Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Rose Landry

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Original Children of Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Car Accidents, Angst with a Happy Ending, Minor Character Death, Major Character Injury, Fire-Rescue, Paramedic Ilya Rozanov, Grief/Mourning, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ilya Rozanov is Good With Children, Marriage of Convenience, Secret Identity, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Use, Retired Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Florida, Family Fluff, Shane Hollander Is a Good Dad, Single Parent Shane Hollander, Slow Burn, Non-traditional family dynamics, Mild Sexual Content, Depression, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Pining, Divergence Begins Post-Tunameltdown, Mild Gore, brief suicide mention, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-18 Updated: 2026-06-02 Words: 30,880 Chapters: 5/?

Burning My Cathedrals

Summary

In 2016, Shane walked out of Ilya's life and never looked back.

In 2017, Ilya poured gasoline all over his career, struck a match, and walked away from the ashes.

In 2026, their paths cross again at the scene of a car accident that kills Shane’s wife Rose and injures both Shane and his 4 year old daughter, Sophie.

Suddenly, the quiet, unassuming life that Ilya has worked so hard to build for himself crumbles as he confronts the fact that he's never gotten over Shane Hollander.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Please read the description and tags! 💚

“It’s all car accidents and heart attacks anymore,” Jerry, Ilya’s co-worker complains as he pilots their ambulance through traffic. “I miss the good old days. Fires ain’t what they used to be, that’s for sure.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Sully says from the back. “You like to watch shit burn. We get it.” 

“Used to be, that’s all we did was put out fires, kid,” Jerry says. “None of this other stuff. Now they got us doing everything. I mean, what’s next? We start doing the cop’s jobs too? You watch. Another ten years and we’ll be carrying guns and arresting people in between bagging dead retirees and scraping people up off the pavement.”

Jerry is a twice-retired firefighter, who’s working on his third retirement with fire rescue, and he loves to bitch about how things used to be. He’s a skilled, knowledgeable paramedic, but it gets old, hearing about how fire suppression systems have killed the firefighting industry and how rare good structure fires are these days. 

Ilya is pretty sure Jerry is going to work until he drops dead of his own heart attack one day. Probably while ranting about how most of these car accidents could be avoided if they started taking driver’s licenses away from the elderly or if the damn snowbirds ever learned how to drive.  

Ilya also suspects Jerry might be a closet pyromaniac. Possibly an arsonist. 

“If you don’t like it, you could always retire again,” Ilya says with a crooked grin. “Buy a condo at the Villages. Have sex parties with beautiful retired ladies.”

“I’ll retire when I’m dead,” Jerry says. “And it ain’t gonna be from the syphilis I got from swinging at the Villages.”

“A lot of good your three pensions will do you then, old man,” Sully says. “And me and Roz will probably be the ones that gotta bag you.” 

“My luck, I’ll get taken out ‘cause someone didn’t take the keys away from grandpa.”

“But you are a grandpa. Six times now, isn't it? Soon you will be great-grandpa,” Ilya points out, just to get under his skin. “Maybe I should be driving.”

“Fuck no. This ain’t a Lamborghini, kid, and you sure as hell ain’t Dale Earnhart.” 

If Jerry only knew that Ilya once owned a stable of performance cars and knew exactly how to drive them. An ambulance with an automatic transmission was nothing compared to that.

“Didn’t Dale Earnhardt die in a crash?” Sully asks. 

“I remember that. Real sad day for NASCAR,” Jerry says. “I lived in Charlotte when that happened. Knew he was dead way before they announced it, too. Know how I knew? Ambulance lights weren’t on when they took him. That’s how….” 

Jerry rambles on, weaving in and out of traffic like he’s a NASCAR driver himself, just as heedless of the fact that other drivers aren’t paying any more attention than he is, except to yell about them getting out of the way. He uses the horn liberally.

Up ahead, Ilya sees the familiar flashing red and blue lights on the Courtney Campbell Causeway, a solid wall of tail lights ahead of them as traffic has come to a complete stop. 

Car accidents and heart attacks are never in short supply in the greater Tampa Bay area, though, and Ilya’s just fine with that. There’s seldom a quiet shift, and he’s glad for a distraction from all the things he left behind back in 2017 – a career in professional hockey, lucrative brand deals, his car collection, the fancy Boston penthouse, a spot at the top of the pack, right next to the only person he’s ever considered good enough to be called his equal.  

These days, Ilya lives a quiet life between shifts. His house is a tiny 2 bedroom cinderblock crackerbox in Largo that was built in the 50’s. There are five citrus trees that produce various citrus fruits in his back yard and a loquat tree in the front. Most of his neighbors are retirees from up north who keep to themselves. He drives a Toyota Corolla instead of a Porsche. He rarely goes out and work keeps him busy enough that he doesn’t have the time or energy to be bored. 

No one recognizes him these days, either, except the occasional Bostonian Snowbird, but most people don’t. To maintain anonymity he goes by Elija, or Eli, of which his real name is derived from. 

Ilya Rozanov may have been an ice hockey all-star, but Eli Rozanov is just a regular guy. None of his co-workers know he used to be hockey’s bad boy or that he was once called a generational talent. For all intents and purposes, Ilya Rozanov fell off the map in 2017 and most of his fans believe he returned to Russia after his father passed away. 

It’s a perfectly boring life of the sort he never imagined himself living. If he’s not happy, he’s at least comfortable with the predictable sameness of his days – heart attacks and car accidents are his bread and butter, no matter how much Jerry bitches about it. 

Jerry navigates his way around the stalled traffic until they reach the mangled wreckage of a delivery truck and what might have once been a luxury SUV but is now just a twisted heap of broken plastic and warped metal. He parks the ambulance behind one of his station’s firetrucks as Ilya re-ties his long curls into a bun and climbs out. 

A pair of fire and rescue guys are already busy prying open the mangled passenger side of the SUV, presumably to free a trapped and injured occupant. Another pair of paramedics are loading a woman into their own ambulance. Ilya suspects she’s already gone or will be soon. Even in the relative darkness, beneath the flickering strobes, Ilya recognizes the pallor of impending death too well to say otherwise.  

The firefighters drag a second occupant out of the wreckage and to Ilya’s dismay, it’s a young child, probably a girl about three or four years old, judging by her size, the pink dress she’s wearing, and the little bows tying the ends of her dark pigtails. She’s crying loudly, which is a good sign. She might be in pain, and she’s probably injured, but she’s conscious and has plenty of breath in her little lungs. Which is more than he can say for the woman he assumes is her mother.

The little girl is immediately handed off to him, as his skill and patience with handling kids is well known among his colleagues. If there is a child on the scene, Ilya is always their go-to and he doesn’t mind at all. Kids are easier than adults, even when they're hurt and scared.

Ilya dutifully collects her and immediately goes to work, gathering her to his chest and carrying her away from the scene. Her little body is warm and her face is wet with tears, but at first glance, any injuries appear to be minor.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “That was very scary, yes? But you are being very brave.”

“I want my daddy,” she bawls into his shoulder. 

“I know,” he says sympathetically. “My name is Eli. Will you tell me yours?” 

“Sophie.” 

“That is a very pretty name,” he says as he climbs into the back of the ambulance. “Can you tell me if you are hurt?” 

She holds out her hand. Maybe a broken finger or two, probably also her wrist, Ilya guesses.   

“Anything else?”

She shakes her head no. 

“Okay. Why don’t we sit right here and I will take a look to make sure everything is good,” Ilya says and sets her down on the gurney inside the ambulance. The only thing he can do for her is brace it until they get her to the hospital, but he wants to make sure nothing else is injured first. He takes a penlight out of his pocket and tugs on his earlobe. “Look right here for me, okay?” 

Her eyes are a warm brown. The shape of them suggests she’s got at least some Asian heritage, and there’s a dusting of freckles on her plump little cheeks, reminding Ilya of things he doesn’t want to think about right now. Things he can’t think about without spiralling. Things he’s avoided thinking about for years now.

He sees no delay in her pupil's response to the light, which is also a good sign. 

“I’m going to touch your head now, okay?” he says. “Just to make sure there are no bumps.” 

Sophie sniffles and Ilya gently runs his fingers along the crown of her head, down to her neck. He feels nothing to be concerned about. No gooseeggs or lacerations. No swelling. 

“What about your tummy? Does it feel okay?” 

She nods. “It’s kinda full. We ate shrimps. I had a whole bunch."

“I am jealous. That sounds delicious,” Ilya says. “Do you live here in Florida, Sophie?”

“No. Mommy and me came for daddy’s game.” 

“Oh?” Ilya says. “What kind of game?” 

“Hockey. Daddy’s really fast.” 

Ilya feels sick for a second. He doesn’t follow hockey anymore, and though Tampa has a team he’s never been to a game. 

“Your daddy plays hockey? What team?” 

“The Voya-ders.” 

That sick feeling intensifies. He had no idea Montreal was playing Tampa. He doesn’t even know if Hollander still plays for Montreal. For all he knows, he negotiated a trade to a California team to be closer to Rose Landry. Or maybe went to Detroit. Last Ilya heard, when he still bothered to torture himself, they got engaged back in 2018. He assumes they got married.

“What is your daddy’s name? Do you know it?” 

“Daddy,” she says, like it should be obvious. 

Okay, so that’s not helpful, but it’s in-line for a kid her age. Many of them don’t know, or won’t acknowledge, that their parents have a first name besides mommy or daddy. 

All her vitals look good, so Ilya sets about bracing her hand and wrist while chatting to her about Spongebob to distract her. By the time he’s done, he has her singing the theme song for him and giggling about Krabby Patties.

“Okay kid whisperer,” Jerry says fondly. “Non-emergency’s gonna take her for us. Need your help with the other one. He’s pretty messed up.”    

Ilya turns Sophie over to Lydia and Kyle, who will partner with child services and transport her to the hospital for treatment. He hopes that at least one of her parents is still alive at the end of all this. 

Though Ilya loves helping the kids on scene, it’s always hard when one or both parents are seriously injured or dead. It never fails to make him think of his own mother, of his own confusion and devastation when she died. No one ever talks to the kids. They tend to get forgotten in the chaos.

“It was very nice to meet you, Sophie,” Ilya says. “These are my good friends Lydia and Kyle. They’re going to let you ride in the ambulance with them. Sounds fun, right?” 

“Can you do the lights?” she asks. 

“Sure,” Kyle says as he lifts her up into the back. “We’ll even do the siren.”

Ilya joins Jerry beside the vehicle and helps him place the other occupant, a man, onto a spinal board. The man’s face is covered in blood and he’s unconscious but still breathing, though struggling. Together, they lift the man, Jerry at his head, Ilya at his feet, onto the gurney and hurry him into the back of their ambulance. Jerry gets behind the wheel as Ilya and Sully secure the gurney and start their assessment. 

“Male, early to mid-thirties, suspected head and abdominal trauma,” Ilya says into his radio while Sully takes blood pressure and pulse. He tugs the hem of the man’s shirt up and sees dark bruises on the left side of his ribs, but they’re a couple days old from what he can tell. Hockey-related, probably. Ilya suffered through bruises just like this countless times over the years. Of more concern is the wine-red blooming on his abdomen, beneath his ribcage. There’s also the tell-tale rattle in his left lung that suggests a puncture or collapsed lung. Though Ilya is no doctor, he’s heard it enough times by now to know what it sounds like. “Unconscious, with head wound and facial lacerations, minor blood loss, possible pneumothorax and internal bleeding. In-route Tampa General.”

“Copy. Trauma team will be waiting,” comes the reply. 

“Ilya?” 

His brain registers the familiar sound of the man’s voice before anything else. His heart starts pounding inside his chest, knocking against his ribs like a sledgehammer. 

Then he stops cold. Bile rises in the back of his throat. 

Because he knows this man. Or he did, once upon a time. Intimately.

Once upon a time, he’d loved this man, beyond sense or reason, as impossible and illogical as it was. 

The last time they’d spoken off the ice, it was a goodbye that wasn’t a goodbye. I can’t. I should go. Spoken with barely concealed panic, though it was best for them both that they put an end to it. Feelings had no place in their arrangement, and Ilya was an absolute fool to think for even one second there could ever be anything more between them than sex. 

That knowledge was not enough to stop his stupid heart from breaking at the silence that followed. But why should he have expected Hollander to answer his texts? Why should he have ever hoped for that? They’d been doomed from the start and it never could have ended in anything but heartbreak. Ilya had known that and he let himself fall anyway. 

Hollander had done them both a favor by ending it. Ilya could never summon the willpower to end it himself, no matter how many times he thought about it.

Seeing him now brings it all back, and Ilya is momentarily paralyzed by both memories and by the sight of Shane Hollander’s bloodied face and hazy stare. 

“Ilya,” Hollander says again. He reaches for Ilya, who presses Hollander’s arm back down to the board. “I’m sorry I ran away. Biggest fucking mistake of my life.” 

“Just relax, Hollander,” Ilya says. He forces himself back into work mode. “Was a long time ago. You have nothing to be sorry about.” 

“You know this guy?” Sully asks. 

“Is Shane Hollander. You follow hockey, yes?” Ilya is deliberately casual as he inspects a wound on Hollander’s scalp. Not deep, but bleeding freely.

“Holy shit. You’re right,” Sully says. “Wait. I thought you didn’t follow hockey?” 

“I don’t.”

“Then how do you –?”

“Ilya, they can see us,” Hollander hisses, his eyes bright with terror. His gaze burns through Ilya like a blowtorch. A million memories surface, all at once, and Ilya struggles to keep the moisture from gathering in his eyes. “They can’t find out about us.”

"It's best if you don’t try to talk, Hollander," Ilya says. It's as much for his own benefit as it is for Shane’s. 

“Ilya?” Sully says. He glances at Ilya and Ilya can see the moment it dawns on him. “Wait. Roz. Are you –? I mean, you’re not really – Jesus Christ, man. You’re Ilya fucking Rozanov, aren’t you?”

“I used to be,” Ilya admits. “But I am not that man anymore.” 

As Ilya looks down at Hollander’s face, he realizes what a lie that is. 

Back in 2016, following a quiet, blissful afternoon spent having sex and hanging out, Shane Hollander walked out of Ilya’s life for good. It broke Ilya’s heart, if he’s being honest with himself, but it solved a huge problem for the both of them. At the time, Ilya told himself it was for the best. They both needed to move on before it became something more, but for Ilya, it was already far too late for that. 

Apparently, it wasn’t for Shane. Ilya had watched for months with bitter jealousy as the paparazzi photos of Hollander’s romance with Rose Landry became front page news, and then turned into an absolute circus with the announcement of their engagement.  

On the ice, Hollander pointedly ignored him. He didn’t respond to chirps and treated Ilya like he was just another player. Ilya’s taunts by text went ignored. Invitations to meet up were met with silence. The only communication he got from Hollander at all was a text following his father’s death. 

Sorry for your loss. 

Hockey stopped being fun. Ilya spiralled. He drank constantly. He got into fist fights with players he might have totally ignored in the past. Fucked anyone who would showed the slightest bit of interest. He missed practices because he was either too hungover or not motivated enough to go.

Just before playoffs, he wrapped his favorite Porsche around a tree after a night spent guzzling vodka and snorting cocaine with a gorgeous supermodel from the Ukraine and a couple of NFL players from New York. 

His injuries were minor, but his bad behavior kept him benched the rest of the season. He didn’t return at all for the next. No announcement, no warning, he just walked into the GM's office and told him he was done. 

He considered going back to Russia. Dynamo had been trying to recruit him for years, but there was nothing left for him in Russia. He had no friends or family there he cared about besides his niece. 

Instead, he sold everything, moved to Florida and went to school on a student visa. He graduated from the fire academy in 2021, got a job with fire-rescue, and obtained citizenship in 2022. He stayed under the radar. Deleted all his social media. Refused any and all requests for interviews, and slowly, Ilya Rozanov, hockey’s posterboy for wasted potential, faded from the narrative. If he was spoken of at all, it was as a cautionary tale. But mostly, he was forgotten. 

Now Hollander stands alone at the top, when Ilya had always figured that they would be there together for the duration of their careers. Once upon a time, he’d imagined that because they started together, they would go out at the same time, too. Their careers would be compared to one another for decades to come. One would not be mentioned without talking about the other, their rivalry and respective careers the stuff of legend, but these days, no one talks about him at all. 

As far as he knows, anyway. Maybe they do talk about him, on some reddit forum, but if they are, Ilya remains blissfully unaware of that fact, by choice. He has moved on. He hopes the hockey world has, too.

Looking down at Hollander’s bloodied face now, at his soft brown eyes, Ilya realizes there’s a part of him that desperately misses hockey. There’s an even bigger part of him that misses Shane – he misses playing against him, he misses reducing him to a whimpering, desperate mess, he misses the way Shane would look at him after a particularly satisfying hook-up, how eager and willing he always was to follow directions, and he misses how beautiful he looked after Ilya was done with him. 

Ilya also knows he never had any right to stand in the way of Hollander’s happiness. All they did was hurt each other, and themselves, for something that they would never be allowed to have. 

“You guys hated each other, didn’t you?” Sully says now. 

“No,” Ilya says. "We never hated each other. Was a good narrative, though. Sold a lot of tickets.” 

“Why did you quit? I never understood that.” 

“Is a lot of pressure,” Ilya says. “The money is great but it is a very hard life, you know? Always on the road. Always recovering from injury. Never see the people you care about except in summers. The league owns you – your face, your name, your time, your body. You are a product. An income stream, not a person. And when they are done with you, you don’t matter anymore unless you are great.”

It’s a bit more detailed than Ilya’s standard answer for when he does get recognized, which is rare these days. It’s also a more honest answer than the one he usually gives. 

“You were great, though. Like, really great.”

“I was. Now I listen to Jerry talk about the good old days and try to keep people alive until we get them to hospital.” He wipes blood from Hollander’s forehead. “And Hollander will go to Hall of Fame. I am okay with that.” 

Sully’s looking at him like he has worms crawling out of his nose. As if he must be insane for walking away from all that, because surely Ilya would be right there with Hollander, headed for the Hall of Fame, too, his name among the greats in hockey history. 

“That’s crazy, man,” Sully says, his eyes wide and childlike. “You know you were my favorite player growing up. You always looked like you were having so much fun.” 

“I usually was,” Ilya says with a small smile. 

There’s no more time to talk about it. They’ve arrived at the hospital and Ilya still has a job to do. 

The rest of his night is busy. Busier than usual, but some nights are like that. There’s the usual assortment of age-related medical emergencies, but there are a higher than usual number of non-emergency calls, which are always both a relief and a waste of time. There’s nothing he can do to help someone retrieve the set of keys they accidentally flushed down the toilet, nor can they do anything about the panther lounging on someone's pool deck.  

He has no time to check the news to find out Shane’s condition, and Ilya is glad for that. Thinking about Shane Hollander, or Rose Landry by association will only lead him to a bad place.

His last call of the day is a weird one. It started as a wellness check, called in by an elderly man’s neighbor, who hadn’t seen him in three days. Ilya expects to find him dead of a heart attack or a stroke, as is often the case for calls like this, but it’s infinitely weirder. Not only is the man deceased when they arrive, his house is full of live Canada geese. There must be a hundred of them, and the sharp ammonia smell of their feces, which coats the carpet and floors, is so bad, they have to wear oxygen masks to avoid burning their lungs when they go inside to retrieve the body. 

The neighbors had no idea the man had apparently captured and housed an army of angry, aggressive geese in his tiny two-bedroom house. Ilya has no idea how the neighbors couldn’t smell the house from the street. He certainly could.

Normally, Ilya goes straight home after grabbing a shower at the station, but today, he skips the shower and drives to Tampa General, where they’d delivered Shane Hollander last night. He does this almost without thinking about it, as if some force has overtaken his common sense and his ability to make rational decisions. 

No good can come of involving himself in this. 

And still, Ilya gets out of his car and inquires at the desk about Hollander’s condition. 

If Ilya wasn’t a medical professional who was still in his uniform, he would have been turned away immediately. Hollander’s a celebrity, after all, and no doubt, the hospital has been inundated with calls and visits from fans and journalists hoping for a scoop. 

It helps that he’s friendly with the nurse on the desk, Emily. She’s cute, sharp, and Ilya has flirted with the idea of hooking up with her for a couple of years now, but he prefers to keep that part of his life anonymous. Not that he’s done much of that lately. It leaves him feeling too empty and lost to quiet his loneliness the way it used to.

“You look like you got chewed up and spat out,” Emily says. “Rough one?” 

“No, just very busy. A little weird,” Ilya says. He tells her about the man with the geese. “Do you know what room Hollander is in?” 

She gives him a funny look. He does occasionally check in with patients that made an impression on him, but they’re not usually sports celebrities who are married to even bigger celebrities. 

“He was… a friend. When we were young,” Ilya explains. It’s only half a lie. He’s not sure Hollander would have ever called him a friend. 

She gives him the room number and warns him not to be a nuisance, as if he would be. He just wants to make sure he’s okay. Then, he can go back to his quiet, boring life and for get all about it. 

He takes the elevator upstairs to an area reserved for post-surgery recovery. It’s quiet at this hour, and there are only a handful of people in the waiting area. It smells like industrial disinfectant and cheap coffee. 

Ilya’s about to bypass the waiting area and the desk when a small voice calls out, “Eli!” 

He turns as Sophie crashes into his legs. A woman who Ilya recognizes as Yuna Hollander, though they’ve never met, stands, alarm written all over her tired, drawn face.

“Hello, Sophie,” Ilya greets cheerfully. He notes the pink fiberglass cast on her arm and her splinted fingers. “How are you, sweetheart?” 

“I got a cast.” 

“I see that. I like the color,” Ilya says. “Were you very brave for the doctor?” 

“Yes,” she says. “I didn’t cry at all.” 

“That is very good! And how does your arm feel today?”

“It stopped hurting. Now I’m hungry.”

“Hello,” Yuna Hollander says, understandably wary. Her eyes go to the name embroidered on his uniform shirt, E. Rozanov. She blinks at it for a second, then her gaze flicks back up to his face. “Have we met?” 

“I was one of the paramedics on duty last night,” Ilya says. “I treated Sophie and Shane at the scene. I just wanted to see how they were doing.” 

Mrs. Hollander is staring at the name on his shirt again. Ilya sees a bit of Shane in her expression. It's the same look he used to get when he was trying to sort something out.

“This is Eli, grandma. Remember, I told you about him. He helped after the crash.” 

“Yes. Eli,” Ilya echoes and offers his hand. “I work for local fire-rescue.” 

“I have the strangest feeling we’ve met before,” Mrs. Hollander says and shakes his hand.

“I hear that a lot," Ilya says. “How is Shane?” 

“He’s out of danger,” Mrs. Hollander says. “But he has a long recovery ahead of him, I’m afraid. He suffered a punctured lung, fractured ribs, ruptured spleen.” 

“And his wife?” Ilya asks.

Yuna Hollander’s eyes fill with tears and she shakes her head. “She… apparently, she died at the scene.” 

“Oh. I am so sorry,” Ilya says, and he means that. He never met Rose Landry, but he does know that she was beloved by her fans. It also means the adorable little girl who is currently playing with the keys attached to his belt will be without a mother, something Ilya has never recovered from himself. He tips his head at Sophie. “Does she know?”

“I don’t think she understands yet,” Mrs. Hollander says. “Or, maybe I didn’t explain it right.” 

“It takes a while sometimes, especially for the little ones,” Ilya says. “A lot going on for her, yes?”

“That’s true,” she says. Her gaze flicks back to his face, then to the tell-tale cross peeking out of his uniform shirt. “You wouldn’t be related to Ilya Rozanov would you? I’m sorry. It’s just that you look exactly like him.”  

Ilya could lie. He should lie and then go home and move on with his life. Go back to knowing nothing about hockey or Shane Hollander’s life. Make a go of meeting someone he can settle down with, start his own family, and put his past behind him for good, but how is he supposed to do that when almost a decade of his life and identity is wrapped up with Shane’s? How is he supposed to forget about it when he now has this new memory of Shane and is apparently still hauling around a truckload of unfinished business and unresolved feelings? When his name will always inevitably be linked to Shane’s?

“Is because I was Ilya,” he says quietly. He’s not sure she understands, so he elaborates. “I go by Eli now. Makes it easier to separate myself from hockey.” 

“Oh.” She’s obviously stunned. “I had no idea.” 

“Most people don’t,” Ilya says. He should go. No good can come of staying. He’s already explained himself once today. He’s in no mood to explain again. Especially not to Yuna Hollander. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander. Maybe tell Shane I said hello. And I am very sorry about Rose.” 

She’s still looking at him with that same stunned expression. But now it’s like she’s seeing a ghost. 

Ilya’s never felt more like one than he does right now. 

Ilya doesn’t plan to go back to the hospital to check in on Shane, but three days later, he finds himself outside of his hospital room, clutching a stuffed alligator he bought at a gas station on the way. He’d been thinking of Sophie when he impulsively added it to his purchase, though he had absolutely no plan to come here to deliver it. 

And then he came anyway.

Shane is all he’s thought about for days. He can’t even avoid it by throwing himself into work because Sully opened his big mouth and told everyone that their quiet, unassuming kid-whisperer is actually a retired hockey legend. Or he would have been, if he hadn’t burned out. 

It’s got him fucked up, and the only way he knows of to deal with it is to confront it head on. Get it out of his system and move on. 

Yuna Hollander isn’t in the room with Shane, but it looks like his father is. Sophie’s sitting in his lap, watching something on a tablet. On the bed, Shane is asleep. 

If Ilya was smart, he’d turn around and leave now, but his therapist likes to talk about getting closure. Maybe this is his chance for that. 

Or maybe his reasons are more selfish and insidious than all that. The man just lost his wife and maybe his hockey career, too. Now is not the time to be seeking his own redemption arc. 

Or maybe, Ilya genuinely still cares about Shane Hollander, and only now, after so many years of therapy is he able to admit that.

He knocks lightly on the door and then peeks inside. David Hollander looks up at him in surprise. Sophie greets him with a big, sweet smile that is hauntingly similar to Shane’s. 

“Eli!” she cries. “You came back.”

“Remember, inside voices, kiddo,” Mr. Hollander says. “Daddy’s still sleeping.” 

“Oh. Sorry,” she stage whispers. Ilya can't help but smile. “Hi, Eli!”

“Hello, Sophie,” Ilya stage whispers back. He holds out the stuffed alligator. “I have brought you something. This is Edgar. He needs someone to take care of him.” He’s chosen the name on the spot, but it feels right. 

“Hi Edgar! I love him!” Sophie whispers and wraps her uninjured arm around the stuffed toy. “Thank you!” 

“You are very welcome, sweetheart,” Ilya says gently, then nods at Mr. Hollander. “Hi. I am Ilya.” 

“Mr. Rozanov,” Mr. Hollander says, then corrects himself. “Ilya. Thank you for visiting. My wife told me you’d been by.” 

“Is no problem,” Ilya says. “Has he been awake at all?” 

“A little here and there,” Mr. Hollander says. “They’ve got him pretty doped up. Seems the ribs are pretty painful.”

“Yes. Broken ribs are the worst,” Ilya says. “Take forever to heal, nothing you can do but stay still. Even then they hurt.” 

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Mr. Hollander says. “I’m sure Shane would love to see you.” 

“Oh, is okay. I must get to work soon,” Ilya says. “I just wanted to check in.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” David says. “I have to admit, I was pretty surprised when Yuna told me you’d stopped by. You know everyone thinks you went home to Russia, right?” 

“Yes, so I have heard,” Ilya says. “But, I am US citizen now. I have been in Florida since 2017.”

“Can I ask what happened? It was looking like you were headed for the finals and then… Well, nobody really expected you to quit.” 

“Many reasons,” Ilya says, because it’s the truth. “Was a very difficult time for me.” 

“I hope things are better now,” Mr. Hollander says with genuine empathy. “And that you’re doing something you enjoy.” 

“Yes. Things are better and I do like my job. Is important work, I think," Ilya says. He smiles a little. “The only things I really miss about hockey are playing against Shane and maybe the money sometimes.”

“They do pay ridiculously well,” Mr. Hollander says. “You know, he’d never admit it, but I think it broke Shane’s heart when you left. No one else put up the kind of fight you did, and I think he really missed that once you were gone.” 

Ilya looks at Shane, who hasn’t so much as twitched the whole time Ilya has been here. His heart breaks all over again. 

“I should go,” Ilya says. “It was good to talk to you.” 

“Likewise,” Mr. Hollander says. “What’s your station number? I’d like to have something sent over, as thanks for taking good care of my family.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” Ilya says. “It’s our job.” 

“I would still like to. If that’s alright.”

“Sweets and good coffee are always welcome,” Ilya says. He gives Mr. Hollander the station number. “If I do not see you before you go home to Canada, give Shane my condolences.” 

Mr. Hollander gets misty-eyed. Ilya sees something of Shane in him right then – that softness that Mrs. Hollander doesn’t seem to possess. “I’ll be sure to pass them along.” 

“Okay, Sophie,” Ilya says and crouches down. “I must go. Would it be okay if I gave you a hug?” 

Sophie nods and throws her arms around Ilya’s neck. Something inside him breaks as he hugs her back. As he leaves, he can’t help but picture how different his life might be if he wasn’t such a fucking coward.

Ilya does not visit the hospital again. He watches footage from Rose Landry’s funeral and memorial service in Detroit on TV at the station with some of his colleagues. Most of the guys lament the loss of such a fine piece of ass, but all Ilya can think of is Shane, who is not in attendance and said to still be hospitalized. Yuna, David, and Sophie are there. Ilya assumes that means Shane has gone home, too. 

It’s for the best that they didn’t speak. There’s nothing to say. Whatever unfinished business they have will remain unfinished. 

“I can’t believe you used to be famous, Roz,” Cameron, one of the ladder truck guys says. “Sully showed me some compilation videos of your best goals. Man, you were good.” 

“Yes. I used to be,” Ilya says. He wishes he hadn’t admitted the truth to Sully. Now they all know and they want to talk about it. “Now I don’t even pay attention to hockey.”  

“You know there’s a documentary about you, right?” 

“What?” Ilya asks, alarmed. “I did not do a documentary. Unless you are talking about the ESPN thing with all my cars from years ago. Was stupid fluff piece.” 

“No, it’s like this indie thing on YouTube. They talk about your family and your disappearance and all that.”

“I did not disappear. I quit. There is a difference,” Ilya says. “That part of my life is done, and my family is all gone. So there is no big mystery.” 

This is the most he’s talked about himself in at least two decades outside of his therapist’s office. 

“It is not the big deal you think it is,” Ilya promises. “And I would not believe anything a YouTube video says about me.” 

Ilya doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

“Naw, don’t sweat it. I think it’s cool, though.”

Ilya thinks it’s disruptive. Just like Shane’s sudden reappearance has disrupted the peaceful, uncomplicated life he’s managed to build here. It’s his own fault. He should have lied and said Ilya Rozanov was his cousin or something. But, then again, anyone with even the most basic internet sleuthing skills could figure it out if they really wanted to. 

This will pass, and Ilya will move on. There will come a day when thinking about Shane Hollander doesn’t leave him scraped raw on the inside. 

That day can’t come soon enough. 

Ilya is working with Sandra today, which means it’s going to be a good day. Even if it’s a shitty day, Sandra is his favorite, and she never fails to make a bad day bearable. For Ilya, she’s a friend and occasionally a wise older sister, even though they’re the same age. 

Sandra is also the only one of his colleagues he’s socialized with outside of work besides the occasional meet-up at the bar. Once a month, he has dinner with Sandra and her wife Kenyatta. The menu is always a surprise, but never disappointing. 

“I heard some rumors about you,” Sandra says as they head back from a non-emergency call that involved an eight-year-old boy who was mad at his mother for taking away his gaming system. 

It's been three weeks since Shane’s accident. Three weeks since his colleagues learned his secret. He'd hoped the interest would die down, but apparently his past is still a hot topic around the station. 

“Oh?” Ilya hums. “Anything interesting, or more boring hockey things.” 

“Hockey things,” she says. "Sort of."

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Ilya says. “Is not that interesting.” 

“Not even the part where you apparently slept your way through New England?” she teases. “And here I thought you had taken a vow of chastity or something.” 

“I have not,” Ilya assures her. “And yes, is true. Everyone wants you when you are rich and famous. Not so much when you make public servant wages and drive a boring car.” 

“And now you don’t even date.” 

“I didn’t date then, either.” 

“You make me sad, Elija.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met and you deserve to be happy.” 

“What makes you think I am not?” 

Sandra doesn’t answer him. She just gives him a look. A sad one. A moment later, she pulls into the station. As soon as she’s parked, Ilya climbs out. 

“So, are we watching Stranger Things or will you finally give me Mario Kart rematch?” he asks. “I cannot rest until I beat you.”

If she answers him, Ilya doesn’t hear her. 

Because Shane Hollander is standing just outside the bay, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargo shorts, his feet in flip-flops. A pair of dark sunglasses hide his eyes, but not his freckles. A light blue linen shirt stretches across his broad, muscular shoulders in a way that gets Ilya’s blood pumping and his body remembering all the things he’s forced himself to forget. 

Ilya’s throat gets tight and his stupid heart goes crazy 

God. He's still so beautiful. 

It’s been nine years since he last saw Shane Hollander, and he still has the power to take Ilya’s breath away. They stare at each other, and Ilya struggles to come up with something smart to say, for old times sake, but nothing comes to mind. 

In the next instant, Ilya’s arms are around him, and for a second, it feels like he's been there all along. 

Chapter End Notes

All the weird incidents mentioned in this fic are based on real emergency calls that my SO or family members have experienced as firefighters, paramedics, or medical professionals. Some of the details have been changed to protect the innocent/perpetrators.

The character Jerry is based on a family member, who at 65 really is working on his 3rd retirement with fire-rescue and desperately misses "good fires."

Kudos and comments are appreciated and help feed the update machine! 💚

Chapter 2

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane says. His voice is muffled, his face smooshed against Ilya’s shoulder. “Watch the ribs.” 

“Oh. Shit,” Ilya says and quickly lets Shane go. “Sorry.” 

Shane shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts again. His posture is stiff, as if he’s still in a lot of pain. It would make sense with the kind of injuries he sustained. Ilya’s a little surprised he’s upright at all.

Ilya’s surprised he’s even here.  

“Hi,” Shane says. 

“Hi,” Ilya says back, still at a loss for words. 

“I, uh, wanted to, uh…” 

“Say hello?’ Ilya suggests. 

“Yeah. My parents said you stopped by the hospital a couple of times,” Shane says a bit shyly. “Sorry I wasn’t awake for it.” 

“You needed your rest,” Ilya says with a shrug.  God, his heart hurts. It’s taking everything he has in him to keep from bursting into tears. It’s imperative that he get himself under control. It’s been years. Long enough that Ilya should be over him. “I am very sorry about Rose.”

“Thanks,” Shane says, sounding very choked up. He clears his throat. “And thanks, for looking after Sophie. My parents said you were really great with her.” 

“She is sweet,” Ilya says with a smile. “I think she looks like you.” 

“And she acts like Rose,” Shane says. His mouth collapses. His chin trembles. He takes a breath to collect himself. “She hasn’t stopped talking about her new best friend Eli so I’d say you made an impression.” 

“She also made an impression,” Ilya says. “So. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

Shane pauses, his feet shuffling against the concrete. 

“I was hoping we could sit down and talk,” he says. “If you have time. I mean, if you want to.” 

Ilya is scared that if they talk, he’s going to fall in love all over again. And then Shane will leave, go home to Canada, and Ilya will be here, alone, trying to salvage the shattered pieces of his stupid heart again. 

But. Closure. When else will he get a chance to put Shane Hollander behind him?

“Yes,” Ilya says, “but I will not be off work until five, if that is okay.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Shane says. “You want to grab dinner, or…” 

Ilya, against his better judgement, gives Shane his home address, and then his phone number. 

“Great,” Shane says. “I guess… I should let you get back to work. I’ll see you around six, then?” 

“That is perfect,” Ilya says. “I will be there.” 

Shane nods. Then pauses. “You look great, by the way.” 

“Thank you. You, too.” 

Shane climbs into a car Ilya has to assume is a rental. He stands there outside the bay and watches him pull out of the lot and into traffic. 

He’s feeling dangerously emotional as he goes inside the station and climbs the narrow stairs up into the lounge, where Sully is pointedly ignoring Jerry’s rant about stupid transplants from New York. 

“I don’t give a good goddamn about how they do things in New York,” Jerry says to no one in particular. “You want things to be like New York, keep your whiny ass in New York.” 

Ilya has no idea why Jerry is still here. His shift ended four hours ago.

“You want some coffee, Elija?” Sandra asks. “Making a fresh pot.”

“Is there anything harder?” Ilya jokes. “Some vodka. Cocaine, maybe?”

“I’m pretty sure Cap’s got some whiskey stashed in his desk,” Sully chimes in without looking up from his phone. 

“How do you know that?” Ilya asks.

“Everyone knows that,” Jerry says. “Good stuff, too. Woodford double oaked.” 

Ilya files that under interesting and grabs a mug from the cabinet. “I think I will stick with coffee.” 

Sandra eyes Ilya, frowning. “You okay?”

“Fine.” 

“That was a friend of yours? Downstairs?” 

“Yes. An old friend.”

“A hockey friend?” 

Ilya nods and pretends he doesn’t see the knowing look in her eye. Like she clocked it in the 60 seconds she saw them together. 

Hell. Maybe she did. After all these years, it doesn’t matter. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks. 

“What is the expression? Water under the bridge?” Ilya says. “But still maybe… complicated.”

Sandra is skeptical. Thankfully, she knows better than to say anything in front of the pair of idiots in the lounge with them. 

“We will talk later,” Ilya says. If there’s anyone he can unburden himself to besides his therapist, it’s Sandra. He wishes he’d had a friend like her when he was younger. Not that he would have trusted her back then. Ilya trusted no one. Least of all himself. “I need to… talk to him first.” 

“Yeah. I get it,” Sandra says. “Are we still on for next Wednesday?” 

“Of course,” Ilya says. “Can I bring anything?” 

“Kenyatta liked that wine you brought last time.” 

“Then I will bring more.” 

Sandra fills his mug. Ilya no sooner adds sugar and cream when a call comes in. 

He should have figured. 

Those last six hours are some of the longest of his life. It’s hard to concentrate, knowing that Shane Hollander is coming to his house, that maybe they will clear the air after all these years. He has no idea what Shane wants to talk to him about, but he hopes it will lead to closure. Maybe then, Ilya can finally make his peace with it. 

On his way home from the station, he stops and buys some ginger ale and a six-pack of beer.  He showers and changes as soon as he gets home, letting his long hair air dry while he kills time by marinating some diced chicken breast in olive oil, white wine, lemon, garlic and a Mediterranean spice blend. Whether or not Shane stays for dinner, Ilya still needs to eat. 

He could also use some sleep, but he’s willing to power through it if it means he can finally close the door on that chapter of his life. 

Through the front window, Ilya sees Shane park behind his own car in the driveway, then get out and look around as though he’s not sure he’s in the right place. He stares at Ilya’s practical Toyota, then at his tiny, white cinderblock house with its dusty gray trim.

Shane was probably expecting something a bit more fancy – a condo at the beach, a McMansion on a postage stamp lot. Not this tiny, no-frills, single-story shoebox with its loquat tree and overgrown crepe myrtle. Which he needs to trim back, but yard work, outside of the little garden he maintains out back, is not his favorite way to spend his free time. 

Ilya washes his hands and waits for Shane to ring the bell. Though he’s too old for games, Ilya doesn’t want to look eager or desperate, either. 

He opens the door and invites Shane in. Ilya notes that his eyes are a bit red-rimmed, as though he’s been crying, or maybe he just woke up from a nap. He’s still wearing the blue linen shirt, but has changed into jeans and deck shoes. He looks really good.

Once inside, Shane looks around the tiny living room, a bit bewildered. 

“This is your place?” Shane asks. 

“Not a million dollar penthouse, but it’s home,” Ilya says with a little smile. “The whole place is smaller than my closet was in Boston. Including the garage. But, I have a garden and fruit trees and my neighbors are quiet. Is close to the beach, too.” 

“I like it,” Shane says. 

Ilya very much doubts that. He’s pretty sure that he could fit about eight or ten of this house inside the first floor of the beautiful cottage Ilya once saw on ESPN. 

“Have a seat. Do you want something to drink? I’ve got beer or ginger ale,” Ilya says. “Or water if you prefer.” 

“You remembered,” Shane says. “The ginger ale.” 

“Of course,” Ilya says. “Do you want one?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Shane takes a seat on the couch with a barely suppressed grunt. Ilya briefly wonders if Shane is supposed to be on bed rest and is ignoring his doctor’s orders. It wouldn’t surprise him. “Have you lived here long?” 

“I bought it in 2019, I think,” Ilya says as he goes to the fridge, which is adjacent to the tiny living room. “Was still in school. It was cheap and close to campus.” 

“You went to college?” Ilya’s not sure he feels about Shane’s obvious surprise. On one hand, no one could ever accuse Ilya of being unintelligent. On the other hand, he’d also been a jock who made his living playing a sport that wasn't known for fostering brilliant minds. 

“Yes,” Ilya says without elaborating. “And the fire academy.”

“So, you’re a firefighter now?” 

“No, but I trained as a firefighter and worked pump truck for a year. I was better at helping people, so I moved to rescue.”

“Wow. I never would have guessed.” He takes the can of ginger ale as Ilya sits down on the love seat and opens his beer. “Do you like it?” 

“Most days. Some days are hard, and the shifts are long, but it is never boring.” 

Shane nods, seeming at a loss now that he’s here. His gaze travels the walls, which feature a handful of beach and nautical-themed oil paintings in muted shades and a couple of shadowboxes with shark teeth and sand dollars and starfish. There’s nothing personal – no family photos, nothing that matches Ilya’s personality, no nods to his past. 

“So. It has been a long time, Shane. What did you want to talk about?”

“I just… When my parents told me you came to see me, I started thinking about how we left things and I just wanted to apologize for that, I guess. I should have explained myself instead of freaking out,” Shane says. He shoots Ilya a guilty glance. “And I’ve always felt like you leaving hockey was my fault somehow.” 

Ilya is conflicted, and maybe a bit frustrated by Shane trying to take the blame for Ilya setting his own life on fire. At the time, maybe Ilya did blame Shane a little, but it was his own shitty coping skills that led him down that road to begin with. He’d already been self-medicating with alcohol and sex when they’d gotten involved. Ilya just doubled-down on the excess to mask his heartbreak after Shane walked out. 

So while Shane was the spark that started the fire, Ilya was already dry kindling at that point, and he had been for a long, long time. Why else would he take the risks he did? Why seek out career-ending trouble in the first place, unless he secretly wanted to torch his whole life?

“I… had a lot of problems back then, Shane,” Ilya says. He touches his mother’s cross and rubs his thumb over it. “You were only a small part of that. Or maybe a symptom of it. Was stupid, you know? Getting involved with you in the first place. I am sorry for that. Made things harder for both of us, I think.” 

The look Shane gives him is so raw and so broken, it takes Ilya’s breath away. 

“I have a lot of regrets, but I don’t regret being with you,” Shane says softly. “I’ve never regretted it. I just… got scared.”

“I know,” Ilya says, and a part of him wants to pin Shane to the couch and kiss him the way he used to, but that would only make this worse. “I was scared, too. For different reasons, maybe. I just wasn’t smart enough to walk away before it got complicated.” 

I was not strong enough to walk away from you. 

There’s a prolonged silence between them. 

“Was that all you wanted to talk about?” Ilya asks. He sips his beer, adopting a casual posture. 

Shane drags a hand down his face, then looks at Ilya with sad, tired eyes. It’s so painfully obvious that he’s hurting, and not just physically. 

“Were you one of the ones who treated Rose?” he asks.

“No,” Ilya says. “Sorry. Was a different station. But it would not have better outcome if it had been me.”

Shane nods. His eyes get a little wet. “I know. They told me she died instantly.”

“Then she did not suffer.”

Shane bows his head and rubs his palms together. “Still doesn’t seem real. And Sophie thinks she’s just gone off to film a movie. It’s weird, but that’s kind of where my head’s at, too. It’s like everything’s fine and she’ll be back in a month. I can’t wrap my head around her being gone.”

Ilya can understand how that might happen, for the both of them. He can imagine Sophie's childhood, and her relationship with her parents' busy schedules means that everything is always in flux. It must be that way for Shane, too. Between Rose’s film schedule and Shane’s road schedule, he can’t imagine they see each other much more than Ilya and Shane saw each other. 

“Where is Sophie now?” 

“With her nanny,” Shane says. “We rented a condo here, in St. Pete. Sophie got cast in a movie that starts filming in Clearwater in a couple of weeks. Rose was supposed to manage all of that, but I’m out for the season, so it’s on me now and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. “I didn’t know she was an actress.” 

“It’s her first movie,” Shane says. “She’s done a couple of commercials in LA and Montreal, but the director is a friend of Rose’s and thought Sophie would be perfect for the role. I’m not really sure about it, but Sophie really wants to do it, so we’re going to give it a try.” 

“So you are stage dad now,” Ilya says with a little smile. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Shane says with a dry laugh. “I’m not going to pressure her, though. Or try to be her manager. I just want to be her dad.”

Ilya senses a whole therapy session buried in that statement. If anyone knew what it was like to be managed his whole life, it was Shane. Ilya never got the impression that Shane resented his mother’s heavy involvement in his career, but it never struck him as a particularly healthy relationship, either. He wonders if Shane ever struggled to separate his mother from his manager, or if, to him, they were the same thing. His admission of wanting to just be Sophie’s dad tells him maybe he did.

“God, I hated doing commercials,” Shane says with a soft laugh. 

“But you did so many of them.” Ilya can’t help but think of the one they did together. And what happened after. And how incredibly hot it was. And how it started everything. Then he thinks of a more recent one – an ad for some protein supplement, where Shane is shirtless and dripping sweat. His body is absolutely stunning. “You are still doing them.”

“And I still hate them.”

“But the money is good.” 

“The money is good,” Shane agrees. 

There’s another lull in the conversation and a cargo ship full of things they’ve left unsaid. Ilya can actually feel the weight of their past bearing down on him. He can feel the pull of desire that has been there between them since the day they met. 

And there isn’t shit he can do about that. 

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” he asks. “I am making Pasta Ilya tonight.”

Shane’s nose scrunches up in confusion and Ilya’s stupid, irresponsible heart gives a squeeze. Then he remembers what happened the last time he cooked for Shane. Even though the food wasn’t the problem. 

“What the hell is Pasta Ilya?” Shane asks.  

“Is usually chicken with whatever vegetables I have. Tonight, it will be grape tomatoes and asparagus, maybe some red onion, a little parmesan,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Is kind of Mediterranean, I guess.”

“That actually sounds really good,” Shane says. “Not supposed to eat pasta. Or cheese, but…”

“There is garlic bread, too,” Ilya says. 

“You’re killing me, Rozanov.” 

“Pasta and garlic bread will help you heal!” 

'Is that your professional opinion?” 

“Is fact,” Ilya says with a little smile. “So you are staying?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll stay.” 

Shane helps Ilya make dinner, though it’s a quick and simple thing to prepare. Shane really should be taking it easy, but Ilya likes the quiet, comfortable domesticity of it. The act of cooking together eases some of that earlier tension, lifting the weight of all those things they left unsaid from Ilya’s shoulders. Given a task to focus on, Shane seems a little less anxious or lost. 

“You seem different,” Shane says as he watches Ilya push the chicken around in the skillet. “Like, still you, but calmer, maybe.” 

“Less of an asshole, you mean.” 

“That, too,” Shane says. 

“I can still be an asshole. When I need to be.” He doesn’t want to get into his years of therapy, where he learned  he often used it as a defense mechanism to keep people at a distance. “I am not so angry anymore, though.” 

“So, you found peace or whatever?” 

“Yes. I meditate and do yoga now.”

“Really?” Shane asks with a cute, amused little smile.

“No,” Ilya says flatly. “Maybe I’m just getting old.” 

“Yeah, thirty-five is practically ancient,” Shane says. “We’ll both need walkers soon.”

“Speaking of old,” Ilya says. “Did Scott Hunter finally retire?” 

“Still playing,” Shane says. 

“Jesus. They will have to put his fossil record in the Hall of Fame.” 

“He’s thirty-eight!”

“And still a dinosaur.” 

“Okay, maybe you are still an asshole.”

“What is that saying about leopards and spots?” The chicken is done so Ilya tosses the asparagus in the skillet. “How is the pasta? Almost done?’

“Timer says three minutes.”

“Did Hunter marry the man he kissed on TV?”

“Yeah. His name is Kip. Really nice guy, too,” Shane says. “They have a son. Daniel. He’s about the same age as Sophie.”

“Good for him,” Ilya says and he means it. He’d been at a bar, drunk off his ass when Scott Hunter became the first out MHL player in the history of the league. Ilya had been overwhelmed with bitter jealousy and wound up getting into a fistfight with a homophobe named Paul. He has no memory of who won, but he woke up with two black eyes and a fat lip, so it probably wasn’t him. “Good that it didn’t ruin his career. And that he is happy.” 

Shane gets very, very quiet. He stares at the simmering pot of penne pasta, his brow furrowed and his gaze somewhere very far away. 

“What?” Ilya asks. 

“I wanted to call you that night,” Shane says. “I almost did, like five times.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“I was at my parents house. Would have been… weird, I guess. And I felt bad that I hadn’t answered any of your texts.”

“I probably wouldn’t have answered, anyway,” Ilya says. “I was very drunk that night and still very angry with you.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Ilya waves a hand, dismissing his apology. “I was drinking a lot then. And always angry. At everyone. Me, most of all.” 

Shane turns off the burner under the pot of pasta. “Strainer?” 

Ilya points to the cabinet above the microwave, then adds the tomatoes and slivers of red onion to the skillet while Shane drains the pasta. 

“Pasta goes in here,” Ilya says and gives the skillet a shake. Shane dutifully dumps the pasta in the skillet and Ilya mixes it into the chicken and vegetables. “Can you check the garlic bread? Should be done.” 

“Sure,” Shane says. 

All of this should feel awkward but it doesn’t. Like they’ve been doing this for years. 

Ilya wonders if this is how things might have turned out if they hadn’t run away from each other. 

Five minutes later, they’re sitting down to bowls of Pasta Ilya together like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

“So what does your schedule look like?” Shane asks as Ilya puts away the last of the dried dishes. “Since I’m going to be in the area for a couple months, I’d really like it if we could get together again. Maybe we could take Sophie to mini golf or something?” 

Ilya really shouldn’t allow himself to get sucked back into Shane’s orbit. It’s closure he needs, not another opportunity to get his heart broken, but nothing has really been addressed tonight. Shane might have apologized, but neither of them went any deeper than that. 

Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe where they left it is exactly where it should stay. Shane has just lost his wife. He’s now a single father and he lives a couple thousand miles away. Though the barriers of their respective careers are no longer there, there are a whole new set of roadblocks that would make things too complicated to be viable. 

Except, Ilya can’t say no to Shane. Now that he’s gotten a taste, he wants the whole fucking buffet – the friendship they never got a chance to have, the emotional intimacy Ilya desperately craves, and yes, the filthy, hungry, greedy sex they used to have in those stolen hours after games. 

He also wants soft, sweet, exploratory sex, and to fall asleep together after. He wants cuddling and confessions and good morning kisses and all that stupid Hollywood romance movie bullshit and there’s a part of him that feels like he’s going to die without it. And Shane Hollander is the only person he’s ever imagined himself doing that with. 

And that is a problem. But not enough of one to make up an excuse to get out of it. 

“I usually work 48 hour shifts,” Ilya says. “And then off for 48.” 

“Yikes,” Shane says. “That’s rough. Do they let you sleep?”

“Yes. Between calls,” Ilya says. “Is not so bad, once you get used to it. I usually sleep for about twelve hours when I get off shift.” 

“Oh shit. Am I keeping you up?” 

“Is fine. I am glad we got to catch up.” 

Catching up has been good, and bad. Because now he knows he’s less ready to leave this behind than he thought. 

“Yeah, it has been,” Shane says. Ilya notices that Shane’s expression is a little bit brittle. Likely from pain. “So… mini golf?” 

“Yes. Okay. Maybe tomorrow night? There is a good pizza place nearby, too. And the beach.” Ilya smiles a little. “You should get some rest. You will not heal if you don’t.” 

Mini golf probably isn’t a suitable activity for healing. But Ilya gets it. Life doesn’t stop when you’re in pain and children don’t take care of themselves. 

“Yeah, I probably should. I’ll text you tomorrow to firm up plans,” Shane says. “And thanks for…talking to me. And for dinner. I’ll be adding Pasta Ilya to the rotation.” 

“No problem,” Ilya says. “It was really good to see you.”

“You too,” Shane says. “Good night, Ilya.” 

“Good night, Shane.” 

Ilya arrives at the mini golf place a few minutes early, but he's already re-thinking his decision to do this.

He hadn’t slept well last night. His thoughts were too wrapped up in the past to shut off his brain as he lay awake aching for someone beside him. 

Until now, he hasn’t thought of himself as lonely, though his therapist has called his loneliness profound more than once. She constantly brings up the fact that at 35 he has never had a significant long-term public relationship with anyone and seems afraid to pursue one. Despite the fact that it’s the one thing Ilya has expressed he needs and wants most, he seems totally incapable of taking steps to change that. He doesn’t date. He keeps physical relationships limited to anonymous encounters negotiated through apps. He avoids anything that could potentially turn into something more serious. 

Easier to reject than be the one who gets rejected. Easier to keep feelings out of it.  Easier to avoid it altogether.

And yes, maybe Ilya really is lonely. Maybe he really is using work as an excuse to avoid forging a meaningful connection with someone. 

He’s not stupid. He knows it’s a conscious choice. Something he’s doing on purpose. He even knows why, but that knowledge has never been enough to stop him from avoiding genuine, companionable connections. 

It’s because Ilya Rozanov is terrified of getting hurt. He’s terrified of allowing himself to feel something for someone, only to be abandoned by them. And for as painful as being alone is, it pales in comparison to being left behind or judged unworthy. 

In his misguided youth, he’d been willing to risk his career by fooling around with people who could easily end it, and yet the possibility of a close, loving relationship felt far more dangerous. 

At 35, nothing has really changed. Except he’s much more careful about his physical relationships.  

So yeah, Ilya is lonely. 

He tells himself as he approaches the mini-golf entrance that his loneliness is the sole reason he didn’t tell Shane to fuck off when he showed up yesterday. He doesn’t have many friends, and none who are close, and maybe it’s time to change that. And there’s no one in his life anymore that knew him when he was successful. No one who knew the old Ilya. 

It doesn’t have to be romantic. It doesn’t have to be physical. 

They can just be… friends. 

Ilya suspects Shane might be lonely, too. It definitely seemed like he could use a friend last night. Ilya doubts Shane’s ever lost someone he loved before, and Ilya’s not sure if Shane even has any close friends. In his own way, Shane had always seemed to keep a professional distance between himself and others, too. 

Rose might have been the sole exception to that. And now she’s gone. 

And Ilya can relate. 

They’re waiting for him at the entrance, Shane in a tight black tank that shows off incredible shoulders that are far more sculpted than Ilya remembers them being, and dark gray knee-length shorts and black running shoes. Sophie is in bubblegum pink overalls with a black t-shirt with flamingoes on it and a flowered headband holds her jet black hair away from her face.

“Eli!” she shouts and runs to him. Her little arms go around his legs. “Are you going to play golf with us?” 

“Yes. I hope that’s okay.” 

“Of course,” she says, sounding very grown up. “I want you and daddy to be friends.” 

“I think I want that, too,” Ilya says and catches Shane’s eye. Shane flashes a small smile that he quickly reigns in. “As long as he doesn’t mind that I will beat him at mini golf. I know he doesn’t like to lose.” 

“You’ll only win if you cheat, Rozanov.” Shane’s smirk is doing things to Ilya. 

“Is okay if you are 3rd best at minigolf, Shane,” Ilya says with a cheeky smile. “You don’t have to be good at everything.” 

God. What is he doing? He has no business flirting.  

“In this scenario, you both beat me?” Shane asks. He’s not smiling but he seems amused. “When was the last time you played mini golf, Rozanov?” 

“Probably more recently than you,” Ilya says. “Besides. You are injured. Not at the top of your game. Will not be a fair competition.” 

Shane opens his mouth, then shuts it. “That’s fair.” 

He then notices what Ilya is wearing. 

"You’ve got to be kidding me.” He reaches out and tugs the hem of the old Boston t-shirt and shakes his head. 

“For old-times sake, yes?” Ilya says with a cocky smile, though he hasn’t worn the shirt in years. “Original, too.” 

“Surprised you kept it.” Shane cocks his head. “You still have your trophies, though right?” 

“Yes. In the garage somewhere.” Ilya hadn’t been able to bring himself to get rid of them, but he didn’t feel right displaying them, either. “Have not looked at them for years.”

Shane gapes at him. He probably has a whole room of nothing but Stanley Cups. He probably still has every trophy he ever won, starting all the way back in peewee leagues, and displays them proudly. He probably can’t conceive of storing MVP awards and Stanley Cups in the garage.

“Are you guys done yet?” Sophie asks. “We’re burning daylight here.” 

 Ilya snorts at her very adult tone.

“Where did you learn that?” Shane asks, incredulous. 

“Grandma.” 

“Of course you did,” Shane says. “So, are we ready?” 

“I was born ready!” Sophie shouts and holds her un-injured hand up to Shane for a high-five. Shane gives her one and then she turns to Ilya to receive another, which Ilya happily gives. 

God, she’s cute. He can see why Rose’s director friend wanted to cast her. It makes Ilya’s heart ache for the imaginary family he’s always secretly longed for.

The cast on her arm doesn’t hinder her much, but this isn’t exactly the PGA, either. The place is pirate themed, with a ship in the middle, waterfalls, treasure chests, and giant skulls throughout. 

It’s decidedly fun. The sort of place Ilya would have found enchanting as a kid. Hell, he’s kind of enchanted right now, even if it is kind of cheesy.

Ilya loses to Sophie on purpose. If it takes her ten tries to make a hole, it takes him twelve. Then he feigns outrage and blames the course, the golf ball, accuses Shane of cheating, or pretends he doesn’t know where the hole is and hits it in the wrong direction. Sophie laughs at him every time and Ilya enjoys that a lot more than he would ever enjoy beating a kid at a silly game.

At first, Shane takes it seriously, as if there’s a championship on the line, but it doesn’t take him long to notice what Ilya is doing. He even joins in and heckles Ilya about how bad he is. 

Ilya suspects Shane appreciates that the pressure is off. Ilya can tell he’s struggling. He sees it in the tightness around his eyes and in the light sheen of sweat on his brow. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine.” 

“We can take a break if you need to rest.” 

“We’re almost done,” Shane says with a tight smile. “I think there’s only one hole left after this one.”

Sophie, impossibly, manages a hole-in-one on the very last one. It’s a tricky, shot too, with multiple ramps and bumps on the green. Ilya makes a huge deal of it and lifts her up in the air like she’s a Stanley Cup, mimicking a crowd cheering. 

Her giggles do something to his heart that he both loves and hates. 

“Who won?” Ilya demands of Shane, who was supposed to be keeping score. “Is me, right?”

“Not even close, Rozanov.” 

“Was definitely not you, Hollander.” 

Shane makes a show of letting Ilya see the score, which he apparently stopped bothering to keep somewhere around the 5th hole. 

“And the winner is, by all the points,” Shane says like a TV announcer. He slides a pair of black-framed glasses on his face to read the card. Something inside Ilya’s chest goes a little feral at the sight of them. “Sophie Chrysanthemum Hollander!” 

“That’s not my name!” she cries.

“It’s not? It says right here,” Shane says. “Oh. Wait. I think that says Christina.” 

“No!” 

“I think they gave us the wrong card, Hollander,” Ilya says and peers at the card with suspicion. 

“Yeah, maybe so.” He looks at Sophie. “Are you sure it’s not Chrysanthemum?” 

“It’s Victoria!” she giggles.

“Oh, yes. It’s right here, Hollander,” Ilya says and flicks the card with his index finger. "Victoria."

“Yeah. There it is,” Shane says. “And the winner is… Sophie Victoria Hollander!” 

“I won!” She does a little dance. “Do I get a prize?” 

“You get to pick what kind of pizza we get,” Shane says. “And maybe… there will be ice cream, too.”

“Can we get banana splits?” 

Shane pretends to consider it. “What do you think, Rozanov? Is this win worthy of a banana split?”

“Only if there is a cherry on top. And also bananas.”  

“Yay!” Sophie hands her golf club to Shane and latches onto both their hands, though Ilya is careful not to hold on too tight, due to her still-splinted fingers and the cast. “This is the best day ever!” 

Shane catches Ilya’s eye over his head and mouths the words thank you. Ilya tips his head in acknowledgement, though his heart is full of envy. 

God. If he’s not careful, these two are going to ruin him. 

“Pineapple does not belong on pizza,” Shane complains, but he orders it anyway, because it’s what Sophie chose. 

“Pick them off,” Ilya tells him. He leans against the counter casually, watching Sophie inspect an old pinball machine with great interest. “I will eat them.” 

“You’ll have to fight Sophie for them,” Shane says. He scans the dining room for a spot to sit and seems to settle on a booth at the back. “She’ll eat pineapple until her mouth blisters.” 

“I would, too,” Ilya says. “Is delicious.”

“And it still doesn’t belong on pizza.” 

“You are very confident about being wrong,” Ilya says and slides into the booth. Shane sits down across from him. 

“So are you,” Shane says. He looks Ilya over for a second, grown serious again. “Thanks for coming with us.” 

“Thank you for inviting me.” Ilya means that. He’s enjoyed this outing more than he ever thought he would. “Has been fun.” 

“You’re really great with her,” Shane says. 

“So are you. More fun than I thought you would be. Not even a little boring.” 

Shane looks offended. “I’m not boring.”

“Come on. You with all your schedules and routines?” Ilya teases. “Is good to see you cut loose, Hollander.”

“Good to see her cut loose, too. We had a pretty rough morning. She asked if we could call Rose in heaven. Then she cried for an hour when I tried to explain it again,” Shane says. His pretty eyes are full of pain. “She doesn’t understand that dead means gone. Forever.” 

“I’m sorry. I know this is hard,” Ilya says, full of genuine sympathy. “Give her time. Is a big concept for a child.”

Sophie runs over, holding her hand out. “Can I have some money for the game thing?” 

“I don’t think I have any quarters,” Shane says. He pulls out his wallet and hands her a dollar. “Ask the cashier if she can give you change.” 

“Thanks!” She snatches the dollar and scoots around the handful of tables between the booth and the counter. 

“Not shy at all, is she?” Ilya says. 

“Not at all. She got that from Rose.” His eyes go unfocused. 

“Shane?” 

“Yeah?” he looks up at Ilya. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks. “The truth, please.” 

“Honestly? No. I’m not okay. I want to stay in bed all day and I feel like crying every ten minutes,” Shane says. “But I can’t. Other things are more important than my feelings, you know?” 

“If you need to cry, is okay to,” Ilya says quietly. “Listen. My mother died when I was twelve. Was… suicide, and I was the one who found her. My father told everyone it was an accident. Then got rid of all of her things and pretended she never existed.” 

“God, Ilya, I’m so sorry,” Shane says, his eyes wide and full of sympathy. “That’s…”

“Yes. Terrible,” Ilya agrees. He doesn’t want to make this all about himself. He does have a point to make, without getting bogged down in the details. “I am telling you this now because I was not allowed to grieve for her and it took me eighteen years to understand just how much I was hurt by not dealing with it. I am still dealing with it, Shane, and I don’t want that for you. So if you need to cry, do it. It helps more than you realize.” 

Shane nods and bites his lip. His eyes are watery. “Yeah. I get it. But maybe not here. In a pizza parlor. Over an abomination of a pizza.” 

“You could always blame it on how much you are offended by pineapple,” Ilya says. 

“Yeah, that’s worth crying over,” Shane says dryly. 

Sophie flings herself into the booth beside Shane and drops a couple of quarters on the table. “I don’t like that game. Is the pizza coming?” 

“Eli ate it all while you were gone,” Shane says. “Didn’t even leave a crust.” 

“He did not.” 

“Is true. I am very full now.” He winks at Shane. “Should we go?” 

“No!”

The cashier comes around the counter, carrying their pizza, a stack of plates, and three red glasses for the soda fountain. 

“Oh, look. They brought us another because you are still hungry,” Ilya says. He thanks the cashier when she sets it on the table. He grabs the glasses. “What kind of drink do you want, Sophie Victoria Hollander?” 

“The orange one.” 

“Great. Shane?” 

“Just water for me.” 

“I will be right back.” 

As Ilya fills the drinks at the fountains, he watches as Shane drops an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of her head. 

Ilya realizes right then what a dangerous spot he’s in right now. If he’s not careful, he’s going to fall head over heels for Shane and his little girl. 

And if he does, there’s no coming back from that. 

Chapter 3

Shane’s sitting on the balcony of his rented 12th floor condo in St. Pete Beach, watching lightning flash over the gulf. Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance siren wails, bringing Shane’s thoughts around to Rose for the hundredth time that day. 

It’s been a month since she died, and he’s no closer to being okay than he was when he woke up from surgery in the hospital and his mom told him the news. He keeps forgetting that she’s gone. Earlier, he almost sent her a text to ask what they decided about preschool for Sophie next year, only to remember that he would never get an answer, and it left him sitting on the kitchen floor, struggling to breathe for almost 20 minutes.  

Thank god his parents had taken Sophie to look for shells on the beach when that happened. They’re already worried about him. They don’t need to know he’s barely holding himself together. 

He has no memory of the accident or the aftermath at all. The last thing he remembers is Rose making some snarky comment about what a tool her co-star had been on set of the movie she just wrapped, and how much it hurt to laugh because his ribs felt like shit from getting rocked the night before. The next thing he remembers is waking up in a hospital bed after surgery to the news that Rose was gone.

It’s been a month, and Shane is still not even anything close to okay. Even if he wasn’t in love with Rose when they got married, he still loved her enough to try and make a go of it, and he’d done what he needed to do to make it work. 

Their union gave him everything he believed he needed at the time – a chance at a normal life, a wife, a family, a squeaky-clean public image – all the things the league and his fans expected of a superstar. And their relationship made sense in ways that his fucked-up situationship with Rozanov never would.  

Shane was Canada’s Golden Boy. Rose was America’s Sweetheart. They were great together and the media loved them. 

He could also hold her hand in public and take her to dinner without causing a scandal. Neither of their careers would suffer if they were photographed kissing. His teammates teased him mercilessly and called him Hollywood, but most were really happy that their serious, quiet captain had somehow managed to bag himself one of the hottest women in showbusiness. 

Rose was Shane’s best friend. She was the only person he could honestly say knew him all the way through. She was probably the only person on the planet who thought he was funny, meanwhile she genuinely was funny and never took anything too seriously. She attended his games when they were in the same city and he was proud to show up for her movie premieres when he was free.

She knew all of his most closely guarded secrets, and he knew hers, and they’d loved each other in spite of them. 

They were a team. Co-conspirators. Partners in crime. Each other’s biggest fans. They had inside jokes and a daughter they adored. 

They had a ten-year plan, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t make any sense that she’s gone. 

And now Shane has some huge decisions to make that he’s been avoiding, though his mom reminds him daily that time is of the essence. Waiting to firm up a plan will only make things harder. 

Shane knows. It’s not enough to motivate him. Making those decisions will make this real, and he’s not ready for that.

Even if he doesn’t have much of a choice.

The most pressing is what he plans to do next season. He and Rose had been able to work around their respective schedules so that Sophie was almost always with one of them, with the help of a French au pair who was more than happy to travel between LA, Montreal, Detroit, and various filming locations as needed. 

Now, he can’t see a way he can continue playing hockey without fully relying on grandparents and nannies during his long road trips. His parents wouldn’t mind keeping her, especially not his recently retired dad, who fell head over heels the day she was born, but Rose’s dad’s health is in decline, they’ve just lost their own daughter, and Shane doesn’t want to add to their burden.

Besides. What if something happens and Shane is 2000 miles away? He owes it to Sophie to be present, especially now. And it’s not like he can have an au pair travel with the team during season, or follow them separately on commercial flights from city to city. 

Well, he could, but that much travel would be too hard on her. He’d have to hire a travelling tutor, too. 

Nothing else makes sense except retirement. 

Maybe it’s time anyway. He’s getting older and an old knee injury is starting to affect his performance, and though he could probably play another five or six years, he’s lost a lot of the joy he used to get from competition. 

A combination of things is contributing to his current ambivalence – the league’s growing reliance on spectacle over skill, the upcoming addition of four more games to the regular season, the internal politics which quietly support a lot of things Shane is not a supporter of, the secrets he’s kept for his entire career that continue to weigh him down. Plus there’s so little genuine challenge on the ice these days, he feels like he’s playing on autopilot half the time.  

He knows what he needs to do. It’s just hard to pull the trigger when hockey is the only thing he knows. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do without it. 

“She’s finally asleep,” his dad says from the open door behind him. “I had to tell her we couldn’t go to Disney tomorrow if she didn’t get a good night’s rest. Reminds me of you before tournaments when you were a kid.” 

“I think we probably had different reasons,” Shane says with a laugh. “I was always too worried about my performance to fall asleep. She can’t sleep because she’s going to meet Cinderella.” 

His dad chuckles and takes a seat next to him, handing off a bottle of beer that’s ice cold. Shane probably shouldn’t drink it – he’s already had two, which is two more than he usually drinks, but maybe the alcohol will pickle his brain enough that he can actually get some sleep tonight. 

“What time are you heading out?” he asks. 

“Probably around five. That way we beat the traffic and get good parking.” 

“Was that your idea, or mom’s?” 

“What do you think?” dad asks and takes a sip of his own beer. “Have any big plans while we’re gone?” 

“Nothing exciting. I’ve got a call with Farah in the morning and an orthopedic appointment after lunch,” Shane says. “I’ll probably just get some take-out and find a movie to watch.” 

Which actually means he’s going to lie on the couch and feel sorry for himself the whole time. 

But what else is he supposed to do? 

Shane turns in after he finishes his beer, even though it’s still early enough that his parents are still up. He can hear them knocking around in the kitchen and talking in low voices that still carry through the wall. He settles into bed and switches off the light, praying that when he shuts his eyes, sleep will come. 

It doesn’t. His brain is still circling the drain of what to do next, what he’s supposed to do without Rose, which inevitably turns to Ilya Rozanov’s sudden and unexpected reappearance in his life. 

That’s a subject he’s been avoiding thinking about since they took Sophie to play mini golf. They haven’t seen each other since then, and have only exchanged a handful of texts, most of them concerning a photo he sent of Sophie looking for shells on the beach, and one or two check-ins from Rozanov about how he’s doing. 

Shane has a lot of unresolved feelings about their relationship, or whatever they wanted to call it, and where they left it. 

Where he left it when he ran away. 

It was a shock to find out Rozanov left hockey to become a paramedic. That he’d given up millions of dollars a year to do a hard, thankless job that probably paid pennies in comparison. That he takes care of people instead of slamming them into the boards and knocking their teeth out. And to do it more or less anonymously, when Rozanov had once been the most shameless attention hog Shane had ever met.

It was an even bigger shock to see first-hand what a humble life he seemed to be living. He didn’t know what he expected when he’d been invited to Rozanov’s house, but it definitely wasn’t that. He’s pretty sure his master bathroom is bigger than that entire house, and it’s impossible to picture Ilya Rozanov behind the wheel of that basic model Toyota Corolla parked in the driveway.  

It was bizarre, in a way. As if he’d erased himself completely.

The Ilya Rozanov he had known owned a stupid number of expensive, impractical cars, had partied until the sun came up, and was the poster child for what happens when you give an unsupervised teenager millions of dollars and unlimited freedom. Even now, he’s still considered the most notorious womanizer in the history of the sport. 

This new Rozanov, in some ways, doesn’t even seem like the same man. 

Yet he’s also exactly the same in some ways, too. His sense of humor hasn’t changed, though it’s lost some of its bite. He still carries himself with that same cocky air, and he’s still insanely attractive and he knows it. Sadness seems to have replaced his fire, but there’s still a bit of the old mischievous sparkle in his eye. 

Shane is not the most perceptive guy in the world but he can tell Rozanov is going through something. Something is wrong with him. Or something serious has happened to him. Shane senses that he’s dealing with it all by himself, and probably has been for a long time. 

He wonders if it has to do with his mother and the way she died – which god, hearing about that had gutted him, he couldn’t even imagine going through something like that, and at such a young age, too – or if there are other things besides. He’d said he had a lot of problems, and Shane does recall sensing something unsettled in him, a need to not just be disliked, but hated, while at the same time, almost aching for praise. 

For the entirety of their relationship, Shane hadn’t wanted to know anything personal about the man. Knowing things like that would have made it a lot harder than it already was. Having reasons to empathize with him would have made it impossible to walk away. 

Now, Shane wishes he had known a little bit more. Maybe Rozanov would still be playing hockey if he’d had someone to confide in. Maybe he wouldn’t have lost control or felt the need to disappear from the world. And though Rozanov had dismissed his apology, Shane can’t help but feel at least a little bit responsible, given the timing. He’s spent years feeling guilty that maybe he’d played a role in Rozanov’s downfall. 

Even now, every time he plays Boston, Shane misses him. Every time some ambitious rookie tried to pull off Rozanov’s signature shot, he’d wish it was Rozanov instead. Every All-star game, he half expected to get a text with a room number. 

He’s thought about him more than makes sense, given the givens. Shane had never been anything more to Rozanov than a reliable piece of ass, and up until that last encounter, Rozanov had been the same to him.

Or at least that’s what he told himself. It could have been something. It had felt like something.

But what else could Shane have done? Walking away had to be better than torturing themselves. It had to be better than wanting something they could never have in the light of day. Better than hating himself for wanting Rozanov in the first place. 

And yet, walking away and cutting off all communication with him still feels like a huge mistake. As if by doing so, he’d couched himself in lies and destroyed his best chance to live authentically. 

Shane doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that right now. He made his choices, as misguided as they were, and he’s never regretted marrying Rose, or the life they built together. He never could have had anything like that with Rozanov.

He does miss the sex though – Jesus, no one else has ever done it for him the way Rozanov did. 

Which is definitely not an option now. He’s not a stupid, irresponsible kid anymore and he doesn’t have the luxury of acting like one. 

On the nightstand, his phone vibrates, signalling the arrival of a text. He doesn’t really want to hear more condolences or talk to anyone, but he learned a long time ago that failure to respond gives his friends and family a reason to worry, inviting more texts, and eventually phone calls that don’t stop until he messages back.

[Hayden] Hey buddy! How are you holding up? 

[Shane] Ribs still suck but I’m getting there.

[Hayden] Ribs are the fucking worst.

[Hayden] But I meant everything else.  

Shane doesn’t even know how to respond to that. He’d been honest with Rozanov, but for some reason, it’s harder to tell Hayden the truth. Maybe because Rozanov gave him permission to not be okay. Everyone else expects him to man-up and power through it.

But it’s not like he can put how devastated he is into words anyhow. Or explain how hard it is to get out of bed in the morning.

[Shane] It’s been an adjustment.

[Hayden] Awww, I’m sorry buddy. If there’s anything we can do, let us know.

Short of inventing a time machine, there is absolutely nothing anyone can do. 

[Shane] Thanks. Headed to bed. I’ll shoot you a text tomorrow. 

[Hayden] Sure thing

[Hayden] Before you go I gotta tell you the thing I heard about Rozanov today.

[Hayden] Apparently he moved to Florida and became a firefighter

Shane sighs. This is definitely not a conversation he wants to have with Hayden. The fact that Rozanov’s using a different name and seems to have no interest at all in hockey or fame these days tells him he prefers to keep a low profile. Shane has no interest in ruining that by confirming it.

[Shane] Sounds like bullshit.

[Hayden] That’s what I said but there are pictures and it’s definitely him unless he’s got a twin brother who wears that same stupid cross around his neck. 

[Shane] They say everyone has a look-alike

[Shane] Anyway if it is true the guy probably just wants to be left alone. 

[Shane] Probably a good reason he left.

[Hayden] If you say so

Shane tosses his phone on the nightstand and grabs the remote. A beat later, his phone is back in his hand and he’s sending Rozanov a text, possessed by some unknown force to reach out.

[Shane] When are you off next?

[Rozanov] Why? Do you miss me?

Shane’s not going to bother answering that question. Or read too much into it.

[Shane] Want to get dinner somewhere when you’re free? 

[Shane] My parents are taking Sophie to Disney.

[Shane] I’ll be unsupervised for a couple of days and I don’t want to be. 

Rozanov’s response takes a long time to come. 

[Rozanov] I have plans tomorrow

[Rozanov] But I am free the day after

[Rozanov] What did you have in mind?

Shane actually has no idea. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. He’s pretty sure this is a terrible idea anyway, but it’s better than sitting here in the dark overthinking everything. He has a feeling Rozanov could use some company, too. Besides, he still has questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask the other night.

[Shane] There’s a sushi place across the street here that’s pretty good

[Rozanov] Sushi is good

[Rozanov] How are you doing? 

[Shane] I’m great. I only freaked out three times today. 

[Shane] Am I bothering you at work?

[Rozanov] Yes but it is quiet right now. Except for Jerry. 

Shane has no idea who Jerry is. 

[Rozanov] Jerry is my colleague. 

[Rozanov] He is very angry about Canadians coming to Florida.

[Rozanov] He called them an invasive species. Like snakes.

[Rozanov] Especially the ones that speak French

[Rozanov] And also people from Ohio.

Shane frowns at his phone, wondering what French Canadians and people from Ohio might have done to offend this man. Both, in Shane’s experience, are fairly benign in comparison to, say, New Yorkers and Bostonians. 

[Shane] Jerry sounds fun. 

[Shane] You should tell him you have a Canadian friend who is awesome

There’s another delay in response. Shane cringes, aware it was probably a stupid thing to say. 

[Rozanov] Do I?

[Shane] I’d like to think so. 

[Shane] It’s not like we have a reason to hate each other now, you know? 

[Shane] Anyway. Sophie says we have to be friends and she’s the boss.

[Rozanov] If Sophie says so I guess it is true.

[Rozanov] Maybe I will introduce you to Jerry. 

[Rozanov] You can speak only French to him. He will like that.

[Shane] Good to see you still enjoy baiting people. 

[Rozanov] Is still fun. I just do it more quietly now. 

[Rozanov] Let me know time and address for dinner

Shane sends the information, but hears nothing back. He assumes Rozanov’s quiet evening stopped being quiet. He wishes his own evening was providing more of a distraction. 

His parents have turned in for the night and the condo is silent, except for the distant wailing of emergency sirens, which seem endless here. For a while his thoughts cycle back and forth between Rose and Rozanov until he’s tempted to get out of bed, go downstairs to the gym, and get on a treadmill until he’s ready to collapse. 

He almost does, then the bedroom door opens. Soft footfalls on the carpet and a soft sniffle pull him out of his funk. 

“Daddy? Are you sleeping?” 

Shane sits up and squints at his daughter, standing in the doorway in her SpongeBob pajamas, clutching the alligator Rozanov apparently gave her. 

Which Shane still isn’t quite over. It was really sweet of him to do that. 

“Nope,” he says. “Not yet. What’s up, kiddo?” 

“I miss mommy.” 

Shane’s eyes start to burn. It’s finally starting to sink in that Rose isn’t coming back. For the both of them. 

“I miss her, too.” 

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” 

Shane doesn’t have the heart to tell her no.

Rozanov is waiting when Shane arrives at the sushi restaurant, leaning casually against a palm tree just outside the front door. He looks good in olive green shorts and a off-white button-down shirt in a soft gray and green palm tree print. His hair is down and it falls past his shoulders, his curls appearing impossibly soft and shiny under the artificial lights. It’s giving an effortless surfer vibe that Shane finds unexpectedly alluring.

“I see you’ve fully embraced the Margaritaville dress code,” Shane teases. 

“Eat shit,” Rozanov says, feigning offense. “I look great, Hollander. Is not my fault you have no sense of style.” 

Shane’s own outfit is fairly nondescript. White linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Dark jeans. Loafers. A far cry from the outfits Rose picked out for him, which always looked amazing, even if they weren’t exactly to Shane’s more simple tastes. 

“It suits you,” Shane says, and it actually does, though he can’t imagine Rozanov ever dressing like this in Boston. Back then, he’d either worn jock-casual or he’d been extremely fashionable in designer vintage, with a slight tendency toward the ostentatious. “I made reservations. This place gets pretty busy.” 

“So your parents are here?” Rozanov asks. “They are staying with you?” 

“They have been,” Shane says. “They’re going back to Ottawa after this Disney trip.”

“Nice for you that they’re here.” 

“They’ve been great,” Shane says, though he’s looking forward to getting a break from them. He loves his mother, and he owes his success to her skillful management and drive, but he’s also frustrated by the way she seems to think she can somehow manage him out of his grief, like it’s a problem they can solve by coming up with a step-by-step plan. He suspects she’s avoiding her own grief by focusing on his. “I think they’re ready to go home, though. They’re not big fans of the heat.” 

“Is not even hot yet,” Rozanov says with a laugh. “Come visit in July. That is hot.” 

“Yeah, no thanks.” 

“I love it,” Rozanov says, following him into the restaurant. “I don’t think I could ever go back to live in a cold place ever again. There is no antifreeze left in my blood. Snow is disgusting to me now.” 

Shane laughs at that. He can’t imagine ever living here permanently, let alone adjusting to it. The humidity alone is brutal. Eighty degrees feels like he’s standing on the sun.

“Yeah, but you have to deal with hurricanes.” 

“Yes, but not that often and most are just a lot of rain and wind. Last bad one was two years ago. There were three, one after the other. All very big and very strong. A lot of flooding and damage. Was on call the whole time,” Rozanov says. 

At the hostess stand, Shane gives his name and they’re led to a table for two in a quiet corner of the restaurant right away. There’s a candle in a glass jar in the center of the table and the low, intimate lighting feels really romantic in a way it didn’t when he was here with his parents. 

Fortunately, Rozanov doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Did you have a lot of calls? During the storms?” 

“Yes, always, but we cannot go out when the wind is too high because it is very dangerous,” he says. “We tell people to find shelter before it gets bad, but some people do not listen and then they need us to come get them out of their houses or cars. There are also fires sometimes.” 

“Really?” Shane asks. “Even with all the rain and flooding?” 

“Salt water and electricity mixing can start a fire. Electric cars, too – the battery, you know? Also power lines.” 

“That’s scary.” Shane looks him over. “What made you decide to work for the fire department?” 

“I wanted to drive the truck,” Rozanov says with a laugh. “Seemed like fun.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes, but no. Not really.” His smile falls away. “I don’t know. When I left Boston, I did not feel good about myself. Maybe I thought I could be better if I did something that helped people.”

“Did it help?” 

“In some ways,” Rozanov says, but doesn’t elaborate. 

“Why did you quit, Rozanov?” Shane asks. He’s surprised by just how much he needs an answer to that question. It makes no sense that someone as good as Ilya Rozanov, someone who loved hockey as much as he did, would just walk away from it and disappear into the chaotic wilderness of Florida. “Because I really don’t get it.”

“Ilya,” he says. “Or, you can call me Elija if you want. That is what everyone here calls me.” 

“Okay. Ilya. Why did you quit?” 

“Was depression,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Even though I did not know it then. It got very bad. Made me want to disappear. So I did.” 

Shane waits. There must be more to it than that. When he doesn’t continue, Shane knows there’s more to it. 

“Did your depression have anything to do with your father dying?” Shane asks. 

Or was it me?

“No. I was glad when he died,” Ilya says. It should be a shocking statement – Shane could never imagine being glad his own father passed away, but his tone conveys no anger, just relief. “He was never kind to me and he was very cruel to my mother. He liked my brother only because he is exactly like him. And he was very old. And very sick.”

“So what happened?”

“Was not any one thing. Hockey stopped being fun. I stopped caring about everything. Nothing was enough – not winning, or money, or fame, or fast cars, or even sex. I just wanted for everyone to forget about me.” 

Shane had an inkling things weren’t right with him back then, especially after he’d been benched for playoffs under mysterious circumstances, but he had no clue it was that bad. 

“Why?” Shane asks, aghast. “You loved all that stuff.”

“Yes. And then I didn’t.” Ilya says with another shrug. This one seems forced, and he gets quiet as he mulls his answer over, as if deciding how much more to reveal. “Is part of depression, you know? Your brain tells you that you aren’t worthy of anyone’s time or attention. That no one cares. It did not help that I didn’t have a family or any friends I could talk to, not that I would have talked to anyone about it back then. It also did not help that the people around me only wanted the fun Ilya who bought all the drinks and was always the life of the party. And I was right. There was no one who really cared about me and it was my own fault.” 

And Shane had walked out on him, reinforcing the idea that he wasn’t worthy unless there was something he could do for him. Ilya doesn’t have to say it out loud for Shane to understand that it probably contributed to his troubles. 

Or maybe it’s arrogant to think he ever meant that much, that he was ever anything more than the enemy he fucked sometimes. 

“You know that’s not true, right?” Shane says. “People cared when you left.” 

“Who? The teammates who did not really know me?” Ilya asks. “The fans that only thought they did? All the people I fucked and never saw again?” 

“I cared.” 

Even as Shane says it, he knows how empty his words are. He’d cared, maybe too much there at the end, but he’d done everything in his power to make sure it didn’t appear that way. 

“Did you? You would not speak to me. You did not answer my texts. You could barely look at me.” His smile is brittle and humorless. “And it is still not your fault.” 

“I’m really sorry, Ilya,” Shane says. “I’m sorry you felt like that. I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. I was very good at hiding it. Until I couldn’t.” 

Now he really regrets not responding to Ilya’s attempts to reach out. Maybe things would be different for him if Shane hadn’t shut him out and instead gave him the space he needed to open up. Even though they didn’t talk, Ilya should have at least known that Shane was a safe person to talk to if he ever needed that. He should have known Shane was good at keeping secrets.

Or maybe not. Shane had done his part to keep him at a distance. He didn’t have another option.

“Where are you with that now?” Shane asks. He’s afraid of the answer. He hopes Ilya isn’t still suffering in silence. “Are you still depressed?”

“I am in therapy. Still working through it,” he says. “But I am in a better place.” 

For a second, Shane is sure he’s lying. 

The waiter arrives with menus. Shane hadn’t planned on drinking, but re-thinks that and orders sake for them both. Something to take the edge off, though he’ll have to be careful. It’s shockingly easy to get fucked up on sake without meaning to. The only real fight he and Rose ever had was after getting thoroughly wrecked on it at a restaurant in LA. Shane had already been brooding about a series of losses on the road when she’d teased him about his apparent interest in the waiter, and he’d snapped and said a bunch of things he hadn’t really meant, and also things he couldn’t take back. 

It led to a very hard conversation the next day. One where she’d gently coaxed him into admitting to things he’d desperately tried to ignore or pretend his way out of for years. Things that should have led to divorce and didn’t. 

“Do you regret quitting?” Shane asks, once the waiter leaves. “Like, do you ever miss it?” 

“I do miss it sometimes, even though I don’t keep up with it anymore,” he says. “But I don’t regret leaving. I think I am where I need to be.” 

That gives Shane a small measure of reassurance. It would be a lot worse if he wished he’d never left and now it was too late. 

“Besides, if I ever do miss it, I can always coach,” Ilya says. “A kid’s league would be fun.” 

“I think you’d be really good at that,” Shane says. “If Sophie ever decides she wants to play hockey, you’ll be at the top of the list.” 

Ilya’s smile is a little less strained, a bit more amused, though his eyes are still sad. “Okay.” 

“You really keep your trophies in the garage?” Shane asks. “Please tell me you were joking about that.”

“Not a joke. I have not looked at them since I moved in.” 

“That’s blasphemy, Rozanov. You won a fucking Stanley Cup. That’s not nothing.” 

“Yes, maybe,” he says. “But I also have no place to display them. You have seen my house.” 

“I seriously need you to go home and look at them,” Shane says. “So you remember who the fuck you are.” 

That draws a genuine laugh out of him. “If you say so, Hollander.” 

“Don’t make me come over there. I’ll dig them out of the garage myself if I have to.” 

“Okay, okay, enough about me,” Ilya says. “We should look at the menu.” 

Shane scans it, though he already has an idea of what he wants. 

“Do you want to share a sashimi boat?” Ilya asks without looking up. “Is enough for two.” 

Shane planned to order the yellowfin sashimi anyway, so he agrees. 

The waiter brings their sake and refills their water glasses, and then Ilya places their order. 

“So, how many cups do you have now?” Ilya asks. He sips his sake. “Mmm. This is good.” 

“Five,” Shane says, struggling to keep the pride out of his voice. 

“You will make it six by the time you retire,” Ilya says. It’s so matter of fact and confident, it’s as if he can see the future. And maybe he’d be right, if not for…everything.

“This was my last season,” Shane says. He’d already known it had to be, but saying it out loud makes it feel real. “Sophie’s more important to me than hockey. I have to put her first.”

“Yes. Of course.” His expression softens. “I know you don’t want to quit, but I think that is the right choice.” 

“Yeah, I know. I just don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do now,” Shane says. “My mom thinks I should start a podcast. But I think I’d be pretty terrible at it.”

“Would be very boring. Like your post-game interviews.” 

“Fuck off. Their questions were boring.”

“Except when they were about me.” 

“Those were the most boring of all. Shane! Did you hear what Rozanov said about you? Do you feel any pressure to keep up with Rozanov in the points race this season? How do you feel about Boston making the playoffs this year?  Are you looking forward to facing off against Rozanov in round one?” Shane says. “How the fuck was I supposed to answer? Well, Sam, I’m really looking forward to Rozanov sucking my dick after we beat Boston next week.” 

Ilya snorts and flashes that lopsided grin that used to make Shane insane, in more than one way. “Would have made things more interesting, yes?” 

“Jesus.” Shane asks, thinking of how risky their entire arrangement was. “Can you imagine? Not even Hunter coming out would have made it okay.” 

“No. It would not have.” 

The look in Ilya’s eye is so bleak, so empty, that Shane is positive that he’s not in a better place, no matter what he says. 

Chapter 4

Shane sways as he steps out onto the sidewalk outside the restaurant, caught in the grip of just a little too much sake. He hadn’t meant to get drunk, but his head was crammed full of conflicting feelings and he needed something to silence his swirling thoughts. The more conflicted he felt, the more he drank, hoping one more would make his brain shut the fuck up. 

Rose. Sophie. Ilya. Hockey. His mom and her plans. The uncertain future. Back to Ilya. 

Playing on a loop.

His condo is just across the street but it might as well be a thousand miles away. It will be empty when he goes inside. Rose had only been there two days before the accident happened. Not long enough to leave her mark on it. She hadn’t even unpacked her things. Nearly everything but toiletries is still in suitcases and garment bags in the closet.  

Shane supposes he should be grateful that it’s not a place that’s full of memories. At some point, he’s going to have to deal with that. He’ll have to go home to the house in Montreal and pack up her things. The condo in LA, too. Thank god her brother is the executor of her will. Shane wouldn’t be able to handle that, even though Rose had taken steps to make sure the important parts were settled and the role was largely a formality. Half of her substantial fortune goes to Sophie in a trust fund, the other half to her family. Shane’s own will is set up much the same – half to his parents, half to Sophie.

“Thank you for dinner,” Ilya says. 

“Welcome,” Shane mutters. 

Ilya’s looking at him in a weirdly clinical way, like he’s checking for injuries. His gaze is sharp, yet indifferent, and it cuts straight through Shane in a way that makes him feel totally exposed. 

God, he’s forgotten about how Ilya always had a knack for seeing straight into his soul, all while giving nothing of himself away. 

Until he did. As rare as those moments were. 

Shane closes his eyes against the memory of Ilya using his name for the first time and how it caused a devastating seismic shift in him that he never quite recovered from, no matter how deeply he buried it. How meeting Rose felt like a way to repair the rift within himself. How pleased his mother was when they started dating – It’s good for your brand to be seen with such a high-profile actress, Shane – and how he’d bought into an image of perfection that was at odds with who he was out of terror that he’d be ruined by his own desires. 

His mother had been right. The Rose Landry fans who knew nothing about hockey suddenly became fans of both Shane and ice hockey. Shane Hollander merchandise sold like wildfire to the delight of the league. He found himself picking up deals with luxury brands that generally steered clear of athletes. It made him not just a big name in the hockey and sports world, but also in non-fan households that viewed hockey as that weird Canadian sport where the players are all dumb and toothless.  

There was also a lot of pressure from the media, the league higher-ups, and all of his friends, to make the match. It was good publicity. It was good for both their careers. And they genuinely liked each other. It made sense. 

Shane put on an Oscar-worthy performance. So good, he convinced himself that his affair with Ilya Rozanov was just a blip – Shane couldn’t actually be gay, it was just a need for release on the road, just the tension of having such a high-profile position where they were constantly linked to one another. His growing feelings for Ilya couldn’t be real. Ilya got off on danger and fucked whoever and whenever he wanted - Shane didn't matter to him, it was just the thrill of doing something he wasn't supposed to. Shane was just lonely and Ilya was willing. 

He’d thrown himself into the role of doting, adoring boyfriend, and later husband, like was being paid for it. He’d gone so deep into his delusion that after an uncomfortable conversation early on where Rose hinted that maybe she’d clocked him, Shane had gotten a prescription for Viagra – which in hindsight, Jesus, he was an absolute fucking idiot for that – to hide the fact that he wasn’t physically attracted to her and didn’t particularly enjoy the sex. 

Which he’d denied by claiming bisexuality out of sheer panic, and then he lied through his teeth. Yes, he was attracted to her. No, he didn't want to fuck Miles. It was just the pressure to make the play-offs that season, the brutal game schedule, the new training regimen he’d started, and he'd promised his lackluster performance was just a case of exhaustion.  

It wasn’t. But so what if he had to pretend? Most people did that every single day in at least one aspect of their lives. 

At the time, it felt like a solution. Hockey wasn’t exactly a safe, welcoming place for gay men, and Shane had no desire to be the first out player in the league. Not with his entire reputation and career on the line. 

Shane didn’t know it was a prison. A closet with a dozen padlocks on the door. He’d trapped himself there by lying to himself and everyone around him, both the prisoner and the warden. And he’d inadvertently dragged Rose in there with him without ever meaning to. He’d genuinely wanted it to work, and he’d inadvertently denied her a chance to be someone’s everything. 

For that, Shane Hollander is an irredeemable asshole for not seeing how selfish that was, and it’s far too late to do the right thing now. 

He’s still trapped there, in this cycle of fear and lies, and he will be for the foreseeable future. Coming out after his retirement and an amicable divorce, the way he and Rose planned, is no longer an option. 

“Hollander?” Ilya is so close, Shane can feel his breath in his ear. “Hey. You are okay.”

Shane doesn’t know how he wound up sitting on the sidewalk with his head between his knees, unable to breathe, but he finds himself on the ground, freaking the fuck out. It feels like something heavy is sitting on his chest and his still-healing ribs are on fire with the effort to get enough air in his lungs. There are concerned-sounding voices nearby. Laughter and mocking, too. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says to someone. “I am a paramedic. We are good here.” 

Nothing is okay. He’s fucked up so bad, he’s not sure how to un-fuck himself.

“I’m such an asshole,” Shane gasps.

“I already knew that,” Ilya says with some amusement. “Is not a secret.” 

“Fuck.” Shane attempts to get up, but Ilya’s hands land on his shoulders and keep him where he is. “Lemmie go.” 

“We will go, but not yet.” Ilya’s fingertips rest against the inside of Shane’s wrist, taking his pulse. “You are having a panic attack. Maybe a little drunk, I think. Slow, deep breaths, okay?” 

It’s his second big one in the last three days. Before that, the last time it was this bad was a couple years ago, after he’d been overbooked for appearances and photo shoots. The director of the last shoot had complained that his eyes were dead in every frame and it broke him. It was a stupid thing to have a meltdown about, but he was exhausted, very much over being directed, and faking it day in and day out was finally starting to take its toll. 

“Are you on pain medication?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t take any today.” 

“Okay, good. No mixing, right?” 

“I know better than that.” It’s something Shane’s heard every time he was injured and given a prescription. Don’t mix with pain meds with alcohol. “I’m not stupid.” 

God, if he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to break down. All he wants to do is scream. 

“You are okay, Shane,” Ilya says. His voice is soft and soothing. “It will pass.” 

And it does. Slowly the crushing weight lifts away, the swirling thoughts die down, leaving Shane feeling stupid and weak and so fucking guilty as he sits there on the sidewalk like a drunk.

“Better?” Ilya asks.

Shane takes a breath, lets it out, and nods. “Better.” 

Ilya helps him up. Even though Shane doesn’t need the help, he accepts it. 

“I’m just across the street,” Shane says. He’s not ready to be alone yet. He’s not ready to let Ilya leave. “You can come up if you want.” 

Ilya’s clearly conflicted. 

“Sorry. You probably have to work tomorrow, right? I shouldn’t keep you up.” 

“Yes. I have work.” 

“Thanks for keeping me company.” 

“Thank you for listening. I have only ever told my therapist those things.” Ilya's crooked smile is sheepish. 

“Anytime,” Shane says. “I mean that, Ilya. You can talk to me if you want.” 

Shane can’t read his expression. It’s not cold, exactly. Neutral, maybe. Cataloging his physical wellbeing, for sure. 

“Thank you. You, too.” 

“We should do this again soon,” Shane says. “If you want.” 

Ilya hesitates, again conflicted. “Yes. Okay.”

They say their goodnights and then Shane crosses the street. He notices that Ilya waits until Shane is inside before heading to his car. Shane finds that unexpectedly sweet. And maybe kinder than he deserves. 

As Shane enters the elevator, his limbs grow heavy with the buzz of too much alcohol. He’s bone-tired all of a sudden. Weary from carrying the weight of more than a decade of lies. Overwhelmed by an uncertain future. But most of all, he’s painfully, absurdly lonely. 

But, at least he’ll probably sleep well tonight.

A photo of Shane sitting on the sidewalk outside the restaurant is all over the internet the next morning. It shows Ilya on his knees beside Shane, taking his pulse. The tabloids are screaming about both “Shane Hollander’s grief-fueled drinking binge,” which is total bullshit, and the fact that he appears to be with Ilya Rozanov, which is not. 

Being married to Rose meant Shane dealt with paparazzi all the time. He’d learned to ignore them unless they were trying to get photos of Sophie, which was something he considered off-limits. Since Rose’s death, they’d been lurking here and there – one accosted him in the parking lot of a Walgreens a few days ago, but they hadn’t been particularly aggressive. He figured that meant they weren’t interested in him, but apparently, he’d been wrong.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself as he zooms in on Ilya’s face to see how clear it is and yes, it’s pretty obvious. Obvious enough that it would be hard to deny the rumors about Ilya being in Florida are true. 

Now the gossip rags are all going to try to dig up dirt on Ilya and start asking questions about why they’re hanging out together. Which is the last thing Shane wants for him, and he regrets not anticipating how much of a scandal it would still be if the two of them were friends. 

Shane sends Ilya a text and a link to the article as a heads-up, along with an apology. He hopes it won’t ruin their chances of becoming friends. They probably would have been, if circumstances had been different.  

He doesn’t get a response.

Shane does, however, get a text from Hayden. 

[Hayden] Thought you said it was bullshit, buddy. 

[Shane] I mean, he’s not a firefighter.

[Hayden] Pretty sure that’s not the important part

[Hayden] Are you okay?

[Shane] Are you asking if I’m binge-drinking with Ilya Rozanov as a way to cope with grief?

[Hayden] Kinda. I’m allowed to be worried about my best friend

[Shane] I’m not binge drinking.

[Shane] I had a panic attack. 

[Hayden] And Rozanov just happened to be there?

[Shane] He’s a paramedic for fire-rescue here. His station was one of the ones that responded to the accident. 

[Shane] He took really good care of Sophie. And me.

[Shane] We had dinner a couple of times. 

[Hayden] Oh shit what are the odds?

[Hayden] How’s he doing? Still an asshole?

[Shane] He’s fine. And kinda. But maybe in a different way. 

[Shane] Sophie has a crush on him.

[Hayden] Poor kid. She’s gonna grow up to have terrible taste in men.

Just like her father, Shane thinks. 

Shane has a fair amount of experience with film sets from all the commercials he’s filmed over the years. He’s familiar with makeup chairs and costume fittings and sound and lighting tests, but he’s never experienced anything on this scale. He counts at least six cameras, various types of microphones, sound boards, sees people tinkering with various bits of a prop wrecked boat, and an assortment of devices to screen the set from the intense Florida sun.

He’s also never filmed anything in a location like this. They’re currently on the beach at Caladesi, a mostly uninhabited barrier island just north of Clearwater that apparently used to be a hog farm. Gentle waves lap at sugar-white sand, and the wild vegetation gives Shane a glimpse into what Florida must have looked like before the coastline was stacked with hotels and condos and marinas.  

Shane can understand the appeal of this place and why people would want to live here. It’s beautiful and he can imagine how peaceful it must be when the beach isn’t full of film crew and equipment. 

Sophie sits in his lap as they wait for the crew to finish whatever it is they’re doing so that she can act. She’s dressed in a tattered white sundress and her hair is a mess of dirty-looking tangles. Her cast has been incorporated into the plot and is covered in signatures and doodles from a good portion of the crew. The director plans to edit its deteriorating condition with CGI and include a prop that looks like a discarded cast when it comes off in two weeks. 

Makeup that is supposed to be dirt and a blistered, peeling sunburn has been applied to her cheeks, arms, shoulders, and the tops of her feet. Every now and then, he has to stop her from picking at it, but he can empathize. Makeup has always felt unnatural and he’s never understood how women deal with wearing it every day.  

“Are they going to be done soon?” she asks. “I’m bored.” 

“I think so,” he says, even though he has no idea. There are strict laws about how long she can work due to her age, and he’s pretty sure they’re getting close to the threshold. “You know your lines?”

“Yeah,” she says. “We only did them a bunch of times.”

“If you want to be good at it, you have to practice. And then practice some more. And then even more after that.”

“I know.”

He kisses the top of her head and tightens his hold just a little. “Are you scared?” 

“Nope. Just bored.” 

A couple minutes later, the director is ready to start the shoot. Shane is relieved. He’s bored, too.

“How do I look?” Sophie asks as she hops out of Shane’s lap.

“Like a you need a bath,” Shane says with a smile and pinches her chin. “Break a leg, goofball.” 

“You ready, Sophie?” the assistant director asks.

“Let’s go!” she shouts, dragging a laugh out of Shane. 

Shane is not sure about this movie, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s a combination of a survivor story and a horror film, set on a deserted island inhabited by monsters or spirits, he’s not sure which, and it seems to be heavily influenced by The Lord of the Flies. He’s been assured Sophie won’t actually be interacting with anything scary, just a tennis ball on a stick. She loves scary things, but he’s still worried her imagination will run away with her, as it often does, and she’ll scare herself enough to give her nightmares.  

As Shane watches her perform, he realizes she’s actually pretty good. That’s not dad-blinders either. She can convincingly cry on demand – something Shane suspects she’s going to use against him at some point in the near future, if she hasn't already. She knows all of her lines and seems unaffected by the heaviness of the scene between takes, if the little shimmy dance she does every time the director calls cut is any indication. 

And then they’re done and she’s sent back to hair and makeup to remove the faux-sunburn from her skin and the tangles from her hair. Shane joins them, as he’s not willing to take his eyes off her, no matter how many reassurances he’s been given that she’s safe. As far as Sophie is concerned, Shane knows not to trust anyone but himself in this environment.

“You did great, Sophie. Did you have fun today?” Amber, one of the makeup artists asks as she gently removes the fake blisters from Sophie’s face. 

“Yes! But the makeup is itchy and it feels weird.” She turns to Shane. “Can we get salad bar tonight?” 

“Sure,” he says, smiling at the way she says salad bar like it’s one word. “That sounds pretty good, actually.”

Shane has never heard of a kid that likes salad as much as Sophie does, but she goes crazy for it. She especially loves salad bars. Which Shane finds really weird, but maybe it’s that she gets to pick toppings herself and that there are so many different choices. 

But then, Sophie Hollander has never met a fruit or vegetable she didn’t like, so Shane supposes he got lucky that she’s not a picky eater. She can make a meal of baby carrots and cucumbers or broccoli with cheese, loves all kinds of squash, and will eat tomatoes like they’re apples. She’s also not afraid to try new things and it’s not often she decides she’s not a fan of something.  

Makes things a lot easier, for sure. Shane has never had to plan around what she will or won’t eat the way Hayden and Jackie do. Hayden once ordered food from five different places, just to appease his household of picky eaters, who of course couldn’t just all hate the same things or the same restaurants. 

Shane thought that was a little extreme at the time, and he still does. He’d also go nuts trying to keep everyone’s dislikes straight. And there's no way he'd indulge anyone to that level. 

“Can Eli come?” she asks. “I miss him.” 

“I think he has to work tonight, monkey,” Shane says. He’s not totally sure, but if the two days on, two days off schedule is accurate, Ilya won’t be off until tomorrow. 

Besides that, Shane hasn’t heard anything from him since he gave him a heads-up about the photo. Which is a lot more upsetting than it should be. He gets it, though. Ilya has built a completely different life here and has kept such a low profile, everyone thought he was back in Russia until very recently. He probably wanted to keep it that way.

Sophie sticks out her bottom lip. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, kiddo. Jobs are part of being a grown-up.”

“I don’t ever want a job, then.” 

Her sigh is extra dramatic, and Shane suppresses a laugh. 

“You have a job, Sophie Victoria. You just did it.” 

She blinks at him, as if it never crossed her mind that acting was work. To her, probably isn’t. To her, it’s probably just pretend with really cool props and costumes.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget she’s only four. She’d started talking early and by the time she was three, she was speaking in full sentences, her vocabulary and grasp of language well beyond that of her peers.

Not that she had many of those. Shane often wonders if she needs to socialize more with kids her own age. He’d struggled with that when he was a kid, in part, because he was so focused on hockey he wasn't interested. He didn’t have close friends growing up, and he’d had a hard time relating to kids who didn’t play hockey. Sometimes, he even struggled to relate to kids who did. As an adult, he has the same problem, and though he has a couple of close friends, he still tends to keep them at a distance. 

He makes a note in his phone to get on the ball about getting Sophie into preschool next year. He doesn’t want her to feel as isolated as he did, and getting to play with kids her own age will hopefully spare her that.  

“Can I have your phone?”

“Why do you want my phone?” Shane asks. 

“I wanna play Duck and Chicken.” 

Shane unlocks his phone and hands it over. Tomorrow, he’ll bring her tablet. He thought about bringing it this morning, but figured there wouldn’t be this much downtime with her limited work hours. There are several games on it that she likes and all of them are educational – they’re working on math and reading ahead of preschool enrollment – so he doesn’t feel so bad about letting the tablet babysit her occasionally.

The familiar game music comes on and Shane zones out, thinking about the press conference he’s holding three days from now to officially announce his retirement. He’d planned to wait until the end of season, but rumors and wild conspiracy theories are circulating that the pap photo at the restaurant is AI and the league is hiding the fact that he actually died in the crash.

Better to just get it out of the way, before it gets out of control. He’s not looking to encourage more, especially if some internet storyteller drags Ilya into it, too. 

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya’s disembodied voice drawls, snapping Shane out of his thoughts. “What can I help you with?” 

Sophie’s holding the phone out in front of her, the same way Shane does when he’s using speakerphone.

“Hi Eli! It’s Sophie!” 

“Oh, hello sweetheart,” Ilya says, his tone switching to something much gentler. Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “How are you? Is everything okay?” 

“I’m making a movie today. It’s on the beach!”

"That is exciting," Ilya says.

“Sophie, you know you need to ask me before you call people,” Shane scolds. He takes the phone back. “Sorry, Ilya. I know you’re probably at work.” 

“Is okay,” he says. “I am cleaning the kitchen at the station right now. I work with a bunch of animals who don’t know how to wipe the counter when they spill ketchup.” 

Shane senses that comment is directed at someone in the room with him, judging by the sternness in his voice.

“How is the movie going?” Ilya asks. “Good?”

“It’s great!” Sophie says. Amber kneels down to begin removing the makeup from her feet and Sophie giggles. “That tickles!” 

“We’re getting makeup taken off right now,” Shane explains.

“I don’t miss that,” Ilya says with a soft laugh.

“I definitely won’t either,” Shane says, thinking of that long-ago photo shoot where Ilya told him he looked pretty. And then everything that happened after.  

“You are not keeping your brand endorsements?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe a few. Haven’t really thought much about it, honestly,” Shane admits. “Retired hockey players aren’t really in demand. Even the famous ones.”

“Is true. They drop you very fast when you are not playing anymore,” Ilya says. “Where is this movie filming?” 

“Caladesi,” Shane says. 

“Oh, is very beautiful there. Best beach in Florida.”

“Daddy, ask Eli if he wants to get salad bar with us!” 

“He can hear you, monkey.” 

“You call her monkey? That is very cute, Hollander.” Ilya sounds extremely pleased by this information. “I cannot get salad tonight, sweetheart, but maybe we can do something tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Sophie pouts at Shane again and he frowns back. 

“Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Shane asks impulsively. “I’m making my dad’s chicken parmesan.” 

There’s a pause. He’s probably considering the possibility he’ll end up on the internet again.

“That is very hard to say no to.” 

“Then don’t.”

Another pause. “Okay. Yes. Can I bring anything?”

“Just yourself. Does 6:30 work?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ll text you the codes for guest parking and the front door.”  

Sophie grins at him from the makeup chair and bounces in her seat as they end the call. Shane narrows his eyes at her. She wiggles her eyebrows back. 

“You are too much, kiddo,” he says. He has the weirdest feeling that his four-year-old daughter is playing matchmaker. 

Which is… absurd. 

Or maybe just wishful thinking. 

Which is even more absurd.

Shane reads through Sophie’s upcoming scenes in the script as he waits for Ilya to arrive and he’s kind of…horrified. No doubt, she’s going to enjoy the hell out of turning into a monster or whatever, but he can only imagine what the makeup will look like. There’s no dialogue at that point, just growling and stage direction that involves flailing and biting.

He’s not quite sure how he’s going to help with that. Though he’s done plenty of commercials, his acting is limited to either saying the product name and slogan, or spitting out a tough-guy line or two. As far as action, it’s usually just athletic moves or poses. Nothing this… creative. 

There’s a buzz at the door, signalling Ilya’s arrival. An excited squeal comes from Sophie’s room and she comes bounding out, clad in a green princess dress and a crown – Tiana, maybe? Shane can’t keep them straight. Cinderella is the only one he’s usually pretty sure about, and only because as a kid, he’d been really confused about why her slippers were made of glass. It seemed so impractical, and it bothered him a lot more than it should have.

“Can I open the door?” Sophie asks.

“Knock yourself out,” Shane says. 

Sophie flings open the door and greets Ilya with, “Welcome to my castle, Prince Eli. You look very handsome today.” 

Ilya breaks into a huge grin and bows at the waist, tucking whatever he’s holding behind his back. He takes Sophie's hand and kisses the back of it, playing the part of handsome prince with ease.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he says. “I am honored to be here. You look very beautiful today.”

Shane can’t help but grin at Ilya. It blows his mind that Ilya is totally unphased and so shamelessly willing to play along. 

“Thanks!” She curtsies and dashes off toward the bedroom. Probably for a costume change. He’s pretty sure she has every Disney Princess dress there is, and if she doesn’t, his dad will buy it for her like the sucker he is, along with matching wigs and accessories. 

“Come on in,” Shane says. 

Ilya holds out a box from the Publix bakery. Shane has been here long enough now to know that the Publix bakery is the best, as far as grocery store bakeries go. 

“What’s this?” Shane asks as he takes it. 

“Strawberry cheesecake,” Ilya says. 

Shane’s mind immediately rejects the idea of cheesecake, out of habit. His diet has been restricted for years, and most desserts are totally off limits. He has no plans to stop working out or eating as healthy as possible, but maybe he’s earned a right to eat whatever the hell he wants now. 

And it’s not like he’s been sticking to it lately, anyway. Which he probably, definitely needs to get under control. After he indulges in a slice of cheesecake.

“I can’t remember the last time I had cheesecake,” he says. 

“One slice will not hurt you,” Ilya says. He pauses. “Unless you are allergic to strawberries. Sorry. I should have asked.”

“Nope, we’re good,” Shane says. “And thanks. You didn’t have to.” 

Ilya looks around the condo and Shane sees… something in his gaze. It’s not quite envy, but something like it. Nostalgia, maybe. 

“Nice place,” he says. “Your nanny stays here, too?” 

“Only sometimes, if I’m going to be out late,” Shane says. “Right now, she’s visiting her family in France. Which is fine. I’m with Sophie all the time right now, so it’s not a big deal. You want something to drink? I’ve got beer, coke, iced tea, wine…”

“Beer is fine,” Ilya says. 

Shane tips his head toward the kitchen and Ilya follows. “I’ve got two kinds. A German one my dad got, amber something, and a shandy from a local brewer.” 

“The German one,” Ilya says. “Shandy is kid beer.” 

“Kid beer?” Shane’s a little offended. He’d enjoyed it and it definitely wasn’t for kids.

“Most European countries have like… is a mix of beer and lemonade or lemon-lime soda,” Ilya says. “It’s for kids, like ten, twelve years old maybe. Shandy tastes like that." 

“God, no wonder they can drink us all under the table,” Shane mutters. “Is the Russian version Sprite and vodka?” 

Ilya chuckles. “No. Is just vodka. They put it in our baby bottles instead of milk.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Shane says. 

“Is true. They also rub our gums with vodka when we are teething.” 

“That I believe,” Shane says. “Canadians do that with whiskey. Or they used to.” 

He pops the cap off the beer and hands it to Ilya. 

“So. How are you doing?” Ilya asks. “Healing okay?” 

“That’s what the doctor says. You know how ribs are, though.”

“Yes. Feel like shit even when they’re not broken.”

“Pretty much,” Shane admits. “How’s work been?” 

“Busy,” Ilya says. 

“Must be a tough job,” Shane says, wondering how often Ilya has to deal with death or severe injuries. Probably a lot. Shane would have nightmares if it was him. 

“Sometimes, yes,” Ilya says. 

He seems unwilling to talk about it. In fact, he seems on edge – less at ease than he was the last two times. Shane figures it probably has to do with the paparazzi photos. He’s still annoyed about it himself and has done what he can to be more watchful in public. 

Maybe he should just get that conversation out of the way. 

“Hey, I hope that photo didn’t screw things up for you,” he says. “They’ve mostly left me alone so I didn’t think they’d randomly show up like that. I know you’re trying to keep a low profile.” 

Ilya shrugs. “Is fine. Everyone at my station knows already. One of them put it on Reddit. Was my own fault.”

“Still. You probably didn’t want to end up on TMZ.”

“No. Not really.” He takes a long swallow of his beer, peering at Shane with an unreadable expression. “Do you miss skating yet?”

Shane hasn’t skated since the night before the accident. He's not allowed to. He's not allowed to do most of his usual training activities, even though he gets on the treadmill every day, even though it hurts.

“God, I miss it so much," he says. 

“Not skating everyday was one of the hardest things for me, I think,” Ilya says with a wry smile. “I have dreams about it sometimes.” 

“Do you ever go for old time’s sake?” 

“Not for a long time. Last time was maybe three years ago.” 

Man. Ilya really has left it behind. Barring an injury that prevented him from skating ever again, Shane can’t imagine not doing it anymore. He’s been skating almost as long as he’s been walking. 

“Is there anywhere around here with a decent rink?”

“Yes. Clearwater Ice Arena is close to here. Power-Pole Arena is good too, of course.” Ilya leans against the counter. “There is also a small one at Countryside Mall, but it is just for fun." 

“Maybe I’ll book some time when Sylvie – that's our au pair – gets back,” Shane muses. He grabs the chicken from the fridge and glances sideways at Ilya. “You’re welcome to come if you’re free.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya says after a long pause. 

Sophie enters the kitchen, this time in a sparkly ice-blue dress and a braided platinum-blond wig. 

“I did not know I was having dinner with Elsa,” Ilya says. “Is an honor, Your Majesty." 

“You know Elsa?” Sophie says with wide eyes. 

“Of course,” Ilya says. “Who doesn’t?”

“Daddy doesn’t,” Sophie says and turns an accusatory gaze Shane’s way. “He thought Merida was Snow White.” 

“Shane,” Ilya mock-scolds. “That is not acceptable. Is your job to know these things.” 

“Hey, there are way too many princesses,” Shane says, “and none of them play hockey.”

“Now there is a movie idea,” Ilya says. “What do you think, Sophie? She could be the queen of the rink and rule over the goals.”

“Oooh,” Sophie says. 

“So your queen is a goalie?” Shane asks as he starts breading the chicken cutlets. “Or is she like the league points leader?” 

Sophie frowns at Shane in disappointment. Ilya joins in, so now they’re both looking at him like he said something stupid. All Shane can do is shake his head. He has nothing to contribute to this conversation. But he should probably take more interest in Sophie’s interests and learn all the princesses so that he doesn’t feel like his daughter is speaking a foreign language sometimes. 

“Goalie Princess is actually not a bad idea,” Ilya says and winks at Shane. 

The wink dredges up a dozen different memories, most of them either taunts or flirtation or foreplay, or all three at the same time, and his body responds before his brain does. There’s a beat of anticipation in his stomach of the kind he used to get every time they faced off against each other. 

And then he shuts it down. It doesn't help either of them to let what happened in the past get in the way of the present. 

Sophie does not want Shane to read her a story before bed tonight. She wants Ilya, who Shane can tell is probably ready to go, but because Ilya Rozanov apparently has a soft spot for kids, Shane finds himself lingering in the doorway while his former rival reads The Princess and the Pea to the four-year-old who has already managed to have Ilya wrapped all the way around her little finger.  

We could never have had this, Shane thinks to himself. That thought makes him sad. 

Shane tells himself it’s one more reason why walking away back then was the only choice for the both of them. It could never have been anything more than it was, no matter how much it felt like it could have been more.

He realizes that he doesn’t even know if Ilya is seeing someone or if he’s still sleeping around like the old days. Ilya hasn’t mentioned anyone, but it’s not like he ever revealed much about himself before, dinner the other night notwithstanding. And it's not like Shane asked, either.

One thing he now knows about the enigma that is Ilya Rozanov is that he’s really good at reading bedtime stories to kids. Sophie laughs every time Ilya does voices for the characters. It sounds hilarious with his accent, which Shane has noticed is a little softer than it used to be except when he’s purposely playing it up. He wonders how often Ilya speaks Russian these days, if he has Russian friends here, or if he’s cut himself off from his culture completely. 

Shane suspects he has. He suspects Ilya really must be lonely, otherwise, why is he here reading stories to Sophie and not out picking up pretty people at the bar or out with friends? 

Ilya finishes the book and sets it aside. “Okay. Time for sleep now, sweetheart.” 

“One more?” Sophie asks “Pretty please?” 

“I’m sure it’s Ilya’s bedtime, too,” Shane says. “Say good night and don’t forget your manners.” 

“Thank you for the story,” she says. “Good night, Eli.” 

“Sleep tight,” Ilya says. 

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite!” she says. 

“I think you are a bedbug.” 

“No I’m not!” she giggles. “You’re a bedbug!” 

“Yes, maybe. If you do not sleep, I might come back and bite you.” Ilya mimes biting the air around her. Shane starts laughing. “You laugh, Hollander, but maybe I will bite you, too.” 

“Is that a promise?” Shane asks before he can stop himself. His cheeks instantly turn red.

For just a second, a flash of the hunger he used to see behind closed doors breaks though Ilya’s mask of stoicism.  

Oh. 

Fuck.

Shane moves briskly to Sophie’s side, opposite of Ilya and presses a kiss to Sophie’s forehead. “Goodnight, kiddo.”  

“Good night, Daddy.” 

Shane tucks her in and then ensures the Rapunzel night light is plugged in before shutting off the lamp.

“Daddy?” she calls out just as he's about to shut the door, like she usually does. Shane expects her to tell him she’s thirsty. Like she usually does. 

“What, monkey?” 

“How do I tell mommy goodnight now?” 

Shane pauses in the doorway and switches the light back on. 

“She can’t call me anymore,” Sophie says.

Rose used to call at bedtime when Shane had Sophie with him, and vice versa. Shane’s heart gives a hard, painful throb inside his chest. Every time he thinks they’re starting to adjust, he gets dragged back to reality. 

God. How is he supposed to do this alone? 

“You can tell her goodnight right now if you want,” Ilya says. “You just say it. You can even think it if you want.”

“Will she hear me in heaven?” 

“I think so, yes,” Ilya says. “I say goodnight to my Mama every night.”

“Did your mommy die too?” 

Ilya crouches beside the bed. “Yes. When I was a boy.” 

“Were you sad?” 

“I was very sad. I did not understand why she left me for a long time,” Ilya says. His hand goes to the cross around his neck, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “And sometimes I am still sad. But then I remember that she is still with me. In here.” He puts his hand over his heart. “And as long as I remember her, she will be with me. And when it is my time to go, I know she will be waiting for me.”

Shane’s eyes mist over. He can’t imagine the damage that must have done, or what it must have been like to carry that kind of grief for so long in silence. It hurts his heart to know that cocky asshole smirking at him at center ice all those years ago was just a wounded kid beneath it all. 

It drags Shane’s own grief to the surface, which he’s been trying desperately to stuff down when he’s not alone. He chokes it back but it leaves him breathless, wishing like hell he could pick up the phone and call Rose right now. 

God, what he wouldn’t give to not feel her absence for just a little while. What he wouldn’t give to hear her laughing about how Sophie curtsied every time the director called cut on a scene yesterday. What he wouldn’t give to hear her grievances about how Under Dark, that terrible FBI movie from years ago, is suddenly trending again and now has a cult following thanks to streaming – Why won’t it die, Shane? Who do I have to hold hostage to make it go away? 

“Shane?” Ilya says. A firm hand grips Shane’s shoulder. “Do you need to sit down?” 

“I’m fine, just checked out for a minute.” 

Ilya scans his face, no doubt searching for signs that Shane is on the verge of another panic attack. If he sees anything to worry about, it doesn’t show. 

“Thanks,” Shane says. He’s not sure if he means the check-in, Ilya talking to Sophie on her level, for being a friend, or just – everything.

Ilya shrugs like it’s no big deal. His face gives nothing away.

“Did you say goodnight?” Shane asks Sophie as he tucks the blanket around her again. 

Sophie nods. “I think she heard me.” 

All Shane can do is smile and brush a hand over her hair. Even though on the inside, he’s crumbling into dust. 

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

TW: Brief description of gore, brief description of suicide, some mild sexual content, and heavy angst. All are tagged for this fic but I wanted to give a heads-up.

“You want another beer?” Shane asks as they return to the living room. 

Shane is doing a shit job of hiding the fact that he’s on the verge of breaking down. Ilya sees it and he can relate. He’s approaching the ledge himself and he needs to put some distance between them before he does something stupid. 

Not that distance would do any good. Shane has been on his mind almost constantly in a way that feels unhealthy and obsessive. He’s stopped himself from messaging Shane back at least two dozen times, aware that he’s in a very dangerous place right now. If it continues, there’s a good chance he’ll wind up getting hurt. 

“No. Thank you. I should get going,” Ilya says. “I have an appointment in the morning.”

“Everything okay?” Shane asks. 

“Yes,” Ilya says a little too quickly. “Everything is fine.”

Shane’s expression is a mix of concerned and skeptical and Ilya doesn’t like that Shane sees through the lie.

“Are you okay? Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, I just get the feeling –”

Ilya needs to put an end to this. For real. For good. The way he should have long before the last time they hooked up. Before his feelings got too complicated.

“I’m okay.” Ilya’s throat bobs around his words, forcing the lie down. ‘But maybe –” 

Ilya will never know which of them moved first or what triggered it, and it doesn’t matter. Their mouths crash together, Ilya’s hand laid along Shane’s jaw, his other buried in Shane’s silky hair. Shane’s hands clutch fistfulls of Ilya’s shirt, dragging him closer. 

Like so many years before, all of Ilya’s reasons for not doing this float away and he’s kissing Shane with the same ferocious, mindless hunger that used to consume them every time they were alone together. And Shane is kissing him back with the same urgent, desperate heat. 

He’s forgotten just how intense it really was between them, how much they wanted each other no matter who won or lost, no matter how risky it had been. In the years since, he’s told himself he imagined that part, idealized something that he would probably consider average now, but he wasn’t imagining it. Far from it – the evidence is right here, crushed between his body and the hallway wall, and it’s never been more apparent that Shane Hollander still sets him on fire like no one else ever has. 

Fuck. 

They can’t do this. 

It’s irresponsible. Dangerous. Fucking stupid.

Right now, Ilya can’t be anything more to Shane than a substitute or a distraction. Shane’s grief is too fresh, his loss too recent for this to be anything but a salve for a broken heart – an impulse Ilya is intimately familiar with. One he sees in himself far too often. One he understands on a molecular level.

Ilya knows that, and it isn’t enough to stop him. He’s never made good decisions as far as Shane is concerned anyway. Whatever it is between them, whatever chemical reactions or pheromones drive this, it’s impossible to resist. It’s a need as powerful and instinctual as breathing.

His hands slide up under Shane’s t-shirt, against smooth skin and tight muscle that's still as familiar to him as his own reflection. Shane moans into his mouth, a sound of pure want, his head tipped back into the wall in surrender. 

Ilya’s fingers wander lower, skimming along the elastic waist of his track pants, silently asking for permission. 

“Not here,” Shane murmurs. “Sophie –” 

Abruptly, Ilya comes to his senses and steps back, out of Shane’s personal space. Shane’s eyes are filled with confusion, then –

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Ilya,” he says, his voice raw, his expression horrified. “I didn’t mean to – Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing. I shouldn’t have –” 

Ilya says nothing and takes another step back, lest he be compelled to drag Shane into the nearest bedroom. If Ilya’s heart wasn’t on the line, he’d give Shane everything he seems to need right now, but it would cost Ilya too much.

“I’m just…” Shane says helplessly. 

“Lonely?” Ilya guesses. 

“Yeah,” Shane whispers. “Lonely.”

Ilya swallows around the tightness in his throat. He wants to throw his arms around Shane and tell him all the things he held back all those years ago, to admit he’s lonely too, but what good would that do? Shane had fallen in love with someone who wasn’t Ilya. It’s too late to say those things. He had his chance and he wasted it.

“Maybe we should… not do this anymore,” Ilya says as gently as he possibly can. “It has been a long time, you know? You will be going back to Montreal soon, and I will be here. Then what? We make small talk over text and maybe see each other once a year when you come to Florida? I cannot do that anymore, Shane.” 

It will only make things worse. I’m still not over you. I will only get hurt.

“Do what anymore?” Shane asks, his voice small.

Torture myself. Obsess over you. Want what I can never really have.

“Thank you for dinner, but I should go,” Ilya says, his throat and heart aching. “I hope you have a good life, Shane. You and Sophie deserve only good things.” 

Ilya turns for the door without waiting for a reply. He’s ten seconds from bursting into tears and he needs to get out of here, before his will to walk away breaks. 

“Ilya, wait,” Shane says. “Can we please talk about this? Because I don’t understand. We can’t even be friends now?” 

“We were never friends.” 

“Maybe not, but we can be.”

“I don’t think that is a good idea.” 

“When have we ever had good ideas?” 

And that is part of the problem.

“It was nice to see you again, Shane,” Ilya says, hating how unsteady his voice is. He opens the door, even though all he wants is to turn around and kiss Shane until they’re both stupid with uncontrollable lust. “Goodbye.” 

He manages to make it to his car before he falls apart. As soon as he’s in the driver’s seat, he locks the doors and slumps over the steering wheel, sobbing silently into it until he’s purged himself of it. 

Instead of going home, he heads to a bar in Clearwater Beach. 

Shane isn’t the only one in need of a substitute tonight.

“It’s good to get answers,” Ilya’s therapist Andrea says. “But I’m concerned about the fact that you’ve hung on to this relationship for this long, when as you described it, it was just casual.”

Casual, until it felt like it wasn’t. 

“I’m also concerned that you withheld both your true feelings about him and also the fact that you didn't mention that he came back into your life recently,” she says. “That would have been important information to share with me. You know how this works. I can’t help you if you’re not willing to be totally honest with me.”

This is one thing he’s never gone into great detail about with her. He’d mentioned having a long-term casual relationship with a man when he was in his twenties, but he’d downplayed his own feelings and characterized the entire relationship as purely sexual. It hadn’t felt relevant at the time, and admitting to still carrying a torch for someone he hadn’t seen in years would have sounded pathetic. A part of him was even in denial about it, sure he had moved on, just as Shane had.

“I thought I was being honest,” Ilya says. “I did not think I would ever see him again. And now…he’s here, and the thing between us is still there, for both of us.” 

“Did he tell you that?” 

“He did not have to.” 

“Then how do you know it’s mutual?” 

“Because we came very close to having sex last night.” 

She blinks at him, but to her credit, she doesn’t seem surprised or concerned. 

“Who initiated?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya says honestly. “We have always been drawn to each other that way. Like magnets.”

“And who put a stop to it?”

“Me.” Ilya doesn’t elaborate. “Then I went to the bar and picked up a guy from Vermont. Was just okay.”

The guy from Vermont was not Shane by a longshot, but he’d been nice to look at and very willing. Then he ruined the mood by using babytalk and calling Ilya daddy. 

“Before you say it, yes. I ran away from having an emotional connection with someone I care about. I know.” 

“I’m glad you see the pattern,” she says. “But I don’t think either option was in your best interest.”

Ilya definitely doesn’t need her to tell him that. If he were acting in his own best interest, he would have gone the fuck home after leaving Shane’s place. Jerking off in the shower would have been more satisfying than fucking Mr. Babytalk. 

And if he’d stayed, he’d be even worse off than he was now.

“So what do I do?” 

“You can do one of two things,” she says. “You can cut all ties with him, which will only work if you actually stick to it – no phone calls, no texting, no dinner dates, nothing. Or, you can sit down and have an honest conversation with him like an adult.” 

“I cannot tell a man who just lost his wife and his career that I’m in love with him.” 

“Did he tell you why he walked away all those years ago?” She asks, switching course on him. Something she does to throw him off and get him to admit things he doesn’t want to admit. He falls for it every time.

“He said he got scared.” 

“Of his feelings? Or getting caught?” 

“Was both, I think,” Ilya says. 

“Could you relate to the way he was feeling?” 

“Yes. Of course. Would have been very bad for me, too. I was not supposed to fall in love with him. I knew we needed to end it a long time before then, but I could never do it.” Ilya sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have never had anything like that with anyone but him. I have never felt that way about anyone but him. Is hard to let go of that.”

She looks him over critically and Ilya braces himself. He’s done this enough by now to know the harder questions are coming.

“And yet this time you were the one to walk away. Do you think subconsciously you were getting back at him?”

Ilya frowns. Nothing could be further from the truth. He did it to protect himself, not hurt Shane.

“Of course not. Was because we have no future together, no matter what I want. His wife just died. He has a child. He lives in fucking Montreal. I don’t have any business getting in the middle of that.” Ilya is angry all of a sudden and he doesn’t know why. “I walked away because I can’t fall in love with him again.”

“You just admitted you never stopped, Ilya.” 

“What does it fucking matter? He is not in a place where he can love me back.” 

She makes a note on her little notepad. 

“Do you think it’s possible the reason he got scared back then was because he felt the same way?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “We could not have been together. And he fell in love with someone else. Someone better than me.”

“You’re avoiding the question.” 

“Maybe. I don’t know. He never spoke to me again.” 

“What about now?” she asks. “What would it take for the two of you to be together?” 

“A lot,” Ilya says. “Maybe more than either of us can give.”

“Even with the barriers removed?” 

“One of us would have to move for the other. Or we would have to disappear to a cabin in the mountains somewhere far from other people,” Ilya says. “He is still famous and people are asking questions about me now. Would still be a scandal.”

“And what would it take for you to move on?” 

“If I knew the answer to that, I would not be here.” 

She makes more notes. Ilya closes his eyes, wishing there was some way to erase all of his feelings or shut off the part of himself that’s so completely obsessed with Shane Hollander and totally unable to let him go. 

Ilya’s at the station, piecing together a 1000 piece puzzle that Jerry started and then abandoned while Sully and Cameron watch Sportscenter. He’s not paying any attention to it, or them, at all. All his attention is focused on not texting Shane Fucking Hollander to suggest they take Sophie to Weeki Wachee to see the stupid mermaid show and maybe some manatees if they’re lucky.

Why he woke up with that idea in his head, he has no clue. He’s only been once himself, but that was for rescue dive certification and not to see mermaids. Little kids seem to love it and there’s a water park attached. Not to mention, the springs and river are gorgeous.

That can’t happen. Sophie’s still in a cast. Ilya is determined to not involve himself in Shane’s life any more than he already has.

“There’s someone downstairs who wants to talk to you, Elija," Sandra says. 

“Who?” Ilya hates the wild spark of hope that wells up in his chest. He hates that he wants it to be Shane. He doesn’t know anyone else who would visit him at the station besides Shane. “Did they give their name?”

“He didn’t say. He just asked for Ilya. Said he was a friend.” 

Reluctantly, Ilya gets up. He’s going to have to make it really, really clear to Shane they’re done. That they have to be done. It’s the last thing he wants to do and he has a feeling it’s either going to blow up in his face, or he’s going to cave. 

The person waiting for him is not Shane. It’s a tall, skinny man in a polo shirt with a sports news logo on the breast, and definitely not a friend or even someone he knows.

“Ilya Rozanov,” the man says. “I’m Randy Holt of Sports News Now. I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?” Ilya asks in his frostiest tone. 

“I’m sure you know there are a lot of questions surrounding your sudden exit from hockey. I thought maybe you’d like the chance to finally set the record straight.” 

“Sorry. I don’t do interviews anymore. If I wanted to tell the world my reasons, I would make a Tiktok,” Ilya says. He would need a Tiktok account first, but that’s beside the point. “Also, is very rude to bother me at work.” 

Sports guy struggles to keep his expression friendly. 

“Can you tell me anything about the photo of you and Shane Hollander that was posted online recently?” 

Ilya would really like to tell this guy to fuck off but he’s in uniform. He’d rather not get fired over some stupid gossip nonsense. 

“No. And you need to go now, or I will have the police remove you.” 

The man shouts another question as Ilya goes back inside. Upstairs, Ilya takes a moment to compose himself but he’s still extremely irritated when he returns to the lounge. 

“Which one of you fuckers posted about me online?” Ilya asks the room. “Reporters are coming to the station now. That is a problem.” 

Cameron looks very, very guilty. Ilya glares at him until his cheeks turn bright red and he excuses himself to grab something from the kitchen. Ilya returns to his puzzle, but he’s unable to focus on it. He’s too annoyed and he hopes like hell none of these reporters have found his home address because that will be a big fucking problem if it happens, and one he doesn’t want to deal with.

He moves pieces around on the table until he hears Shane’s name on TV. Ilya looks up from his half-assed project to see Shane, sitting alone behind a table covered in Montreal Blue, looking serious, sad, and maybe a little bit shell-shocked.

“Thank you all for coming today. I’ll keep this brief,” Shane says in an exceptionally flat tone, which is saying a lot. “I regret to announce that I have made the difficult decision to officially retire from professional hockey. I know there are a lot of rumors right now but the truth is, my priorities have changed and my focus needs to be on my daughter now. I have truly loved my time as a member of the Voyageurs and I appreciate all the love and support I’ve gotten from the fans over the years.”

It’s not Shane’s usual confident, rehearsed way of addressing the media. Gone is the nice Canadian boy and the wholesome smile. In his place is a man who had his heart ripped out and stomped on, and is barely holding it together. It’s plain to see how much pain he’s in. 

The questions that follow are trash. None of them are about Shane, his retirement, or his plans for the future. They’re all about Ilya.

“Shane, is it true that you’ve recently reconnected with your former rival Ilya Rozanov?” 

“We’ve been in touch,” Shane says. 

“Has he shared with you his reasons for leaving hockey at the height of his career?” 

“If Rozanov wants to share that information publicly, he will,” Shane deadpans. 

“Shane, is it true Rozanov was one of the first responders at the scene of the accident that injured you, your daughter, and claimed the life of your wife Rose Landry? Do you consider him a hero now?” 

Shane’s face goes a sickening gray under the bright lights. He stands abruptly and shakes his head. “That’s all for today. Thanks, guys.”

He rushes out, reporters shouting in his wake. Ilya feels sick on his behalf. If he was there, Ilya would have a very hard time not punching whichever asshole asked that question. 

“The fuck?” Ilya mutters to no one in particular, then turns to address the room, pissed that someone is sharing information about him online. He stares hard at Cameron, who looks no less guilty than he did before. “Whoever is telling people about me, I need you to stop. Is no one’s fucking business.”

He storms out of the room and back downstairs, unsure of where he’s going. He just knows he needs to get out before he starts screaming. The worst part is, he sort of brought this on himself by admitting who he was. What isn’t his fault is the sharing of photos and information without his permission, which is stirring up a lot of unwanted press over something that ended nearly a decade ago. He’s not a celebrity anymore. He didn’t sign up for this shit.

For the first time in years, he’s seriously craving a cigarette. The craving is so strong, he’s tempted to walk over to the gas station on the corner to buy a pack. 

He can’t, though. Getting caught could lead to a suspension or even get him fired. But fuck, it would take the edge off his fury. But so would a drink. Or four.

Ilya can’t afford to fall back into old habits, but the temptation is there and it’s painfully strong. 

In some ways, the party lifestyle was easier. Being constantly in motion was a good distraction from the hollowness inside him, but the high never lasted long and often left him feeling scraped out on the inside. It was also expensive, and though Ilya has a decent amount in savings left over from brand endorsements and the sale of his Boston condo, he’s not willing to waste it on things that are only a temporary fix. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out.

[Shane] Can we talk? Please?

Ilya leaves it on read. 

The second-to-last call of his shift is a bad one. It was called in as a possible house fire – a neighbor could hear the smoke detector going off while the occupants weren’t home. There’s no sign of a fire when they arrive, but the sharp, obnoxious beeping of the smoke alarm can be heard from the street. 

Ilya suspects the home’s occupant is either deceased or incapacitated. That’s usually how these things go. A heart attack or stroke while cooking. Fell asleep while smoking in bed. An iron or space heater left on to slowly melt something. 

It’s worse than that. Though the house is filled with acrid black smoke from something that was left in the oven long enough to turn it into charcoal, there is no fire. There is, however, a teenage girl on the kitchen floor, a nearly empty bottle of vodka beside her. On the table is an empty bottle of prescription pain meds. 

Her skin is ice cold and she has no pulse. 

Ilya, who isn’t rattled by much at all these days, has to leave the room. 

Your mother had an accident, Ilya. 

He wonders if that’s how this girl’s parents will explain it. If they’ll cover it up by saying it happened suddenly, call it an accidental overdose, say she died unexpectedly in her sleep. Anything to hide the truth of it so that they don’t have to admit they missed the signs. Or saw them and did nothing.

Or maybe this girl was like Ilya – good at masking the pain, hiding behind sarcasm and a cocky smile, seeking out sensory experiences to drown out that voice in his head that said he was unworthy. 

Outside, Ilya drops into a crouch next to the ambulance and covers his mouth with his palm, not sure if he’s going to throw up or scream. 

“Are you okay, Elija?” Sandra asks. 

“I need a minute.” 

“Take all the time you need. We all have that one thing, right?” 

It was true. Every first responder has something that gets under their skin, no matter how many times they see it. Sully gets nauseous when he can see bones sticking out. Jerry gets sidelined by the smell of vomit. Decapitations, which were concerningly common (and almost always a result of a high-speed motorcycle accident or a car accident where the occupant was not wearing a seatbelt), usually made Cameron pass out. 

For Ilya, it was pills. 

On the way back to the station, Ilya doesn’t speak. A chasm has opened up inside him, a deep well of despair that he thought he’d conquered years ago. But he read somewhere that grief lasts a lifetime, and he’s starting to believe it. He’s not sure if it will ever leave him. 

And if it ever does, he fears his mother will go with it.

As soon as they return, another call comes in. This one is weird enough to distract Ilya from the heaviness of his memories and the tragedy of a 15-year-old girl who was suffering so much, she erased herself from the future she should have had.

A man called 911 claiming his home had been invaded by a bunch of Mexicans and they were trying to burn down his garage. When they arrive, there is no fire, no Mexicans, or anyone else, just a half-naked man sitting on his front step with a steady stream of blood flowing down the left side of his face. 

“Can you tell me your name?” Ilya asks as he crouches down to take a look at his injuries. 

“Dale Krakow.” The man peers at him, frowning. “What the hell is that accent? You sound like a commie.” 

“I am an American citizen,” Ilya says simply. He’s used to these older folks being suspicious of him. “Just like you.”

“You don’t sound like an American. They’re gonna deport you, you know.”

He’s heard that one, too, plenty of times. And many other things that he chooses to ignore for the sake of doing his job, though he’s always tempted to ask people like this if they can name the three branches of government and the function of each. Ilya can, because it was part of the citizenship test, but he’s learned many native-born Americans can’t. 

“You don’t need to worry about me. I will be fine.”  

Ilya locates the wound on his head and finds a perfectly circular hole in his scalp, about the width of an M&M. It’s bleeding and swollen around the edges and Ilya can’t tell how deep it is.

“What happened to your head?”

“Don’t worry about that. What are you gonna do about them damn Mexicans? I told them they can’t light fireworks in the garage but they wouldn’t listen. I don’t think they speak a word of English.” 

“I think they are gone, Mr. Krakow. Do you know what day it is?” Ilya asks as he shines his penlight into the man’s eyes. His pupils are slow to respond. Maybe drugs. Maybe the hole in his head. Both, maybe.

“Friday,” he says confidently. 

It is not Friday. It’s Monday.

“What year?” 

“2026.” 

“Okay, good. Did you know you have a hole in your skull, Mr. Krakow?” 

“Of course I do. I put it there.” 

“You put it there?” Ilya asks, dumbfounded. He expected to be told he’d accidentally discharged a nail gun or something. “What did you use?”

“Power drill. Used a ceramic bit this time. Have to get it in there good, you know, get into the brain. Didn’t go deep enough before, but I got it right this time.”

“Before.” Ilya is momentarily stunned. He can’t comprehend why someone would voluntarily shove a drill bit into their own gray matter, not just once, but multiple times. “Can I ask why?” 

“How else am I supposed to let the damn worm out? It’s making my brain itch.” 

This one is going to psych, for sure. 

Ilya is wiped out by the time he’s off. All he wants to do is fall into his bed and sleep for the next twelve hours. 

Fate has other plans for him. 

There’s a black Mercedes SUV parked in front of his house and Shane Hollander is sitting on the low cinderblock wall that separates the small porch from the yard, looking far more beautiful than he has any right to. He has a hint of a tan and his freckles have darkened, standing out more prominently against his perfect, unblemished complexion.

Ilya wonders how long he’s been here, waiting.

“Hey,” Shane says as Ilya gets out of his car. “Can we talk?” 

Ilya cannot handle this right now. 

“Hollander, now is not a good time.” 

“You haven’t answered my texts.” 

“No. I haven’t answered your boring texts.” 

Shane flinches, and for a split second, Ilya is back in Sochi with the weight of Russia’s disappointment and his father’s harsh judgement sitting squarely on his shoulders. And Shane, staring at Ilya with his pretty, innocent brown eyes, unaware that just being seen together was enough to raise suspicions that Ilya had been disloyal to Russia.

“What do you want from me?” Ilya asks tiredly. 

“I don’t want to leave things unfinished like before,” Shane says. 

“Things were finished when you stopped answering my texts. Years ago,” Ilya says. “What else do we have to talk about?”  

“I think we have a lot to talk about,” Shane says, chin lifted in defiance. 

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. The last two days have been stressful as fuck and Ilya doesn’t need this on top of all of that. Shane is determined, though, and Ilya suspects if he puts his foot down, it will turn into a fight that he doesn’t want and doesn’t have the energy for. 

“Say what you need to say and then go.”

“Can we maybe… not do this out here?”

“Fine. But I am very tired, so…” Ilya unlocks the front door and steps inside. Shane follows.

“Yeah, sorry. I just really think we need to clear the air. I’ll try to keep it short.” 

“Have a seat,” Ilya says. He doesn’t offer refreshment and instead opens the bedroom door and drops his bag inside, kicks off his shoes, then returns to the living room. “What is it?” 

“First, I’m sorry about the other night,” Shane says. “I didn’t plan for that to happen or anything.” 

Ilya sinks onto the loveseat. He shrugs one shoulder. “It was nothing.” 

It wasn’t nothing. It was everything he’s missed the last ten years. Every memory he had of Shane – eager, pliant, hungry, wanting, beautiful. Reminding him that no one has ever wanted him the way Shane Hollander wanted him. 

“It didn’t feel like nothing. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it too.” 

Every cell in Ilya’s body cries out for him to acknowledge that yes, he felt it. The romantic in him wants to confess, to tell Shane everything. The practical, logical part of his brain says his only option is to deny. It can’t go anywhere. They’re still doomed. 

“Feel what?” Ilya asks. 

“Jesus. Can we just have an honest conversation for once?” Shane asks, frustration twisting his pretty face into an ugly sneer. “We’re not kids anymore, okay? I think we owe it to each other to tell the truth.” 

“What does it matter, Hollander?” Ilya asks. “It has been almost ten years and it was only ever casual.” 

Ilya has no choice but to lie. The faster he gets this over with, the sooner he can try to reset and move on. Maybe join a real dating app instead of ones meant only for hookups. Maybe he’ll ask Emily, the cute desk nurse out for dinner. Or maybe the hot Dutch guy that keeps giving Ilya fuck-me eyes at the gym. The world is full of possibilities that aren’t Shane Stupid Hollander.

“There at the end, it wasn’t. Not for me. It felt like we could have been something.” 

It’s a gut punch, to hear him say it out loud. Ilya had thought maybe, maybe, it went both ways, but never fully believed it did. Shane had still turned his back and then married Rose Landry. 

“We could not have been anything. You know why. And anyway, you ran away and never spoke to me again,” Ilya says. “So we could not have been anything.”

This conversation feels like it’s going in circles already. Like it’s about to turn into the argument Ilya wanted to avoid. Shane seems to feel it too. He gets quiet and looks at his feet. Ilya waits for more. Shane stays quiet.

“If there’s nothing else, I need to sleep,” Ilya says. He gets up and goes to the door, intending to send Shane on his way. 

Shane stands up and there’s a flash of fear in his eyes so intense, Ilya’s sure Shane is about to tell him he’s dying of cancer or something. 

“No. That’s not all.” 

“Then say it. You wanted to be honest, so go ahead. This is your chance. Tell me.” 

Shane doesn’t say anything. He bites his lip, a plea in his eyes – make me forget her, take this pain away, I need you. 

Ilya reaches for the doorknob, aching to give Shane exactly what he needs, yet knowing there’s no going back if he does. He might as well rip his own heart out and give it to Shane while it still beats, never mind that he’s bleeding out. 

Never mind that Ilya needs him, too. More than he needs sleep or food right now. 

“Wait.” Shane’s hand lands on Ilya’s arm, and then it’s Ilya who winds up backed up against the wall this time, Shane’s hands tangled in the long, still-damp-from-the-shower strands of Ilya’s hair. Shane’s mouth taking his with unguarded urgency. Shane’s tongue sliding against his own. 

And it feels like coming home after a long absence. A relief so powerful it makes his knees weak washes over him, and Ilya, despite his determination to protect himself, crumbles in the face of Shane’s wandering hands and the press of his perfect mouth to Ilya’s lips.

He should push him away, tell him to get the fuck out, force him to leave and never come back, but Ilya doesn’t have the strength to chase him off. Shane makes him weak. He always has. 

Shane drops to his knees, brown eyes peer up at him as he drags Ilya’s sweatpants down his thighs – yes, Hollander – and Ilya is done for. Every rational thought melts away like candle wax at the eager mouth on him, at the strange dichotomy of Shane’s simultaneous submissiveness and total control, which leaves Ilya raw and vulnerable and aching to claim him again. 

Ilya knows he shouldn’t allow this. He knows better than this. This isn’t getting Shane out of his system, it’s feeding the obsessive monster inside him. Telling himself it’s just one more time is a lie he’s told himself too many times to believeit anymore. He’ll want more. He’ll never want to stop. Never want to give this up. 

His fingers card through Shane’s hair and he gives the strands at the base of his neck a little tug, far too deep in his feelings for it to be healthy and already far too close to climax. “Stop. Stop. Too much. Stop.” 

Shane pulls off, looking up at him with so much desire, Ilya almost blurts out something stupid that he can't take back. He looks like a painting. A supplicant, on his knees in prayer. 

Overwhelmed, Ilya tugs Shane to his feet. He backs Shane toward this bedroom, shedding shirts and pants along the way until they tumble onto the puny double mattress in a tangle of muscular limbs and wandering hands. Ilya wants to devour him, make him cry out, make him say his name like it’s something holy. 

If Ilya thought he was done with this, if he truly thought he could walk away, he was an idiot. Shane had him the second he spoke, half out of his mind, in the back of that ambulance. He had him the second he introduced himself outside the rink in Regina. Maybe even before, when he watched tapes of Shane’s games in preparation for the World Juniors and saw someone worthy of his attention. 

Ilya is careful with him when it becomes clear Shane is still in some pain, though he pretends he isn’t. Being able to see Shane’s face awash in ecstasy only makes Ilya's longing for this to be real worse than it was before. 

God. When Shane leaves next month, it’s going to hurt like hell. 

And it’s Ilya’s own fucking fault. 

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the sermon/rant, but I had to turn comment moderation on. This fic has attracted people who either didn't bother to read or were incapable of understanding the tags/description/actual words I wrote and want to argue about it, people who hate Shane and blame him for everything except the Vietnam war in both fic and canon and want to argue about it, or totally misunderstood the actual canon and want to argue about it.

To those people, I'm not going to argue with you. I'm going to laugh at your bad-faith take and then I'm going delete your comment and add you to the block list.

To everyone else who left kudos, comments and thoughtful commentary so far, thank you! You guys are the reason I continue updating! 💚💚💚

Toodles,
Eddie💚