. He makes quick work of his clothes, placing them carefully on the end table. He then grabs a blanket and throws it over the cushions.

Ilya takes off his own clothes, smiling the entire time, amused as he watches Shane fumble with the blanket in his haste. Ilya pats the now covered cushion. “Come here, moy dorogoy.”

Shane lays down on the couch. Ilya follows suit, hovering over the other man. He gently runs a hand through the dark locks as he kisses his body, starting at his neck and going maddeningly slow downwards. When he finally reaches Shane’s cock, he licks and nips at the tip, forcing Shane to arch his back, desperate for more.

Shane shudders when Ilya finally gives in, sucking along the full length. He gently massages Shane’s chest as his head moves languidly up and down. Shane pushes against the arm rest of the couch. It’s too slow and controlled. More. He needs more.

Ilya pauses and looks up at Shane. “This okay?”

Shane nods, shakily exhaling. Ilya slides up and places a hand over Shane’s cheek, stilling his head. “Use your words.”

“Good. This is good.” He swallows, getting lost in the Russian’s blue-grey eyes. Eyes that seem to change color depending on the mood. “I want more.”

“More?” The other man smirks.

Shane nods again. The hand on his cheek tightens, firmly stopping the movement. “Yes, please,” he whines.

Ilya guides Shane to flip over on his stomach. While Shane gets situated, Ilya reaches down and grabs a small packet of lube out of his pocket. He generously coats a finger before pressing it against Shane’s hole.

Shane forces himself to exhale on the intrusion. It’s tight at first but soon his muscles relax and he finds himself raising his hips eagerly.

“This okay?” Ilya asks, rubbing a thumb over the back of Shane’s neck.

Shane stops himself from nodding. “Yes, keep going.”

Ilya adds a second finger, reaching deeper until they find Shane’s prostate. Stars explode behind Shane’s eyes. He automatically clenches when they brush against the sensitive spot a second time.

“Still good?”

“Yes,” he grinds out. He pushes his hips back further, hoping to send a clear message. He’s used to Ilya checking in, but this seems like overkill.

The two fingers slowly pump in and out, each time hitting the sensitive spot. Shane’s dick starts twitching with increased need. Pleasure shoots through Shane’s body but, as quickly as it comes, it leaves as Ilya takes his goddamn time pulling Shane apart.

They’ve done this before. Times where Ilya tempts and teases until Shane is blubbering and quaking. But this time it feels different. Shane pushes back again, about to ask for another finger, when Ilya stills him by placing hand on the back of his head and running a hand through this hair.

This is new. This is not teasing or dominating. It’s a gentle care and caution that’s never had space in their relationship before.

“Are you –“ Ilya is about to ask again.

“Stop it,” Shane grinds out.

The effect is instantaneous. Ilya pulls his fingers out and leans back. Removing his hands completely from Shane’s body. “What’s wrong?” Shane looks over his shoulder to see the other man looking over him frantically.

“Nothing. Jesus, stop. You’re treating me like I’m made of glass. I’m not. Fuck me.”

“But your head – “

“Is fine. I’ll tell you if it’s not.” He watches as Ilya doesn’t move, seemingly unconvinced. He feels ridiculous having this conversation naked with his ass in the air. “And since when do you care?”

“What? Of course I care,” Ilya says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Shane turns his whole body around at that, his brow furrowing. “What?” His brain shudders to a halt. Shane has been diligently following the rules Ilya has set up. They text, they meet, they fuck. Sure, at some point in his head Rozanov switched to Ilya and their texts started veering into topics beyond sexting, but that doesn’t mean anything. He's constantly reminding himself that it doesn’t mean anything.

That they weren’t anything. Ilya’s words, not his.

“I… care,” Ilya says cautiously. It’s a tone Shane has never heard before.  

“You do?” He hates how earnest it comes out.

Ilya sits on top of Shane’s legs and throws up his hands. “God, yes, Hollander! What do you think is happening here?”

“SEX! Like YOU wanted.”

Ilya frowns and looks away. “Well, is that. Mostly.”

“But not only?” he holds his breath, the question lingering in the air.

“No. Not only.”

Shane can’t hide his smile at the response. “Me too,” he says, even though it was probably the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze drifts over the other man. Over the golden cross laying on his chest, down his torso and over his abs. This man who has chosen Shane out of thousands and now, of all things, cares about him.

God, how did he get to be so lucky? “Can you please fuck me now?”

The pro of playing against Montréal in the playoffs is that their games are back-to-back. Ilya has three nights in Montréal before heading back to Boston. It’s a rare opportunity to see Shane multiple times in a week. Normally, the only thing that would make it better would be if Ilya had the opportunity to slam into him on the ice before slamming into him in the bed.

Now, Ilya is completely torn. He is pulled with the desire – the need – to see Shane again. But he also is keenly aware that doing so will inevitably lead to his own demise. Hollander is no longer just a peculiar, eager man who transforms Ilya into an entirely different beast in bed. He’s Shane who preens at the slightest bit of praise. Who furrows his brow and sets his jaw when something doesn’t come to him immediately. Who scrunches his nose at the slightest off-putting scent or noise.

He’s Shane who smiles so earnestly when he realizes that he and Ilya are traversing into something more.

And the thought of what that means terrifies Ilya.

This cannot go on. He spent the past twenty-four hours envisioning how their relationship progresses. And with each turn – no matter what the decision – it only ends one way. There is no future where the two of them are together and happy.

He should send a text and end it. Clean, neat – no need for drawn out goodbyes. It’s the sensible thing to do.

Instead, he texts Shane that he’s at his back stairwell. The door immediately opens. Shane must’ve been waiting for him on the other side. Having just seen each other the night before, there isn’t the usual desperation as they climb staircase and enter the apartment.

Once the door clicks shut, Shane kisses Ilya, soft and sweet and in no way that Ilya deserves. He needs to end it – now. End it before it irrevocably destroys both of them. He pulls away from the kiss and places a hand on Shane’s cheek. He takes a moment to take in his dark eyes, pink coloring his freckles in a maddingly irresistible way.

And because nothing has ever worked in Ilya’s favor, Shane takes the moment of silence to say, “I like you.”

The words aren’t a surprise. They had just stated they care about each other the previous night, liking each other is a natural progression. But the words wreck Ilya all the same.

Thoughts rush together in his head.

We are alone in this. No one wants this but us. No one is on our side.

No one will understand.

We will ruin each other.

…I will ruin you.

He kisses Shane on the side of his mouth, quick and chaste.

His father’s voice echoes in his head. Trus.

And the dying man is right; he is a coward. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot bring himself to say the words he needs to say. So instead, he wrecks everything in a completely different way.

“I think your dad knows about us.”

The words have their intended effect. Shane sharply inhales and jumps backwards, out of Ilya’s arms. He takes an extra step back – good. Good moy dorogoy. Now you’re starting to see.

“What? Why would you say that?” Shane asks, his voice high and loud.

“Because it is true.”

Shane is silent for a long moment. His wide eyes don’t leave Ilya’s face, but Ilya can tell he’s no longer fully present in the room. He’s likely scouring his memory of all recent interactions with his father.

“Shit…” Shane finally breathes. “Fuck. FUCK.” He runs his hands through his hair, gripping the locks tightly.

Ilya stops himself from reaching forward to stop him. His chest is tight with the need to do something, but he cannot provide comfort. He needs Shane to sit in this – to pull off his blinders and recognize that they cannot continue seeing each other.

However, the level of Shane’s panic is a concern. Ilya can clearly hear his breaths with each inhale, the uneven breaths scraping against his lungs. Shane is mostly healed, but it still probably pulls uncomfortably against his ribs.

“Has…has he not been good?” Ilya asks. He thinks back to the hospital – how David grabbed him a chair and comforted him in the hallway. It was all so truly bizarre. He isn’t sure what to expect from the older man.

Shane looks back at Ilya. “What? No. No, he’s been great. Supportive. Overly so.” He pauses for a moment and grips his head again. “Fuck! He must know. I-I should call him. Right?” He looks manic with his wide eyes and strung-out voice.

“Maybe take a breath first.”

“Right,” Shane frantically nods, forcing a deeper inhale. It sounds like metal scraping.

And Ilya cannot take it anymore. The last thing he needs is for Shane to pass out and give himself another head injury. He steps forward and places his hands on Shane’s shoulders. “Hollander,” he says, his voice commanding.

Shane’s body freezes at the tone. He looks up, his eyes wide and willing.

“Breathe.” Iyla slowly inhales and exhales. On the second inhale, he grabs Shane’s hand and places it on his chest.

And Shane obeys, his breaths following Ilya’s until they are no longer squeezing out of his lungs. The room seems to quiet, no longer vibrating with nervous energy. Ilya lets go and guides Shane to take seat at the kitchen table.  

“Okay. …Okay,” Shane nods to himself. He takes a few more breaths on his own, then looks up at Ilya. “Thank you for telling me.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “There is something seriously wrong with Canadian brain.”

“What?”

“I out you to your dad and you thank me. This is why no one takes Canada seriously.”

“Did you purposefully tell him?”

“Of course not.”

“Then we are okay. It was a scary time. Luckily, we all got out unscathed,” Shane touches the small scar on his forehead, “…for the most part.”

Ilya looks over the man in front of him. This blind, dumb, and beautiful man. Ilya is scathed. He’s a complete and utter mess, and Shane is totally unaware.

“This cannot continue,” he says, looking away.

“Why would you say that?”

“You had a panic attack at the thought of just your dad knowing. We cannot keep hiding. People will find out. And then…” he trails off, unable to voice his fears.

Shane nods. He’s probably thinking about their careers, but Ilya is thinking about his home. His mother’s grave. He despises going there, dreading the flight a bit more with each passing summer. But it's his. It’s his cross to bear, and, despite being selfish and lazy, he will not surrender it.

And for a brief moment, all he wants is for someone to understand.

“Shane, this cannot get out. I can never return to Russia if people knew.”

Shane startles at that. “Why? What would happen?”

Ilya takes a seat in the chair next to him. “I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.”

“Would your family help?”

He thinks about his father and his brother. His father’s impossibly high expectations. His brother flippantly calling him a pidor. He grimly chuckles.

Shane leans in closer. “Are they not – “

“No,” Ilya cuts him off. “They aren’t. My brother is police.”

“Shit,” Shane breathes. Ilya is relieved Shane knows enough about Russia’s culture that he doesn’t have to explain.

“My father was police. He’s retired. …and sick.”

“Like in the head.”

“Hmm, that too maybe,” Ilya frowns, “but more like…”

“Cancer?”

“No, dementia.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Shane reaches over and grabs Ilya’s hand. He appreciates the gesture, smiling slightly even though it doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s okay.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand. The warmth distracts him from his thoughts a bit. “It’s not okay,” he admits. “It just… sometimes I don’t mind. He can be nicer this way.”

He’s never said it out loud, but when his father calls, Ilya has started hoping for his dad to be in a slightly lost fugue state and looking for answers. It’s so much easier than the alternative. He’s never been able to give his father what he wants, but those calls always end his father calmer than before and Ilya feeling like he’s finally succeeded at something. But what kind of child roots for the dementia? “Makes me a bad son,” he states.

“No. No, not at all.” Shane grips his hand tighter.

“It’s okay. I’m a selfish, lazy coward,” Ilya says, his voice dull. He’s many other things but those come to the forefront. “I know this.”

“What?” Shane leans forward over the table and catches Ilya’s gaze. “No. Who told you that?” he incredulously asks. “You are none of those things.”

Ilya furrows his brow. Of course he is these things. Despite his posturing, there are nights where he is certain everyone can see it.

Shane’s voice is so earnest when he says, “I don’t know that side of you at all,” Ilya almost believes him.

Shane has learned more about Ilya Rozanov in the past five minutes than in all their time combined. Over the years, he had cautiously asked about Russia or his home life but each question was rebuffed with either a quip or a cold dismissal.

It has become impeccably clear as to why.

Shane may not be great at reading in between the lines, but Ilya’s voice is so miserable when he states his father and brother are police. Shane has no doubt that they would not be supportive any “lifestyle choice” that strayed from the norm. Ilya then surprises him with news of his father’s dementia. Shane does not know much about the disease but he has heard of the term ‘sundowning’ and knows symptoms typically include aggression and irritability. If Ilya prefers his father in that state, it does not speak highly of what his father was like before.

Shane does not have to speculate for very long. Ilya calls himself horrible things so casually that Shane knows he must be repeating words he had heard a thousand times before. Shane’s heart aches for the other man.

There are many things Shane is good at, providing comfort is not one of them. He tends to look at things as problems that need to be tackled and solved. It has served him well in his life and on the ice, but now he flounders.

He turns in his seat and guides Ilya to face him. He gives the other man a kiss, lightly humming when it is easily reciprocated. They aren’t so far gone yet. There’s still hope. “We can figure this out,” he says when they break apart.

Problem: No one can know about them.

Solution: To be determined.

Problem: His dad knows about them.

Solution: Call his dad.

Problem: Ilya’s home life is fucked.

Solution: Also to be determined.

Problem: Ilya doesn’t seem to realize his home life is fucked.

Solution: Show him …somehow? …Call his dad?

“I can hear you think,” Ilya says, his face back in its stoic mask.

“I think I should call my parents.” Shane takes a look at the clock on the microwave. It’s still early in the evening. It seems impossible, but Ilya has been in his apartment for less than an hour. “Would that be okay? If I told them?”

“I think they already know,” Ilya says out of the side of his mouth.

Shane closes his eyes. “I mean… Can I confirm it?”

“Yes, of course.”

The ease of which he says it bowls Shane over for a second. Ilya just stated how dangerous it would be for him if he was outed – and, yes, there’s danger for Shane too, but it is so trite comparatively. Now he is willingly allowing Shane to share their secret with his family, people he barely knows, and doing so without a second thought.

“Do you want me here?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods right away for selfish and unselfish reasons. “Yes, please. Stay.” He not only appreciates having Ilya's presence at his side, he also needs Ilya to see how his family reacts. It's a gamble - it may all crash and burn spectacularly - but it's his only play.

“I’m here. Don’t worry.” Ilya rubs a hand over Shane’s shoulder. Shane melts into the touch. He allows Ilya to provide comfort, graciously accepting it with a small smile. It comes so naturally to the other man, despite being tucked away far from his public persona. Ilya seems into settle himself, his muscles relaxed and his eyes clear.

Shane walks over the kitchen island and sets up his phone so he can easily face time. He grabs seat in one of the stools. Without Shane asking, Ilya takes a seat on the stool next to him. Shane takes a deep breath and dials. While it rings, he makes sure only his face is visible on the screen.

Luckily, his dad appears to be alone when he answers. Shane can tell by the background he’s in the living room. “Hey kiddo, what’s up?”

“Hey, Dad. Is Mom there?”

“No, she’s in the other room. Do you want me to go get her?”

“Um, no, not yet.” Shane pauses and takes a breath. He turns the phone slightly to show both of them. “Ilya is here.”

“Hello, Mr. Hollander,” he says with a quick wave.

“Hello, Ilya. It’s good to see you.”

“Ah, yes, you too.”

His father’s warm tone helps quell Shane’s nerves. He needs this conversation to go well. Not only for himself, but for Ilya too. Shane rubs his hands up and down his thighs. His tension must be obvious because Ilya places a hand on the Shane’s backrest. He can’t feel it, but it still a comfort knowing it’s there.

Shane swallows, “Um, does mom know?” He cannot bring himself to be more specific. Not yet.

“I haven’t told her anything.”

Shane looks away and nods. “…Do you know?” he nonsensically asks.

His dad faintly smiles. “Yeah, I think I do. Do you want to tell me anyway?”

“Can you go get Mom? I think I can only say it once.”

“Of course.”

Shane is left looking at the empty living room as David’s footsteps retreat. He turns the camera back towards himself, Ilya graciously leaning out of the way.

“You are strong and brave,” Ilya whispers next to him.

The words catch Shane off guard. In another time, another place, he would assume the other man was mocking him. But the sincerity in his voice leaves no doubt that Ilya only intention is reassurance. Shane nods. He doesn’t have time to do much else as his mother’s face quickly fills the screen.

“Hi honey,” she pauses for a moment and looks over Shane’s face. “Is something wrong?” She turns slightly so David is on the screen too.

“No…yes. M-maybe?” God, this is so much harder than he was expecting.

“What is it?”

“Um,” he glances over at Ilya off screen, who gives him a slight nod in return. “It’s, um. I’m gay,” the words tumble out. Now that he’s started, he cannot stop or else he will never say it all, “And Ilya and I…” He turns the phone to show Ilya next to him. “We’re, um, together. Like…”

He trails off.

“Sexually,” Ilya whispers softly in his ear, his voice sincere and helpful in the worst possible way.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and cringes. “No. Don’t – ” he mutters. He waits a moment before peeking one eye at the screen.

His mom has her eyebrows raised and then immediately lowers them, her face glowering. “Did he put you up to this? It’s a little late for an April Fool’s joke.”

“Yuna – “ David warns from behind her.

“Mom, it’s not – “

“What?” she cuts them both off. “You’d have us believe the two of you are what? Illicit lovers? C’mon hun.”

Shane hears Ilya whisper the word illicit under his breath. God, he hopes the other man doesn’t know what it means. He knows his mom doesn’t mean anything by it. That she’s just caught off guard. That even the idea of them being friends was so absurd to her that of course this would send her over the edge.

But when he looks back at the screen, she looks so disappointed with him. In that second, all his worst fears come true. Tears well in his eyes but, thankfully, none fall. For a moment, Shane reconsiders. Maybe what he has with Ilya is illicit. Amoral to the highest degree. So absolutely grotesque that no one can even fathom it being true. He feels his mind drifting to someplace quieter and less painful.

“Yuna,” his dad says harshly, not quite a yell, but loud enough to snap Shane back into his body. He registers Ilya’s hand gripping his leg, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over his kneecap.

“David, you can’t actually believe –“

Shane silently watches as his dad nods his head at the camera. He looks down and away. He can’t bring himself to speak when his mom looks back at him. He’s sure he looks absolutely miserable.

“Oh,” Yuna breathes. And it’s like a switch flipped, her eyes soften and her whole body deflates. “Oh, honey.”

“I – I’m sorry. I tried – “

“Oh, Shane. No, no,” she cuts him off, her voice firm. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I’m sorry you felt like you had to hide this.” She pauses for a moment.  Shane risks a glance back at the screen. She tearfully looks back at him, “I’m sorry something I did made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

And Shane should stop her. Should say it wasn't her, it was him and his irrational fears. She's been nothing but supportive his whole life, and he couldn't have asked for a better mom. But instead he hears, A whole lot of kids are going to be looking up to you and Imagining he's better than you? Fuck him. Shane sniffs and says, “I forgive you.”

There is a long pause before David leans in and asks, “So, when are you two coming over for dinner?”

“What? No, Dad. It’s not like that.” Shane pictures the four of them sitting together around their kitchen table discussing …what exactly? …Probably hockey. Ilya drinking vodka while his parents sip on wine. The image should fill him with unease. It should be ill fitting – like two puzzle pieces that don’t belong together. But instead, all he can think is that would be nice.

“Not like what?” his mom asks, her voice bringing Shane back to the present.

God, they still have so far to go before they can even consider it to be a reality. “We’re still figuring this out. We don’t know yet how to be together. In any capacity.”

Ilya speaks up from beside him, “Well, we know how to be together in some ways.” And he sounds so frustratingly innocent, even though Shane knows – he knows – what ‘ways’ Ilya is referring to. As if to prove Shane right, he leans in and whispers in his ear, “Pretty good at it too.”

“Stop. It,” Shane grinds out through his clenched jaw.

“Well, regardless, we’re happy for you,” his dad says, lightly elbowing Yuna afterwards.

Yuna looks between the two of them and nods. Shane can clearly see the wheels turning in her head.

Ilya must see it too. He leans closer to the screen and says, “I can admit. It is a shock.”

“Yes,” Yuna replies, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t think either of us saw this coming.” His dad must do something beside her because she looks over at him. “Wait…” her eyes narrow, “Did you know??”

Shane takes that as his cue. “We should really get going. Love you!”

David slips in a “love you too, son,” before Shane ends the call.

Ilya stretches in his seat and says, “Easy peasy lemon squeezy."

Shane looks at him in disbelief. “Who taught you that?”

After the roller coaster of an evening, Ilya decides to take his time his time in the bedroom, pulling Shane apart one piece at a time. Emotionally, both of them have hit their highs and their lows, and now all Ilya wants is to make the other man feel so good he forgets about all of the potential looming pitfalls.

He rolls his hips once, hitting the spot that leaves Shane quaking beneath him. He reaches around and fondles the other man’s balls. They’re enlarged and tight against Shane’s body, signaling his need for release. Ilya trails his fingers over them, tracing a line down Shane’s shaft. He starts slowly thrusting his hips again.

“Ilya, please,” Shane gasps, mouthing the pillow beneath his head.

Ilya leans forward so his breath is hot against Shane’s ear. “Please what?”

“I – I can’t,” he keens. “I need to – “

“Shhh. Moy vozlyublennyy. You’re doing so good. Absolutely perfect for me.”

Shane nods frantically against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut to stave off his orgasm.

As his reward, Ilya takes his already lubed fingers and gives Shane’s cock a few languid tugs. Hearing Shane’s moans sends a wave of pleasure straight to Ilya’s dick. His own desire starts coiling in his lower abdomen. Ilya repositions himself and moves faster, hitting the Shane’s prostate with every thrust.

“I’m gonna – “ Shane gasps from below.

Ilya grips his hips harder and increases his pace. “Da. Let go. I’m here.”

He barely gets the words out before Shane tenses around him, his muscles spasming with his orgasm. Ilya feels electrified as he crests over the edge, his stomach tumbling like a roller coaster drop. His own release comes in waves, his body contracting in multiple spurts.

Ilya rolls to the side and collapses on the bed. He looks over to see Shane still slightly drifting. Smiling fondly, he reaches over and gently pulls the other man closer to him, placing his head on his chest. He absentmindedly runs his fingers through the dark air and mutters softly. “This. This is too good to give up.”

Shane hums in response.

The two slowly make their way to the shower, often pausing in the cleaning to kiss underneath the warm spray. While he's silent throughout, it is obvious when Shane fully comes back to himself, his eyes clear and his cheeks rosy. Once dry, they re-enter the bed, climbing under the covers and leaning against each other.

Ilya reaches over and places a hand on Shane’s cheek, lightly thumbing his freckles.

Shane looks up and smiles. He closes his eyes for a long moment and then asks, “Will you come to my cottage?” Ilya’s hand stills. He’s not quite sure what Shane is asking, but he can feel the gravity behind the words. “This summer. I know you go to Russia. But it doesn’t need to be the whole time. Just come for a visit?”

Ilya frowns. His gut says no. Let the man down easy, but obviously he needs to decline. Ilya looks down and pauses. He swears he can see entire galaxies in his hopeful eyes. He thinks about Russia and his mother’s grave, lightly touching the cross on his chest. Then he thinks of his cruel brother and his unforgiving father. How desperate his mama must’ve been to leave it all behind.

He thinks of David and Yuna, a father and mother who are very much present and attentive and, most of all, care. David, who got Ilya a chair in the hospital and opened up to him the hallway. Yuna who was about to fight a two-hundred-pound professional hockey player to protect her son. Shane came out to them, and they had accepted him with open arms, apologizing in the process. He didn't outwardly show it, but he was filled with unease throughout the entire conversation. He was anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop, ready to console Shane when it inevitably did. But instead they invited Ilya over for dinner, no questions asked. They professed their unconditional love for Shane before ending the call. And Ilya sat there on his stool, his entire worldview rocked. This whole time he thought he and Shane were so alone, no one could possibly support their relationship. But one simple phone call proved him wrong.

He imagines a future where he gets to bask in Yuna and David's love and warmth, even by proxy. A future where he and Shane can spend more than an evening together. A future where they spend summers at a cottage cooking dinner and enjoying each other’s company. And, right then, he is willing to sacrifice anything to make that future a reality.

Ilya smiles and responds, “Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, gave kudos, etc etc. It takes me quite a while to write anything (I. am. slow.) But the response this has gotten has made it so worth it. You are all the best.