Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Canon Rewrite, Soulmates? Kind of?, they can hear each others’ thoughts, Eventual Canon Divergence, Some angst, Happy Ending, Frottage, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Autistic Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Coming Untouched, POV Alternating, Telepathy, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Embedded Translations

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of read my mind

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-03 Completed: 2026-05-24 Words: 95,629 Chapters: 13/13

read my mind

Summary

When Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollanders’ eyes meet for the first time in Saskatchewan, they realize they can hear each others’ thoughts. Unfortunately they are both still deeply emotionally repressed and think in different languages, so the events of Heated Rivalry ensue anyway.

Chapter 1: the good old days

Chapter Summary

first meeting through the draft

Chapter Notes

UPDATE 5/28: thank you so much to maria for fixing the russian translations!!!

please make sure creator work skin is ON to see embedded texts and translations (ty mackerel_cheese and CodenameCarrot & La_Temperanza for the html!) if you're on a computer, you should be able to hover over any french or russian to see the english -- on mobile, just tap the text (and you might need to click elsewhere on the screen to reset). without creator skin/if downloaded, you should see both, with the english in parentheses :)

DISCLAIMER: despite my love of too-long sentences and grammatically dubious em-dashes, absolutely NO AI was used in the creation of this story. I literally have never and hopefully will never even open a tab on a genAI website. if my writing style isn’t for you, that’s 100% fair, but if you’re considering putting it through an ai checker please consider:
a) those things are bullshit
b) just click off

December 2008 — Saskatchewan

Ilya Rozanov had finally gotten his cigarette to light when the end of life as he had known it was heralded by footsteps crunching in the gravel, and the sound of his own name.

"Shane Hollander,” the boy was saying by the time Ilya had finished taking in the long limbs he was still growing into, short, choppy hair, and the freckles splashed across his cheeks, and actually made eye contact. His hand was extended. Ilya shook it.

Черт возьми, эти веснушки (Holy shit, those freckles).

Il voit pas le panneaud'interdiction de fumer juste là (Does he not see the no smoking sign right there)?

"What?” they both said at the exact same time.

Shane Hollander blushed, took his hand back, and tipped his chin down a little as he looked away. “Sorry, I don’t speak Russian. I just, uh, wanted to introduce myself. You know, you’re an awesome player to watch.”

Ilya was so rattled, he barely managed an, "Okay.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here," Shane Hollander added after a moment, like the words had been burning the back of his tongue, and gestured weakly at the sign Ilya had been studiously ignoring. Ilya’s hand was still warm where he’d held it. The silence stretched a breath too long. Ilya opened his mouth, but then he was looking at him again, directly in the eye, and Ilya thought better of what he’d been about to say, choking the words back just in time.

You will not be so nice when we beat you.

But he was still so fucking off balance, he guessed he hadn’t quite managed to control his tongue, because those warm brown eyes sparkled, and when Shane Hollander said back,

That’s not happening.

Ilya could swear his lips didn’t move.

* * *

Shane settled into the back seat of his parents' SUV, the past few minutes already running through his mind on a loop.

"What was he like?" His dad asked, peering around the headrest.

"Kind of a dick." Shane said lightly.

His mom chuckled and stepped on the gas.

The hotel was fifteen minutes away, so Shane had time to replay the interaction at least a dozen times, searching for mistakes, anything he’d missed, the same way he would with a game tape.

Pourquoi il a dit "quoi?" J'ai rien dit (Why did he say 'what?' I didn't say anything).

In the privacy of his own mind, he allowed himself to admit that unfortunately, he had been staring at Rozanov's face — more specifically, at his mouth. He remembered it moving when he'd said "okay," but…

Clearly, he was losing it. He'd been too busy getting… lost in some asshole's sea-green eyes, and he just hadn't been paying attention. Or something.

Et puis merde. J'ai un match à gagner (Fuck this. I have a game to win).

***

They lost.

Shane knew he'd done everything he could, but it didn't ease the sting. As he found his place in the handshake line, he couldn't tell if it was tears or sweat burning in his eyes. Either way, he couldn't wipe them, just blink them back, wishing desperately for the peace and quiet of his hotel room — and equally dreading the awkward, disappointed silence of the car ride there. The line moved forward. He shook hands on autopilot, forcing something he hoped could pass for a smile.

Rozanov was next. Their eyes locked.

По крайней мере, ты подрался. Не могу сказать то же самое о твоей дерьмовой защите (At least you put up a fight. Can't say the same for your shitty defense).

"I told you I don't speak Russian." He gritted out. An expression passed over Rozanov's face that almost seemed like horror, but he kept moving, tossing over his shoulder,

"I said, see you at the draft."

Connard (Asshole).

June 2009 — Los Angeles

Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. But Ilya was determined to make sure that this whole "Shane Hollander hearing his thoughts" thing was not a pattern. It was impossible. Obviously. At least, that's what he was telling himself as he took his place at the top of the podium, thinking as loudly as he could, in English, head on a swivel as he searched for any reaction while fighting to keep his own face photo-ready.

Can you hear me, Hollander?

Your team played like shit at finals.

How does it feel to be in second place again?

Hollander didn't meet his eyes, just stared straight ahead, flinching at every camera flash. He looked like he wanted to die. Ilya couldn't blame him.

"Alright, boys, flash me those numbers!" a photographer commanded. Ilya held up one finger, the wide smile on his face suddenly becoming a lot more genuine. To his left, the third pick — whose name he had already forgotten, even though it was written on the jersey he was holding — raised three. Hollander was still frozen. Ilya elbowed him. This time, their eyes did meet, just for an instant. Whether or not he could hear him, Ilya couldn't fight the urge to tell him,

You're fine. Smile.

Hollander's eyes flashed with an emotion Ilya couldn't interpret before he turned back to face the front, holding up two fingers, lips curved into an almost-grin. Finally, the photographers were satisfied.

"Thanks, fellas. I think we're good here."

Before Ilya had taken two steps off the podium, his father had one gnarled hand on his shoulder and he was being steered in the direction of the bar, leaving Hollander standing alone on the second step.

* * *

Shane had almost convinced himself he'd imagined it after suffering through over an hour of small talk with the Montreal owners, GMs, and basically the entire executive suite, all patting themselves on the back about drafting "the first Asian-Canadian in the NHL." Although he pasted on a smile and nodded along, he was barely listening to a word they said, too focused on ruminating about whatever the fuck had happened on that podium. He'd never been good in front of the cameras, although developing auditory hallucinations of his so-called rival spontaneously giving him a pep talk would definitely be a new one. Still, if this had been the first time, he would have brushed it off as temporary insanity. But… it wasn't, was it? It had happened before. Rozanov definitely hadn't meant for Shane to hear whatever he had said in Russian — in that parking lot, or on the ice.

"Shane." His mother's voice cut through the fog, her hand small and warm on his shoulder. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just, uh… long day. I'm gonna go get some water."

He made his escape before anyone could offer to join him, losing himself in the crowd. And he meant to head towards the bar, really, he did, but before he knew it, his eyes were scanning the room and he was circling the perimeter like a fucking shark, telling himself he wasn't looking for —

Ilya Rozanov, publicly known as the Russian terror on ice and the first draft pick of the 2009 NHL, was standing next to an old man Shane assumed must be his father, hands in his pockets, chin respectfully ducked.

"He needs discipline." Shane overheard (not that he was eavesdropping) as he just happened to wander closer, "He can be… how you say… lazy."

Rozanov's broad shoulders slumped, even as the Boston GM assured them both that he had no such concerns, and rational thought abandoned Shane. He braced himself for humiliation, caught Rozanov's eye, and thought,

Your dad's a dick.

Rozanov nearly choked on a snort of laughter, covering it with a cough in the face of the GM's confusion and his father's glare. Shane looked away before he had a chance to reply, trying to ignore the flush he could feel heating his cheeks, and booked it towards the bar.

* * *

Ilya couldn't sleep.

His hotel room was stiflingly warm — he was pretty sure the A/C was broken — and the sheets were scratchy and the bed was hard and today had been the biggest of his career so far, but all of that accounted for maybe 15% of the reason he found himself tossing and turning well past midnight.

The other 85% had big brown eyes and constellations on his cheeks and oh yeah also maybe could hear Ilya's private innermost thoughts just by fucking looking at him.

Nausea swirled in his gut. Electricity danced like live wires under his skin.

He needed to move.

By some miracle, the lights in the hotel gym were on and the door was unlocked, even though a handwritten sign on the wall said "open 6am-10pm NO EXCEPTIONS." Ilya was thanking his angels as he walked in, only to freeze when he saw the reason: Mr. 85% himself, head down, absolutely tearing it the fuck up on an exercise bike.

Может быть, ангелы смеются надо мной (Maybe the angels are fucking with me).

Hollander didn't seem to notice him lingering in the doorway like a weirdo. There was still time. If he left right now, he could probably delay the inevitable confrontation for at least a few months — maybe more, depending on when they played each other next.

Когда-нибудь нам придется разобраться с этим. Когда у меня будет еще один шанс поговорить с ним наедине (We'll have to deal with this sometime. When will I have another chance to talk to him alone)?

Ilya took a deep, steadying breath and walked into the hotel gym. He couldn't resist choosing the bike next to Hollander, matching his speed, waiting for him to notice. And when he did, shaking his head with a little huff, and turned his speed up, Ilya matched him again. And again. Until his lungs burned and his legs felt like jelly and finally, finally, his mind was blessedly quiet.

Hollander broke first, nearly falling off his bike and stumbling over to sit against the wall about 3 and a half seconds before Ilya would have folded. Speechless with relief, he grabbed his water bottle off the floor and followed him, sitting against the opposite wall so the soles of their sneakers nearly touched.

For a minute, they just stared at each other, breathing too hard to speak. Ilya took a long drag from his waterbottle, spilling a little, enjoying the way Hollander's gaze followed the trickle down his throat, then snapped back to his eyes.

Putain, j'ai envie de le lécher (Fuck, I want to lick him).

So, Shane Hollander thinks in French.

Hollander froze like a cornered animal. His eyes flickered away from Ilya's, then back again.

Rozanov?

Ilya inclined his head.

Пожалуйста, пусть это выглядит круто. черт. подожди. Я имею в виду (Please let that look cool. Fuck. Wait. I mean)…

The panic must have shown on his face, because Hollander huffed out a laugh and spoke aloud for the first time that day.

"It's not just me, then?"

"No." Ilya said. His throat was sore. He took another sip. Hollander watched him. "It's not just you."

"Shit." Hollander's head hit the wall behind him with a thunk as he gazed up at the ceiling. "I was hoping I was just going crazy."

"Could still be possible." Ilya offered helpfully. Hollander laughed, looking at him again.

"Fuck you, Rozanov."

Если хочешь (If you want).

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Ilya held out his waterbottle to distract him. Hollander shook his head. Ilya rattled the bottle, the water sloshing around appealingly. With a reluctant sigh, Hollander reached for it. His arms were so long, he barely needed to lean forward. Their hands touched.

Hollander's hand was warm and sweaty. His fingers were calloused. It was a nice hand, objectively — Ilya hadn't really noticed in Saskatchewan. Proportionate. If you were into that sort of thing, which Ilya didn't think he was. The touch lingered, just a little.

Это он (Is he)…?

Ilya knew Hollander didn't speak Russian, but he was struck with a sudden, overwhelming fear that he would somehow unintentionally translate his internal monologue, and even though he wasn't looking in his eyes, and he was pretty sure by now that that was a requirement, he shut that train of thought down before it could go any further. Instead, he focused his eyes on the waterbottle as Hollander raised it high enough to waterfall into his pink mouth.

Ilya tried not to think about that either.

"What a fucking day, huh?"

Hollander nodded, swallowing.

"Was it everything you hoped?"

A flash of defiance sparked in his brown eyes. Ilya couldn't look away.

Almost.

Ilya forced his mouth into a sympathetic grimace, but he couldn't suppress the telltale uptick at the corner of his lips.

Sorry.

Hollander laughed again.

No you're not.

Ilya shrugged. Hollander passed the waterbottle back, and shifted like he was thinking of getting up. Suddenly, Ilya didn't want the conversation to end.

"So… Montreal."

Hollander's eyes narrowed.

"What about it?"

"Nothing! I, ah… I hear is nice!"

"It is." Hollander agreed, a little defensive. Then, seemingly catching himself, "Boston is nice too."

Boston.

It was finally starting to feel real — living in a new country, all alone (except for his teammates), with nothing to do but play hockey all day. Ilya's dream since he was 13. And it occured to him that he knew almost nothing about Boston as a city. Ilya fought to keep the nerves out of his voice.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Hollander had apparently decided Ilya's interest was genuine. "I mean, it's historic. There's museums and statues and stuff all over. And I hear the team's decent too. Terrible center, though." He smiled cautiously.

Ilya almost cackled with delight.

Ah, Hollander's got jokes.

Fuck off.

Their eyes held a beat too long.

Qu'est-ce qu'on fait (What are we doing)?

"I don't speak French, Hollander." Ilya said pointedly.

Hollander drew his knees up, a defensive gesture that made him look strangely small, even though Ilya knew they were nearly the same height, had seen the powerful muscles rippling in his legs on that bike.

Are we going to talk about it?

Ilya shrugged.

We don't have to.

He looked away just in time, before his next thought could come to the surface.

Пожалуйста, скажи да (Please say yes).

"I think we should." Hollander said aloud. He wasn't directly looking at Ilya either, he could see out of the corner of his eye. "We need to establish ground rules."

"Ground… rules." Ilya repeated. Правила для земли (Rules for the earth)?

"Like, guidelines we can agree on. I can only hear your thoughts when we're looking straight at each other. So maybe we just… don't make eye contact, and then we don't have to worry about it."

"Your solution is for me to never look at you again?"

Hollander met his eyes, pleadingly. Ilya shook his head.

Не вариант (Not an option).

You know I don't know what that means.

Ilya tore his gaze away, back on the waterbottle in Hollander's hand.

"Then there is no problem." He said, voice filled with false cheer. "I don't know French. You don't know Russian. If we have to look at each other, just don't think in English."

"I just…" Hollander worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Ilya wanted to bite it. "I do think in English sometimes. You might too, once you're surrounded by it 24/7. We're in the same conference — Boston and Montreal play each other all the time. I want to focus on playing hockey, not worrying about you… overhearing something."

Ilya's head was starting to hurt. He wished he'd never come to this stupid gym. He wished he'd never shaken Shane Hollander's stupid hand.

"Don't worry, Hollander. I will not tell anyone your deep dark secrets. What, do you only brush your teeth once a day? Did you drink glass of wine with your parents the night before your 18th birthday?"

Hollander scowled, his face scrunching up like an angry kitten.

"Fine." He said, hauling himself to his feet. Ilya looked up at him, determinedly focusing his eyes on a freckle just to the left of his nose. "I'm going to bed. I guess I'll see you around."

"You will be seeing plenty of me." Ilya promised. К лучшему или к худшему (For better or for worse).

January 2010 — Ottawa

Shane was determined to make his last World Junior Championship perfect, and the universe seemed to be on his side so far. It was in his hometown, for one, and he had spent Christmas with his family and New Year's Eve with his team. And they'd been playing well, with two shutouts (against Kazakhstan and the Czech Republic respectively). Objectively, everything was going exactly according to plan.

Which was why he couldn't really explain the knot of dread in his stomach the night before the last game that had him jogging around the block well past the time he should have been starting his wind-down ritual.

Well, okay.

Maybe he could.

He hadn't played against Rozanov since the disastrous championship game the previous year — hadn't even spoken to him since that night in the gym. But he couldn't stop thinking about the way the sweat and water had trickled down his chin, the spark when their hands touched around that water bottle, the way his voice had sounded in his head.

It was just the adrenaline, he told himself. And the shared hallucination.

He'd broken up with his girlfriend when he got home, on the strength of adrenaline and a shared hallucination.

Shane nearly tripped on an uneven sidewalk tile, catching himself just in time. His hands dropped to his knees as he bent nearly double, breathing hard.

What was he so afraid of?

Even if Rozanov caught his eye on the ice, it wasn't like he would hear anything damning. Shane knew his brain would probably be too full of hockey to even notice the crooked smile he could already picture on dark wet lips and fuck he was thinking about it again.

Reprends-toi, mec (Get it together, dude).

One more lap.

* * *

Ilya wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Hollander seemed intent on avoiding his eyes at all costs. After all, he didn't need a witness for anything running through his mind right now. His father's voice rang in his ears.

Извинись перед Pоссией (Apologize to Russia).

His knee jiggled uncontrollably as he sat at the end of the bench, finally getting a chance to breathe after playing most of the first period. More than his fair share. And he was happy to do his part, of course. But was it enough? They'd swept Sweden — he had known they would — but Canada was putting up a fight, determined not to lose on home ice. Again.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lip at the thought of last year, and of course that was the exact moment Hollander glanced at him, head turning like he couldn't even help it as he coasted past, waiting for the play to reset.

Are you getting tired of second place?

Hollander snarled — actually snarled, like a fucking dog — and spat back,

I'm winning this game.

Ilya's coach smacked his shoulder. He hopped the boards and glided into place for the face-off.

Against Hollander. Of course.

There is not an 'I' in team, right?

There's an 'I' in 'suck my dick.'

Ilya broke eye contact before he could think something he'd regret, and Hollander won the face-off.

And the game.

The worst part of it all was, when Hollander gave him that stupid little smile — not apologetic, not gloating, just sincere — in the handshake line and said,

"Good game." See you in October,

Ilya realized it was the most alive he'd felt all night.

It's you and me. He'd thought as he moved down the line, safely out of range. I know it. You know it. We were supposed to stand alone at the top, but we will always be there together.

He also realized there was no way in Hell he could wait until October to see Shane Hollander again.

Chapter End Notes

I grew up skating but know very little about hockey, so if anything is too egregiously inaccurate, PLEASE let me know!

also, I used the apple translate app for the french and russian, so if any of it is wrong, feel free to leave a comment about that too lol

this fic will probably be more of a canon rewrite than a true divergence, since I have plans for basically all the major plot points, but we’ll see how off the rails I get by the end

oh, also also, the titles of this fic are from the song “read my mind” by the killers, which is so deeply hollanov coded imo and I highly recommend you listen to it if you’ve never heard it before

ABSOLUTELY INFINITE GRATITUDE FOR MY BELOVED BETA NotEnoughPoodles — literally none of this would be possible without you!!!!

Chapter 2: the honest man

Chapter Summary

the photoshoot (and events immediately following)

July 2010 — Toronto

It was still early days, but Shane was pretty sure he would never be fully comfortable doing photoshoots. He had been thrilled to sign the endorsement deal with CCM, of course, but the reality of what he had agreed to was finally setting in as he stepped onto the pristine ice, trying to work through his nerves under the guise of warming up. He could feel his mom's watchful gaze from the stands like pinpricks on the back of his neck as he put himself through some simple drills — edges, then a couple lazy laps. He knew how much this deal meant to her, how hard she had worked to arrange it, but for some reason he was struggling to care about his career right now. Instead, his skin was buzzing with the knowledge that Rozanov was in this building somewhere, probably still in hair and makeup, having his golden curls tamed into something more camera-friendly. That bothered Shane, for some reason, the thought of them combed and straightened, slicked down so they wouldn't be in the way. With gel or some cream or something, not sweat like —

Shane skated faster, but he could barely feel the rush of air through the makeup caking his face. He wondered if they'd put makeup on Rozanov. He didn't need it.

And then, like he'd been summoned by Shane's thoughts, there he was, sitting in the box, fiddling with his skates. Shane skidded to a stop in front of the boards, meeting Rozanov's eyes with what he hoped was a casual nod.

"You look pretty." But they covered your freckles. Rozanov looked away almost immediately, his face going carefully blank. Weird, but Shane was too anxious to care.

"Yeah, they said it was easier to go full-coverage, I guess? It just looks better under the lights." Rozanov wasn't wearing a helmet, so Shane allowed himself half a moment to take in the sharp angles of his face, appreciating that they hadn't ruined his hair, before their eyes met again. Anyway, you're wearing makeup too.

Yes, but I don't look pretty.

When he'd said it aloud, Shane had brushed it off as a chirp. But he was started to get used to this… thing, between them. Shared hallucination or not, Rozanov's thoughts always sounded frighteningly genuine. Which meant...

Shane looked away, grateful for the foundation covering his blush.

He really thinks I look pretty.

He didn't have time to decide how he felt about that before the director was calling them over, delivering instructions like a long-suffering drill instructor. They'd be doing most of their photos separately, he explained, some action shots, some posed, and then a few together at the end. Shane let himself be led over to one side of the ice for the first batch, following orders on autopilot, letting his limbs be maneuvered like an oversized Ken doll.

"Good, Shane, can you rotate your left foot out a bit? Yep, like that, great. Great. Got it. Okay, can someone pass him the stick? Thanks, Bridget. So just hold it like you would naturally. Is that — a little more naturally. Okay. Um, yeah, that works. Can you just… Bridget, can you… yeah, arm a little more extended, okay. Perfect. Head down a little more… good, okay."

Shane couldn't tell if he was doing a good job or not, but no one seemed to be too annoyed with him, and time passed in a blur until they were on to the last shot of the day — both of them skating up to center ice, then slamming their sticks down for the puck drop. It should have been easy; they'd both done it countless times. But Rozanov had suddenly made it his life's mission to ruin every take as soon as their eyes met.

Did they make you do the shirtless ones too?

"Cut!"

Hollander, you are sweating like pig.

"Cut."

The next take, Shane was determined to be good no matter what Rozanov threw at him, attempting to embody "intensity" like the director wanted. But he didn't have to say a word — the minute their eyes met, Shane felt his lip twitch, and that broke Rozanov too.

"Cut. Guys, I know we all want to go home, but we're so close. Really. Just… try it one more time?"

"I can't — I'm sorry!" Shane spluttered, the lights nearly blinding him when he turned to appeal to the team behind the camera. "He's making me laugh!"

"Alright, one last try."

Shane found his mark again and turned his eyes to the ceiling, taking a deep breath.

Mets ta tête dans le jeu (Get your head in the game), Hollander.

"Aaaaand… go!"

He took off towards the center line, skidded to a stop, and slammed his stick down, meeting Rozanov's eyes, sparkling blue and green and gold — and this time, neither of them laughed. Shane was spellbound.

Ce n'est pas juste pour quelqu'un d'être aussi magnifique (It's not fair for anyone to be that stunning).

У меня проблемы (I'm in trouble).

"Uh… that'll do it. Thanks, fellas."

Rozanov's shoulder bumped Shane's as they jostled to get through the gate, and then they were off the ice. Shane didn't think he'd ever get used to the feeling of coming back to earth when his blades hit the rubber. It felt almost jarring, clunking awkwardly towards the benches when they'd just been flying across the rink. He unlaced his skates, glancing up at the stands where his mom had been. Her seat was empty. When he picked up his phone, which had been laying on the bench next to his guards, he saw she had texted him: she was going back to the hotel to deal with some emails. The film crew was heading out too, chatting quietly amongst themselves as they finished packing up. No one spared a second glance at Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov sitting side by side on a bench, silently unlacing their skates. He wasn't sure what to do with the thrill that rushed through him at the thought.

"When did they tell you, you do commercial with me and not just alone?"

Shane startled, then tried to pretend he hadn't. Judging by the smirk at the corner of Rozanov's mouth, it hadn't worked. "I don't know, like a couple days ago? Why, when did they tell you?"

"They tell me nothing." Rozanov pulled one skate off, then the other. "It was my idea."

Why?

Shane tried to catch his eye, but Rozanov seemed completely focused on wiping his blades with a cloth, so he settled for an awkward and deeply inadequate,

"Oh."

* * *

Ilya had seen Hollander rush into the locker room while he'd taken his time removing and returning his borrowed gear, so part of him had been convinced Hollander would be long gone by the time he stepped into the shower.

No such luck.

Or, depending on how he looked at it, all the luck in the world.

Ilya couldn't resist taking the shower directly across from Hollander, but he didn't try to catch his eye. Instead, he turned his back, soaping himself up, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, Hollander might peek. Might… he couldn't let himself finish the thought. But Ilya was proud of his body — he'd worked hard for it. And every hour in the gym, every early practice, every trainer-mandated awful protein shake would be worth it if… as Ilya massaged a sore muscle in his back, he risked a covert glance over his shoulder.

Hollander's big brown eyes met his, widened helplessly, too late to take back the thought Ilya had been waiting to hear.

Holy fuck.

So finally, just for a moment, Ilya let himself look. Really look. Shane Hollander's shoulders were broad and straight, his posture ridiculously good, especially for a hockey player. Ilya's eyes trailed down his shapely chest, settling on his slutty little waist and just below that —

Desire and pure glee flickered like twin flames in his gut.

Hollander was hard.

Their eyes locked again, Hollander blushing furiously.

Fuck off. It's nothing.

Ilya glanced down, then back up.

Doesn't look like nothing.

Heart pounding in his chest, hardly believing his own nerve, Ilya stroked himself. Hollander's gaze dropped, following the movement like he was hypnotized. Then he tore his eyes away, turning to face the wall.

"Not here."

Ilya shrugged like it didn't matter to him either way, but his heart leapt.

Это не нет (That's not a no).

He didn't follow Hollander when he left to get changed, just in case he'd already pushed it too far. But again, he had underestimated him. When Ilya walked out of the shower, towel slung artfully low on his hips, there he was, fumbling with his shoe on the bench like he hadn't been waiting. He glanced up, out of the corner of his eye. Ilya met his gaze square on.

Can we just pretend that never happened?

Is that what you want?

Maybe if they'd been speaking aloud, Hollander would have had the chance to lie. As it was, Ilya heard his knee-jerk reaction.

No.

Hollander's cheeks flamed red under his freckles again as he turned his head, eyes trained on the shoe. Christ, he blushed so easily. Ilya stepped a little closer.

"What is your room number?"

A half second's hesitation, just long enough for cold dread to sink in Ilya's stomach. Then,

"Fourteen ten."

"If I knock on door of room 1410 tonight… maybe around nine?"

Hollander's voice was carefully controlled.

"I might open."

Suddenly Ilya could breathe again.

"I might knock."

 * * *

It was 8:55 and Shane was freaking the fuck out. He'd somehow kept it together through dinner with his mom, who hadn't seemed to notice how quiet he was being. Maybe she'd thought he was tired. To be fair, he had been. He'd wished her goodnight at 8:00 and retreated to his room, ostensibly to get an early night's rest before their flight tomorrow morning.

He didn't feel tired now.

His whole body was vibrating with adrenaline like only a minute had passed since he'd walked out of that shower, instead of hours. He was starting to feel genuinely concerned that the sight of Ilya Rozanov's cock had somehow fundamentally altered his brain chemistry, and he might never feel normal again. A wild voice he hardly recognized as his own shouted from a very deep pit in the backyard of his mind palace,

Ça vaut le coup (Worth it).

Ilya Rozanov was coming here. To this room. Ilya Rozanov was going to knock on the door. Of this room.

Et s'il ne le fait pas? Et si je me promène comme un idiot, que je me mets dans une frénésie, et qu'il ne se montre même pas (What if he doesn't? What if I'm pacing around like an idiot, working myself into a frenzy, and he doesn't even show)?

With a sickening lurch, Shane realized that he really, really wanted Rozanov to show. His brain helpfully provided crystal clear HD images of Rozanov's naked body — the gold cross hanging between his pecs, the absolutely fucking ridiculous washboard abs, the comically round ass (who the fuck had an ass like that? It should be illegal, Shane decided indignantly.) — and then the mental image was panning around to the front, and just the memory made his mouth go dry.

He'd been an athlete his whole life. He'd been in countless showers, had seen countless bodies, not that he'd been really looking. None of them had had this kind of impact. Not once had he been forced to beat a hasty retreat, look at himself in the mirror, and come face to face with the fact that he wanted to put his mouth on every inch of someone's skin.

Shane had been so busy freaking out about Rozanov's body, he had almost forgotten he had a whole other thing to freak out about — maybe because when he wasn't actively experiencing it, he was trying to convince himself it didn't exist.

He and Rozanov could hear each others' thoughts.

Fuck. How would this even work? Rozanov was going to take one look at him and see everything Shane was trying to keep under control, everything he hadn't even fully come to terms with about himself.

Il ne parle pas français. Tout ce que vous avez à faire est de penser en français, et tout ira bien (He can't speak French. All you have to do is) think in French, and everything will be fine).

It was like trying to pat his head and rub his stomach, thinking in one language and speaking another, but Shane could manage it. He had to.

Shane had entered a state that wasn't exactly "calm," more like "so out of his mind panicked he'd gotten past fear into radical acceptance," when he heard a knock at the door. Heart in his throat, he checked the peephole, then turned the handle. The door was only half open when Rozanov slipped through, looking exactly as devastatingly handsome as Shane had hoped his memory was exaggerating.

"Rozanov," he heard his own voice say. The man just smirked, damn him, like they were in on a joke.

"Hollander."

Rozanov walked a little further into the room like he was genuinely interested in the wallpaper, then slowly circled back, into Shane's personal space, until he was nearly pressing himself against the door, cursing himself for the telltale hitch in his breath.

Their eyes locked.

This is such a bad idea, Shane thought frantically, already breaking the only rule he'd set for himself.

What is?

Thankfully, Rozanov didn't seem to actually expect an answer, because Shane was in no state to give him one. He just leaned in, slowly enough that Shane had time to consider pushing him away, but before he had made up his mind, Rozanov's lips were on his. He didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't this. The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, like Rozanov was afraid Shane was about to pull away. His long fingers ghosted over Shane's jaw, tangled loosely in his hair. After a moment, Shane realized he still hadn't moved. Cautiously, he put his hand on Rozanov's waist and kissed him back, letting his eyes drop closed.

Like he'd been waiting for that exact moment, Rozanov deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the line between Shane's lips. A little lightheaded, he opened them, and Rozanov's tongue was pushing into his mouth.

Holy shit.

Ilya Rozanov's tongue was in his mouth.

And Shane… liked it. Like, really liked it. His entire body was on fire, and all he cared about was the feeling of Rozanov's hands, tilting his chin up and grabbing at his hair, and Rozanov's mouth, hot and wet against his own. As soon as he got used to one sensation, Rozanov was shifting, touching his waist, his chest, playing with the hem of his shirt, mouthing at his jaw. Shane felt him everywhere, and it still wasn't enough. He didn't think he'd ever been this hard in his life.

Shane had never kissed a man before, and two of his last three still-online braincells wondered idly if it was always like this. If that was the problem with every kiss he'd ever had, not the petty shit he'd told himself — that he didn't like the way lip gloss made everything sticky, or the way long hair tangled in his fingers. The third braincell whispered that maybe it wasn't just that Rozanov was a man, it was that Rozanov was… Rozanov.

Then Rozanov broke the kiss to pull off his shirt and the blood rushing in Shane's ears on its way to his dick drowned out all rational thought. He started tugging his own shirt up, Rozanov helping him pull it over his arms, which should have felt awkward but somehow wasn't. Their lips met again, more urgently this time. Shane's hand grazed the front of Rozanov's jeans and, before he could think better of it, cupped him through the denim. Rozanov moaned softly, and suddenly Shane thought he might actually die if he he didn't touch his dick in the next five seconds. He fumbled with the fly and wrapped his hand around it, and Rozanov gasped, breaking the kiss as Shane followed his gaze down to his own hand in another man's pants, thinking desperately, Fuck. This is really gay, then back up until their eyes met. Oh god, he wanted…

Chickening out already, Hollander?

Not a chance.

Shane dropped to his knees on the crusty hotel carpet and pulled Rozanov's jeans and underwear down, still holding his gaze.

Fuck. Ты станешь моей смертью (You will be the death of me).

Rozanov's head dropped forward and he braced himself on the door as Shane, very carefully, pressed his tongue to the head of his cock. It tasted… he licked again, barely noticing Rozanov's hiss. It tasted like skin, a little salty with sweat and the precum beading from the slit. Eyes drifting closed, Shane took him a little deeper, and Rozanov groaned, murmuring something in Russian that Shane couldn't understand, but the tone still sent a thrill down his spine.

Time went hazy, the same way it sometimes did when Shane was running plays in his head. His world narrowed to his hands and mouth, where Rozanov's cock sat warm and heavy on his tongue. He lost himself in the sensation, licking and sucking, lips stretched wide, too far gone to be bothered by the drool dripping down his chin, encouraged by the gasps and little moans slipping from Rozanov's mouth like he couldn't help it. He had no idea how long it had been, or if he'd been doing a good job, when he bobbed his head a little deeper and Rozanov suddenly yelped,

"Stop! Stop, stop."

Shane practically leapt to his feet, Rozanov's eyes finding his with unerring precision just as he thought,

Shit. That was probably terrible.

Not terrible. Opposite, Rozanov assured him, and Shane appreciated the consolation almost as much as he hated himself for letting Rozanov see he'd needed it. Is… first time?

Shane winced, turning his eyes to the floor.

"That obvious?"

Rozanov's thumb grazed his chin, softly guiding his face back up. Their eyes met. A slow smile bloomed at the corners of Rozanov's lips, but it wasn't mocking. Suddenly brave, Shane asked,

Have… have you? With a man?

Yes.

Really? With who, another player?

My coach's son. Back in Russia.

Rozanov's eyes drifted away, clearly avoiding the chance of sharing too many details, and settled on Shane's cock, straining against the fabric of his pants. He clicked his tongue sympathetically.

"Did you like sucking my dick?"

The answer flashed into his mind before Shane could stop it, just in time for Rozanov to meet his eyes again.

Yes.

"You want me to lie on the bed and let you do it some more?"

"Let me?" Shane's laugh came out breathy as Rozanov's lips traced a vein down his neck. In a low mumble, right next to his ear, Rozanov said,

"Sure. I'm a nice guy."

"I don't think you are," Shane said with a wide grin, and shoved him backwards. Rozanov went easily, kicking off his pants to sprawl on the bed, smiling like there was nowhere he'd rather be. Shane's mouth went dry. Rozanov was all muscle and smooth skin, shimmering with sweat, golden in the low light. His eyes sparkled. His cock bobbed, red and angry and fucking huge. He looked…

Jesus.

"Nope. Just me."

"Fuck off," Shane laughed, and suddenly the spell was broken.

"I want to see you." Rozanov pouted. "This is a bit…" he gestured to his own naked body, as if Shane needed a reminder, "not fair."

"You saw me in the showers," Shane said, suddenly defensive.

"So? I want more."

Something in Shane's heart lurched at how easily the words had fallen from Rozanov's lips, like it was so simple for him to want something and just… ask for it. Instead of dwelling on that, he pulled down his own pants and folded them neatly on the dresser. His underwear came next, he realized with trepidation. Selfconsciousness and desire fought for custody of his lone surviving braincell, but with Rozanov right there, blue eyes raking over his body like he wanted to eat him, pulling them off and leaving them on top of the pile was the easiest decision he'd ever made.

"Come here." Rozanov shifted over and patted the bed next to him. Shane tried not to seem too eager as he went, laid down next to him, and gazed up at the ceiling, hoping somehow he'd find instructions there for what came next. His head was spinning. He, Shane Hollander, was laying in a bed, naked, next to Ilya Rozanov. Surely he would wake up any minute now.

"What do you want to do?" Rozanov was asking him.

"I don't know," Shane said honestly — not because he didn't have ideas, but because he had too many.

Rozanov rolled onto his side, facing Shane but not holding his gaze, which he was deliriously grateful for because his current internal monologue was just the words "holy shit" over and over. One big, calloused hand reached over and grasped Shane's erection, making him gasp, head dropping back onto the pillows.

"Okay?"

Shane just nodded, helplessly arching into the surprisingly gentle touch. After a moment, his resolve crystallized. He lightly pushed Rozanov onto his back, slid down his body, and took him into his mouth. It was a little easier with him lying down — he had more freedom to move his head, leaving wet, open mouthed kisses down the shaft before returning to taking him as deep as he could, with single-minded determination. Spurred on by Rozanov's fingers curling in his hair, he wrapped one hand around the base and stroked until his hand met his own lips. Rozanov let out a choked moan, so he did it again, undeterred by the way the head of his cock bumped the back of his throat when he arched off the bed. It was wet and messy and it felt a little weird, just shy of painful, but Shane's competitive streak had taken over. He wanted to make Rozanov feel good. He really wanted to be good at this.

Eyes watering, Shane looked up to gauge Rozanov's reaction, only to find him staring back, babbling almost nonsensically,

Fuck, Hollander, look at you. Так чертовски идеально, о боже, ты такой невероятный, пожалуйста (So fucking perfect oh my god you are unbelievable just like that please).

Something about knowing that he was doing this to him — that Rozanov was falling to pieces under his mouth, his hands — made Shane's already hard cock ache, desperately leaking onto the sheets.

"Hollander…"

This time it sounded more like a warning, so Shane backed off, wiping saliva from his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. Rozanov took hold of his own cock and jerked himself roughly, spilling all over his own stomach. Shane watched, mesmerized. His own, neglected, dick twitched.

That is the hottest thing I've ever seen.

He already wanted to do it again. To take him deeper. To swallow down anything Rozanov would give him. Rozanov wiped his stomach clean with tissues from the bedside table and collapsed back onto the pillows with a content sigh. Shane met his eyes.

Was that OK?

Was good for first try.

So it could be better?

Rozanov laughed breathlessly and pulled him down to the pillows to kiss him, sloppy and open-mouthed and perfect, until Shane's head was buzzing happily with white noise. Then he broke away, waiting until Shane's eyes opened.

Let me show you how to do this.

Before Shane could blink, Rozanov was crawling over him, settling between his legs, and looking up at him, a small smile playing across his lips, with all the confidence of a conquering demigod.

Watch me.

What?

The flat of Rozanov's tongue hit the base of Shane's cock and traced a path all the way up to the tip, punching a moan out of him that would have been embarrassing if he wasn't so fucking gone. His entire body arched, chin lifting as his head sank into the pillows. And then — nothing.

Shane looked back down.

"Why'd you stop?"

The second their eyes met again, Rozanov was laving his tongue over the head of his cock.

Oh god that's so good holy shit —

Focus, Hollander. Rozanov's eyes crinkled with mischief. Don't you want to learn?

Shane's brain was blue-screening. He struggled to keep up.

Rozanov, please —

It can be tricky, first time, Rozanov thought at him, endlessly patient, as he took Shane deeper into his mouth. Just breathe through nose, relax throat. Like this.

Oh fuck, what are you — fuck shit oh god please don't stop oh god please fuck fuck —

Shane's entire cock was enveloped in the wet heat of Ilya Rozanov's mouth, all the way down to the base. He heard himself gasp, as if from across the room. His hips bucked involuntarily, and Rozanov didn't even flinch, just held him down and hummed with satisfaction. The vibrations zipped straight through him, bringing him tantalizingly close to the edge, and then Rozanov pulled off with a wet pop. He hadn't dropped eye contact the whole time.

I don't — just putting together a coherent thought felt like wading through molasses — I don't think I can do that.

No, probably not. Rozanov licked him again, tongue twisting, pressing into the slit as his mouth suctioned around the head. Shane fought to keep his eyes open, sparks dancing across his field of vision. I would not expect so. Is something you work up to.

Oh. Like, over time?

Yes. Rozanov seemed to think this wasn't a fucking crazy thing to say. With practice.

Just the implication was enough to send him over the edge, gasping and squirming and panting,

"Rozanov, I'm —"

But Rozanov didn't back away — if anything, he gripped him tighter, hollowing his cheeks and taking him down to the hilt as Shane spilled down the back of his throat with a cry he tried and failed to stifle with the pillow. Rozanov worked him through it until the suction crossed from pleasure-pain into overstimulation, and Shane begged, voiceless,

So good. Stop, please.

Rozanov sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth, grinning like he'd won the lottery.

"Like that," he said, completely unnecessarily, and crashed back into his side of the pillows while Shane tried to remember how to breathe.

It could have been minutes or hours later, but eventually Shane's brain whirred back into gear; he could tell because hysterical laughter started bubbling up in his chest, coming out as more of a wheeze. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and leaned forward, just in case he threw up.

Qu'est-ce que merde je viens de faire (What the fuck did I just do)?

"God, I want a cigarette." Rozanov mumbled from behind him.

"Smoking's bad for you."

"Oh, is it?"

Shane turned around, catching his eye.

You can't tell anyone. About this, or… the other thing.

What other thing? Rozanov deadpanned.

Please. My parents would have me fucking committed.

Just for sleeping with a man? Ilya clicked his tongue. Little harsh.

Fuck off. You know what I mean.

Rozanov rolled his eyes, but his internal voice softened somehow when he promised,

Hollander, look, I'm not going to tell anyone. About any of it.

Shane nodded and looked away. Rozanov didn't need to hear him spiraling.

"Okay." He said to the wall.

"Okay." Rozanov repeated. Then, after a moment, "I have early flight tomorrow, so…"

"Yeah, me too."

Rozanov stood up, stretching in a casual, unselfconscious way that still managed to show off his best attributes (which, to be fair, wasn't hard — almost all of his attributes made the list). Quickly, he gathered his clothes and got dressed. Shane forced himself to lie back on the bed, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

Si quelqu'un le découvre... oh mon dieu, si ma mère le découvre... nous serions foutus. Ils ne nous laisseraient jamais jouer dans la LNH s'ils savaient (If anyone finds out… oh god, if my mom finds out… we'd be fucked. They'd never let us play in the NHL if they knew).

When Rozanov had finished dressing, Shane sat up, eyes fixed on a mole on his left cheek. He didn't want him to hear how vulnerable he felt, exposed, still naked on the bed while Rozanov was fully clothed.

"Good night."

"Night."

Rozanov left. The door closed softly behind him.

Shane let his head fall back into the headboard, hands scrubbing over his face.

Putain de merde (Holy shit).

Chapter 3: the restless heart

Chapter Summary

rookie season, all-stars, and the nhl awards

October 2010 — Boston

There were only three things Ilya Rozanov was truly great at, so he spent most of his time practicing at least one of them. Hockey, of course. Sex. Number three, though, the art he'd probably worked hardest to hone, in two languages (plus dirty words from at least five others), was pissing people off.

Every post-game presser was his blank canvas, and today, he had a real masterpiece brewing.

"How are you feeling about finally getting to Montreal tomorrow?" a chipper young reporter asked him, pressing her microphone practically up to his chin.

"Good," Ilya replied, casually fiddling with his hair. "About time."

"Are you looking forward to beating Shane Hollander?"

Ilya shrugged, casting his eyes back and forth like he barely recognized the name, as if it weren't burned into the insides of his ear canals. "He is goalie now, yes?"

The reporter smiled broadly, retreating back into the scrum with her soundbite. Another reporter took her place.

"Hey, Ilya, at the beginning of the season you said you were gonna score forty goals your rookie season. Are you still feeling like that's going to happen?"

With positively Herculean restraint, Ilya managed to not cackle. "No, no. I never said forty goals. Is lie. Liar told you that." He paused for dramatic effect, the entire room in the palm of his hand, then leaned into the microphone and made direct eye contact with the camera. "I said fifty."

The scrum erupted with follow-up questions, but Ilya just winked, allowing himself a little smirk, his reward for a job well done, as he ducked out of the room.

"You're a fucking menace, Roz," Katherine, the Bears' long-suffering communications director, informed him in the hall. Ilya just grinned. She wasn't wrong.

Hollander услышит об этом (Hollander will hear about this one), he thought with glee. He could already picture the wrinkle forming between dark eyebrows, hear the defiant scoff. It had been two months since he'd walked out of Shane Hollander's hotel room, and the idea of playing their first NHL game against each other tomorrow had him almost giddy with excitement. He felt like a child on Christmas Eve.

For the past few weeks, Ilya had been watching the Voyageurs' pre-season game tape with a diligence bordering on religion. Even Marly had noticed, although he'd just been thrilled to see Ilya doing his homework for once. Everyone knew Hollander was his only real competition — no one else even came close to matching Ilya's points so far this season — so it was only natural to spend a little extra time observing his killer backhand. And if Ilya's mind wandered every so often, if his eyes traced over Hollander's ass instead of following the puck… well, he was a hot, young, red-blooded, (kind of ) American man. What was the harm?

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. He heard it in every footstep as he trundled down the hallway in Katherine's wake. The locker room door swung open, hit the wall, and the impact sounded like tomorrow. His phone buzzed (tomorrow) with a text from Alexei that Ilya ignored.

"Hurry up, Rozy!" Someone clapped him on the shoulder (tomorrow) as he made a beeline to his stall and yanked his jersey over his head (tomorrow). "We got a flight to catch."

* * *

"Hollander. Go," Coach Theriault barked. Shane started towards center ice, heart in his throat. They were well into the third period, and he'd somehow managed to avoid coming face to face with Rozanov so far. But the fans were screaming for it, and as the Boston coaches hid their mouths behind a whiteboard, he knew they were going to give in.

And there it was — Ilya Rozanov was hopping the boards to take his place in the circle. The referees watched him like a hawk, ready to call interference if he pulled any shit, but Rozanov didn't even open his mouth as she settled into position. He just looked Shane directly in the eye and thought,

Shane Hollander. Will you disappoint them?

Shane grinned back. There was something intoxicating in the knowledge that no one — not the refs, not their teammates, not the roaring crowd — could hear them. Rozanov wasn't performing for an audience right now, the way he had been all night. This was just for him.

Nope.

The puck dropped. Shane's stick was already moving as he took off with it toward the goal.

January 2011 — Nashville

Ilya knew it was a huge honor to be chosen for All-Stars his rookie year, but as he stared down the barrel of a dozen or so cameras and a room full of reporters, it felt more like a cosmic punishment. The 2011 NHL All-Stars Game was themed "Team North America vs. Team Europe," pretty transparently just because the league would take any opportunity they could get to pit him and Hollander against each other. Ilya thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Sure, he'd played along with it in interviews — and sure, he spent an unhealthy percentage of his waking hours thinking about Shane Hollander hooking that puck out from under him like it was as child's play — but now it was robbing them of an opportunity to play on the same team, and it had earned him extra press responsibilities. So really, everyone just needed to get over it.

The last thing Ilya wanted right now was to be sitting in this stuffy room when his teammates were probably partying by the hotel pool. He would have been completely miserable if not for the fact that Hollander was sitting right next to him, looking a little nervous in a perfectly fitted suit, their elbows nearly touching. They still hadn't had a chance to talk since the summer, but for just a breath, as an aide adjusted Ilya's tie, their eyes met.

Hey.

Hi.

Later?

Yeah.

And then it began.

"Ilya, you announced at the beginning of the season that you would score fifty goals by the end of February. You've scored thirty-eight so far. Do you think you'll keep your promise?"

Ilya debated the funniest answer, but decided brevity was best. He waited another moment longer, then leaned into the microphone.

"Yes."

Only a few people chuckled, and Ilya winced internally. He loved chirping during post-game conferences, but this was a whole different game. These reporters wouldn't be satisfied with pithy banter, which usually helped him cover for any gaps in his English fluency — they wanted real answers.

"Shane, you've scored forty-one goals this year already. Do you think you'll beat Rozanov to fifty?"

"I don't really think about stuff like that. This is a team sport, and I'm happy when my team is doing well. I just try to contribute."

Answers like that. So many words to say absolutely nothing, but still somehow conveying responsibility and good sportsmanship. Fuck, how did Hollander do it? Ilya had been watching his interviews for months, and had yet to hear him misspeak. English or French, it didn't matter — he just took it all in stride, gorgeous and flushed and happy to be there. Ilya would have hated him for it, if any part of him was capable of hating Shane Hollander.

The next question, at least, was another softball.

"Ilya, how's it feel to play with a team of Europeans for this All-Star Game?"

"Good," Ilya said honestly, "Perfect. Locker room makes more sense than usual."

Judging by the ripple of laughter, they seemed to like that well enough, which was a relief. The conference wore on, with Hollander effortlessly spewing diplomatic word salad and Ilya just trying to keep up. By the time a comms staffer in the corner finally announced the next question would be the last, Ilya was sweating under the lights, his brain nearly leaking out of his ears, so of course the last reporter stood up and rattled off an absolute doozy.

"Question for Ilya first, but it'll be the same for Shane. Boston is an Original Six legendary team that's struggled to get to the playoffs for the past three seasons. How much pressure do you feel from the fans, from the hockey world in general, to restore Boston to its former glory, and how much of that do you take personally?"

Ilya hesitated, unsure how to answer without making it obvious he'd completely lost the thread. Immediately, Hollander's foot tapped his under the table, and he caught Ilya's eye.

Can I…?

Please.

"Sorry, not to jump the gun here, but with Rozanov's permission…"

Ilya nodded for the benefit of the cameras, hoping the overwhelming relief didn't show on his face. Hollander continued, haltingly at first, but gaining momentum as he went on.

"I can't speak for Rozanov, or what it's like in Boston, but I know the fans in Montreal love their team and definitely are expecting us to turn things around and get back in the playoffs and win some cups. And, you know, I feel the exact same way. So… I guess my answer is that I don't really feel any pressure that I'm not already putting on myself."

"Ilya?"

Ilya leaned into the microphone again, a little awestruck. Somehow, his voice sounded passably nonchalant.

"What he said."

Everyone laughed, although Ilya was sure it was more relief than true amusement. The room dissolved into casual conversation as people began to pack up and leave. Hollander turned to Ilya and very professionally offered his hand to shake. Despite his exhaustion, Ilya felt his lips quirk.

Little formal, no? I remember where that hand has been.

Hollander blushed and looked askance, but Ilya shook his hand anyway before he could pull it back, letting his fingers drag along the smooth skin of his palm and wrist when they broke apart. He couldn't catch Hollander's eye, but he could swear he felt him shiver. His own fingers tingled with electricity.

"See you later," Hollander mumbled, and nearly stumbled over his own chair in his rush to escape.

* * *

Usually, the All-Star competitions were little more than a sideshow event to keep everyone out of trouble the day before the game, and so the networks had something to air between talking head segments. Shane knew most of the players here didn't really take it seriously, and he couldn't blame them. But he'd been put in the shot accuracy competition against Rozanov, so he was practically vibrating with adrenaline on the bench like the stakes were his firstborn child, not just bragging rights.

They'd only played each other a few times so far this season, but Shane had been keeping up with Rozanov, and he was fucking good. Shane could count on one hand the number of players that could really keep up with him at his best, and if he was being honest, his own line barely made that list. Of course every game mattered, of course there were other times that he'd been outmatched, but when Rozanov was on the ice, it was just… different. Electric. Shane knew his hockey was steadily improving, now that he was truly pushing himself. He was playing better, smarter, faster than ever before — and Rozanov was matching him beat for beat.

The lights shifted, and the announcer's resonant voice declared the beginning of the shot accuracy contest, with the current record of 8.03 seconds held by Scott Hunter. Rozanov was up first.

Shane watched from the boards as Rozanov skated up to the net. There were four bull's-eye targets, one in each corner. Eight pucks were lined up along the blue line, but Shane knew he wouldn't need them all. The buzzer blared, and Rozanov moved, firing two perfect shots at the top two targets. He missed the third, but hit it on his second try, then nailed the fourth target.

Eight seconds on the dot.

Rozanov took a victory lap, taking in the uproarious cheers of the crowd, turning his head to give Shane a shit-eating grin as he passed.

Beat that, Hollander.

You're on.

Shane glided up to the blue line, waiting patiently for a tech to replace the pucks. Ice cold calm rushed over him. He could see the targets with perfect clarity — everything else faded away.

The buzzer sounded.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Shane came back to himself facing a wall of noise, the announcer's voice calling his time over the top of it all: 6.7 seconds.

"Let's go!"

Flushed with victory, Shane returned to his team, taking his place at the end of the bench. From the other side of the barrier, Rozanov caught his eye.

Good job.

Thanks.

You have fun last night?

Last night?

Rozanov tilted his head like he couldn't understand Shane's confusion.

With your team.

Oh. I mean, I guess I had fun, but I didn't get drunk. I don't know most of my teammates very well anyway. What about you? Did you have fun?

Yeah, it was great. No boring Canadians, no stupid Americans…

So what, just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they're in love with?

Rozanov snorted with laughter, drawing a confused look from the guy sitting next to him. He broke eye contact to explain himself in a low mumble Shane couldn't hear. Shane turned away too, but he couldn't resist watching Rozanov out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see if he'd look over again.

"Nice shooting, rook."

Shane whipped his head around to see Scott Hunter — Scott Goddamn Hunter — grinning at him.

"Thanks," he barely managed, a little starstruck. I had posters of you as a kid, and now I'm sitting next to you at the All-Stars.

Thank fucking Christ Hunter couldn't read his mind too.

"Glad to see Rozanov didn't hold my record for more than a minute," he said casually. "Was he giving you a hard time or anything?"

Shit. Maybe they'd been staring at each other too long. "No, not really. Just the usual macho bullshit. You know how it goes."

Hunter chuckled. "He's an asshole, right?"

"I mean, yeah, basically."

"Lucky me. I'm in the room next door to him at the hotel."

Weird. Why would he say that?

"Hollander!" someone called him, and the moment passed. Shane couldn't resist one more glance at Rozanov as he unlatched the gate, and he couldn't help the little thrill that went through him when he realized Rozanov was looking back.

One two two one.

What?

My room number.

Shane nearly tripped over his own skates.

* * *

If Ilya's ego was any less healthy, he would have given up hope by the time he heard the knock. It was well after midnight — he'd been back in his room for hours, pointing his face at the nearly muted TV and trying to convince himself he was actually watching despite his ears perking up at every footstep. Just to make Hollander suffer a little in return, he didn't rush to the door the way he wanted to, instead sauntering over casually like he had all the time in the world.

The instant the door cracked open, Hollander was pushing through. He nearly slammed it behind himself, then turned to Ilya, his face all scrunched up like an angry kitten.

Is someone chasing you?

I've been standing in the hallway like an idiot. Scott Hunter is right next door!

Ilya's traitorous brain marveled,

You came anyway.

Yeah. It seemed to be a little bit of a surprise to Hollander too. I guess I did.

Ilya glanced down at his own feet before he could think something embarrassing like thank fucking god. By the time he had mastered himself enough to look back up, Hollander was kicking off his shoes and lunging forward, six feet and two hundred pounds of solid muscle pressing Ilya into the wall as their lips crashed together.

It was too desperate to be a good kiss, too much teeth and tongue in a way that could have been unpleasant if Ilya hadn't been dreaming about it — about the way Hollander moaned into his mouth, grabbing at his hair and his shirt and his jaw like he wanted to swallow him whole and didn't know where to start — ever since he'd walked out of that hotel room in Toronto. God, how had he forgotten how needy Hollander was? Ilya grabbed his waist, pulling him even closer; Hollander sighed, melting into him so perfectly that he couldn't help but wonder what he'd do if…

"Get on your knees."

And Hollander just dropped, looking up at Ilya with hazy eyes, nuzzling and mouthing at him through his pants.

Woah.

Hollander seemed thrilled to have surprised him, humming happily to himself as his attention turned to tugging the waistband down, freeing Ilya's cock.

Черт возьми (Holy fucking shit), Hollander.

Ilya had been mostly kidding about teaching Hollander proper techniques last time — he hadn't actually expected him to be paying attention — but he should have known better than to underestimate him. His head hit the wall with a resounding thunk as Hollander's tongue dragged along the length of his shaft, then twisted around the head. Ilya opened his mouth to tell him he was a good student, just to see if that would rile him up even more, but Hollander chose that exact moment to wrap his lips around Ilya's cock and take him practically into his throat, and all that came out was a broken groan.

Hollander hummed again, making Ilya gasp. His hand absently snaked up Ilya's stomach, pushing his t-shirt out of the way until Ilya grabbed the hem and pulled it the rest of the way off, then stepped out of his sweatpants for good measure. All the while, Hollander's head bobbed up and down, his hands gentle, exploratory. Ilya's fingers tangled in his soft, dark hair of their own accord, just because he needed to hold on to something to keep himself upright. He couldn't help wondering if Hollander really had practiced, or if he had just been visualizing this moment, the way he visualized hockey plays, preparing for his next chance to get his mouth on Ilya.

The mental picture that created, of Hollander lying in his bed fantasizing about how he would suck Ilya's cock, had him spitting out a desperate curse and pulling away, hauling Hollander back up to his feet, kissing him hungrily, then lifting him bodily off the ground. Hollander gasped, but didn't break the kiss as Ilya walked them over to the bed and bent over to deposit him neatly onto it. They worked together to get his clothes off as quickly as possible, Ilya suddenly certain that even ten more seconds of not getting to feel Hollander's bare skin against his own might be more than he could stand. And then, finally, Hollander was naked underneath him and Ilya could press his mouth to one smooth, toned pec, working his way down his stomach the way he'd been wanting to for six long months.

Too long, he thought, almost hysterically. Don't think I can wait this long again. Oh god, Hollander, what have you done to me?

Hollander was panting and trembling before Ilya had even finished mouthing at his muscled thigh, his leaking cock sticky against Ilya's cheek.

So greedy, he thought fondly. Hollander's pupils were blown so wide, his brown eyes looked black in the dim lamplight. He was already too far gone to reply with anything coherent, just,

Oh my fucking god — please, Rozanov — fuck, I can't — please —

The noise Hollander made when Ilya took him into his mouth might haunt him until the end of his fucking days — breathless, almost anguished with need, something between a moan and a strangled whimper. It occurred to Ilya that he could happily spend the rest of his life here, holding Hollander's powerful thighs open with brute strength so he could swallow down his cock, pulling wrecked gasps and cries out of him until all he could do was beg for Ilya's dick, and — god, would Hollander let him —

Ilya fluttered his fingers over Hollander's balls, then further back until they brushed his hole. Hollander went still. Ilya pulled off him to look up.

Have you ever?

Not… not with another person. Hollander blushed.

By yourself then? Do you ever touch yourself here? Ilya illustrated his point with a lazy circle. Hollander gasped, but wouldn't meet his eyes. "What, does touching your ass make you gay?"

"Rozanov."

"'Cause you know what else makes you gay, is sucking my dick."

Incensed, Hollander finally glared at him.

I have a… a thing. Happy?

Ilya's heartbeat pounded in his own ears. He was so hard that just the friction as he readjusted on the sheets had him dangerously close to the edge.

A thing?

A dildo. Hollander was blushing tomato red. He looked away, but Ilya couldn't let this go. Fighting to catch his eye, he asked,

"What color?"

Hollander's eyes slammed shut for extra security. Damn.

"Fuck you."

"Is big?"

"I'm leaving," Hollander threatened, but he didn't actually move to get up. Ilya surrendered with a laugh, dropping open-mouthed kisses up Hollander's stomach until he was hovering over his face. Hollander's eyes opened just in time for Ilya to tell him,

I want to fuck you.

Hollander's breath hitched in the telltale way Ilya was learning meant "yes please," but he shook his head.

We can't. Not here. Not with… fucking Scott Hunter next door.

So? He is like 5,000 years old. Probably he took hearing aids out to sleep.

Hollander let out a huff of laughter, but Ilya knew he'd been serious. And honestly, he was probably right. This hotel was crawling with other players, their families, reporters… Maybe it would be hot, trying to keep quiet, but Ilya knew Hollander would just be nervous the whole time, and for something this vulnerable, he wanted him to feel safe. So…

Next time, then.

He leaned down to kiss him, but Hollander pulled back.

Next time?

Yeah, we're playing Montreal in two weeks.

But where would we…

You are homeless?

Hollander's eyebrows scrunched together like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

No…

Then we meet at your house.

It's an apartment. He was going stiff in Ilya's arms, eyes losing focus.

"Hollander, you are having panic attack." Ilya squeezed his upper arms. Shit. Maybe he'd pushed too hard, trying to schedule something in advance. "Is no big deal. Just a plan to fuck."

After a moment, he nodded. Ilya was so relieved, he let his own head drop down to kiss him. Hollander kissed back the way he always did, like he'd been starving for Ilya's lips, eagerly accepting the tongue Ilya pushed into his hot wet mouth. Ilya wrapped one hand around Hollander's still-hard cock, but paused when he felt him start to freeze up again.

"Maybe we should do this in the shower instead. The water will drown out… anything."

Yes. Whatever you want. Please just touch my dick, Ilya thought frantically, not even realizing Hollander had been looking at him until he laughed and pushed him off. Ilya rolled onto his back with a dramatic groan, which made Hollander chuckle again. Then, thank fucking god, he grabbed Ilya's wrist and practically dragged him into the bathroom.

* * *

Shane's limbs felt pleasantly loose and his head buzzed with white noise as he pulled his clothes back on. Rozanov sprawled on the bed in just his towel, looking absurdly comfortable. Absently watching his own fingers tie the drawstring of his sweatpants, Shane said,

"Um…"

Rozanov waited silently for Shane to gather his thoughts. Suddenly paranoid about being overheard — as if they hadn't already said way more incriminating shit aloud in the past half hour — Shane looked up at him.

I know we said… Montreal. But we probably shouldn't. Right? Like, we really shouldn't have even done this.

Rozanov got up and stalked towards him like a panther. Shane just watched him, helpless. Somehow, his spent cock managed a twitch of interest. Then Rozanov stopped, directly in front of him, and held out one hand.

Give me your phone.

Shane's hand was reaching into his pocket before he even made the conscious choice. He handed it over, grinning when Rozanov started entering himself into his contacts as "Lily."

"What's my name gonna be?" he asked. Rozanov sent himself a text, returned Shane's phone, then reached over to grab his own off the dresser. He looked up at Shane with an answering smirk.

"Jane."

As Shane closed the hotel room door behind him, his phone dinged with a message.

* * *

Ilya snorted, torn between amusement and frustration. He could feel his leg bouncing out of control as he gazed out the airport window at the snow falling over the empty tarmac.

"What's up with you?" Marlow asked, bumping their shoulders together in a gesture he probably intended as "brotherly concern," but Ilya, feeling deeply ungenerous, was interpreting as "meddling shithead."

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Fuck you," Ilya said on autopilot, his eyes fixed on the assistant coach approaching the cluster of players as if he didn't already know the news about to be delivered.

"Sorry, boys. No one's getting into Montreal today. Two feet of snow."

Ilya rolled his eyes. His teammates grumbled amongst themselves as they got to their feet around him, grabbing their bags, but he couldn't bring himself to move, like maybe if he waited another five seconds, someone would declare it was all a mistake and the game could go on anyway.

"It's a night off, man, not the end of the world." Marlow told him.

"Yeah, whatever."

Marlow looked at him the same way he had when Ilya had accidentally stolen a bottle of vodka from their favorite bar, then tried to return it the next day — his patented "sharing valuable wisdom with the rookies" face.

"Look, whoever she is, she's gonna get over it."

Ilya was worried that if he opened his mouth he would say something irrecoverably embarrassing or mean, so he didn't. Marlow took the hint and left him alone.

* * *

"Hey, you don't want to come over to my place for dinner tonight, do you?"

Shane looked up from his phone to see Hayden Pike standing over him, looking a little nervous.

"What?"

"Since there's no game? Come for dinner. Jackie said it's cool. Oh, that's, uh.. that's my wife." Shane's uncertainty must have been more obvious than he would have liked because Pike added, enticingly, "She can throw on some steaks."

"I'm on a macrobiotic diet," Shane offered, bracing for the inevitable weird look that statement always earned him, but Pike just grinned.

"Buddy, I don't even know what that means. But Jackie can cook anything."

A sudden rush of fondness nearly drowned out Shane's frustration about not getting to see Rozanov tonight. Pike was just so… himself. Shane admired that about him. Nobody ever gave him a hard time — even if they tried, it just seemed to roll right off his back. He liked Pike a lot, actually; in the past six months, he and JJ Boiziau had been the only ones to make a real attempt to reach out to the rookies, including him in nights out (that he actively dreaded) and inside jokes (that he usually found deeply unfunny). Part of him wanted to just go home and sulk, but his mom kept telling him how important it was to get to know his teammates, and he didn't really have a good excuse to turn Pike down…

"Hey, if you have other plans, that's totally cool."

Shit. He'd been deliberating too long. Shane shoved his phone into his pocket and summoned something he hoped could pass for a winning smile.

"No, I want to watch you eat my disgusting food. Let's do it."

He was rewarded with a burst of enthusiasm that buoyed his shitty mood into genuine good cheer. Pike practically yelled,

"Fuck, yes! Oh my god, Jackie's gonna be so happy. She's obsessed with being the first WAG to feed you." Shane wasn't sure how to feel about that, but thankfully Pike didn't seem to expect a response as he pulled out his own phone. "I'm gonna text her right now, actually. 'Bird food only.'"

Shane smiled. Pike was a good guy. He hated to admit it, but he did need to start making more of an effort to socialize with the other Voyageurs. After all, this was his life now. It was time he got used to it.

* * *

Ilya's house was completely dark when he got home, punching in the front door code by muscle memory. He didn't even bother to turn on the lights as he slung his bag down in the foyer and headed into the kitchen, illuminating the front room with the ghostly blue of the fridge light. Movement flickered in the corner of his eye. He whirled, gasping,

"Господи (God)!"

Svetlana switched on the lights and shouted,

"Сюрприз (Surprise)!"

Ilya clutched at his chest and slumped against the counter.

"Черт, Света, ты пытаешься меня убить? Что ты вообще здесь делаешь (Fuck, Sveta, are you trying to kill me? What are you even doing here)?"

Svetlana crossed her arms. "Быть милой, но я уже жалею об этом (Being nice, but I already regret it)."

"Звучит как ты (Sounds like you)."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Иди на хуй, Илья (Go fuck yourself, Ilya)."

Ilya sighed, starting to feel a little guilty. He was happy to see Svetlana, really — and god knew he had plenty of energy to burn off.

"Прости. Я не ожидал тебя. Как ты знал (I'm sorry. I didn't expect you. How did you know) —"

"Что твоя игра была отменена? Это было объявлено, придурок (That your game was canceled? It was announced, asshole)."

Her voice had softened despite the harsh words. Ilya leaned in to kiss her, but Sveta scoffed and backed away, letting him follow her like a dog as she said, teasingly,

"Ты меня не заслуживаешь. Я должна идти (You don't deserve me. I should go)."

God, she was perfect.

Ilya glanced at his phone and felt like he'd been dunked in cold water. Fuck, Hollander was ruining everything.

"Хорошо, теперь я действительно ухожу, кусок дерьма. развлекайся с (Okay, now I'm really leaving, you piece of shit. Have fun with)…" Svetlana peered over the top of his phone, "Jane."

Ilya practically threw the phone onto the counter like it had burned him.

Его здесь нет. Света здесь (He isn't here. Sveta is). He told himself sternly, and locked the part of him still thinking about freckles and shoulders and quads into a tiny box in the very back of his mind.

Svetlana looked up at him, her curly hair soft under his fingers, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. Ilya let himself be taken away by the comfortable familiarity of her perfume, slipping his other hand under her shirt and around her waist as he backed her into the dining room table. She fell like she already knew the choreography, with Ilya's hand behind her head as she hit the solid hardwood. Her legs came up to bracket his hips. Their lips slotted together like puzzle pieces. It was a good kiss, like always — soft and wet and filthy as Svetlana slipped her tongue into his mouth just the way he liked. Ilya drew back just far enough to press his lips against her cheek, her jaw.

"Как я могу загладить свою вину (How can I make it up to you)?" he mumbled against the sensitive skin behind her ear, making her giggle breathlessly.

Fuck, he loved Svetlana so much. He loved being with her. He loved fucking her. She was his best friend. Everything was just… easy. Ilya closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that that could be enough.

Только на сегодняшний вечер (Just for tonight).

* * *

Dinner with the Pikes was… fun. More than Shane had been expecting, if he was honest. He was a little surprised to realize that he liked Jackie a lot too, maybe even more than he liked Hayden. She smiled easily and laughed loudly, and she never laughed louder than when Hayden was making a fool of himself. Hayden didn't seem to care whether she was laughing at him or with him — he grinned just as widely when she giggled at his jokes as he did when she made fun of him for wiping out on the ice in New York the week before. They were a good match, Shane decided (not that his opinion mattered in the slightest). They fit well together. And he'd had a really nice time. He'd only texted Rozanov once, just because he was still overthinking being sarcastic earlier, but he hadn't gotten a reply. Maybe he was out with his friends too.

As Shane drove home, a quiet voice in the back of his head wondered if he would ever find something like that — a love that felt as easy as breathing.

He didn't think so.

June 2011 — Las Vegas

"And the nominees for Rookie of the Year are… Shane Hollander, the Montreal Voyageurs. Vincent Lemaire, the Minnesota Wild. And Ilya Rozanov, the Boston Bears. And the Rookie of the Year is…"

Any other year, Shane knew he would have been a shoe-in. Sixty seven goals, getting his team to playoffs for the first time in years… but Rozanov had done both things too. They'd sat him near the aisle, which could be a good sign, but he was sure every nominee had been seated conveniently, just in case. He couldn't think of a single factor in his favor or Rozanov's — it was just a roll of the dice. Shane held his breath. His mother's hand clutched his arm so tight, it was nearly cutting off circulation, but it felt grounding, not painful. His dad was sitting on his other side, completely stonefaced the way he always was when he didn't want to get his hopes up. Shane had time to realize that he was probably doing that too before he heard,

"Shane Hollander!"

The room exploded with applause, three separate people leaning over the seats to pat Shane on the back or shake his hand as he got to his feet, wobbling like a newborn giraffe. His mom steadied him, holding both his hands as he clambered past her. She didn't let go until he was standing in the aisle, hoping it wasn't obvious how close he was to throwing up. It was so loud, he read her lips more than he heard her say,

"I'm so proud of you, honey."

"I love you," he choked out.

"I love you too. We love you so much."

And then his feet were moving and suddenly he was standing on the stage and someone was pressing a glass plaque into his hands and he was thinking desperately, Fuck, don't drop it, don't drop it, and then he was standing in front of a microphone and oh god he was going to throw up. Shane forced himself to swallow, then curved his lips up into a smile. His eyes scanned the room, pausing on his parents, Hayden, JJ, and —

Папа, черт возьми, никогда не забудет это (Papa is never going to fucking let this go).

"Um." Was that his voice? "I just wanted to say thank you to my parents, and of course, my team. This has been the best year of my life, and I just feel so lucky to be here. So, thanks again."

He raised the plaque over his head, the roar of the crowd somehow more visceral in a theater than the stadiums he was used to. And then it was over.

Thank fucking god.

Shane walked back down the aisle as the next award was announced, but he couldn't hear it over the pounding of his own heart. It wasn't until he was safely back in his seat, clutching the plaque like it might disappear into thin air if he didn't hold it tight enough, that it finally started to sink in.

Holy fuck, I actually did it. I won. I beat Rozanov at something — something real. A tangible milestone.

Then he remembered that weird moment onstage, when his eyes had met Rozonav's just for a moment. Shane hadn't made an effort to learn any Russian (honestly, the idea felt kind of invasive, given the circumstances), but he knew what "Papa" meant. And the look in Rozanov's eyes hadn't been jealousy, exactly. It was more like... dread. Shane thought about his brief glimpse of Rozanov's dad at the draft and felt a prickle of discomfort on the back of his neck.

* * *

Ilya ditched the party almost immediately after Shane Hollander entered, smiling like this was the best fucking day of his life, flanked by his equally beautiful, loving parents. Ilya couldn't hate him for that, no matter how badly he wanted to — if it had been him on that stage, he was sure he would have gotten himself fined for rubbing the win in Hollander's face. He couldn't decide if it was better or worse that Hollander hadn't mentioned him at all.

He'd looked at him, though. Ilya wished he hadn't. He'd been feeling sorry for himself, already dreading his father's inevitable phone call. What time was it at home? Morning? Would he have woken up early to watch? Or just waited to hear the results? Ilya leaned heavily on the railing, watching Las Vegas unfold beneath him. He'd always loved rooftops. Not, with… intent, exactly. It was just nice to see the world from a safe distance sometimes.

Ilya took a long inhale from the cigarette he'd smuggled in his jacket pocket, held his breath until it burned, then finally let it out in a slow, careful stream.

"I don't know if it's worth jumping over."

He almost choked on the last bit of smoke as Hollander walked up behind him, joining him at the railing. The award was gone — he'd probably left it with his parents. Suddenly, the scorch in Ilya's lungs had nothing to do with the cigarette.

"Party all done?" Ilya asked casually.

"No, I just needed some air."

Ilya took another drag. Hollander's pretty nose wrinkled, but he seemed content to just stand there in silence, looking out over the city. The moment lingered until Ilya couldn't stand it anymore.

"Big night for you."

"Yeah, well, it could have gone to either one of us."

Tell that to my father. "It went to you."

Hollander looked at him with those big brown eyes and Ilya turned, helpless to resist.

I… overheard something. Earlier. You were thinking about your dad?

What? I didn't — how did you —

"Papa" is the same in French. And English, actually.

Ilya snapped his eyes back to the horizon, praying the panic wasn't showing on his face, and bought himself a moment to think with another inhale. It's fine. He doesn't know anything. I can still play it off. He settled on,

"I go home in three days."

"Oh." Dark eyebrows scrunched in his peripheral vision. "Do… do you want to?"

Ilya's answer slipped from his tongue almost involuntarily.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. Rozanov, if your dad…"

Ilya cut him off before the wound he was prodding started to bleed.

"My life is not like yours, Hollander. I do not… " He sighed, frustrated with his own limitations. "Is not a choice."

Hollander paused. For a moment, Ilya let himself relax. Maybe he'd gotten through to him. Maybe this awful conversation was finally backing away from the cliff's edge. Then Hollander opened his perfect pink mouth again.

"I mean, I do things I don't really want to for my family too. Like, my mom booked up my entire off-season with brand shoots, and I know she means well, but I'll barely have time to breathe this summer. And she and my dad insisted on staying with me next month so they can —"

"Stop," Ilya practically begged, the jagged edges of his heart screaming for mercy. When he turned back, Hollander's head was tilted in confusion, his face open and so young. Like he'd never been screamed at, or smacked, or ignored. Like he still believed things turn out for the best and people say what they mean. Ilya let his eyes dart across his cheeks, his lips, terrified of what Hollander might see if he glanced any higher, then tore himself away. "Just leave me alone, Hollander."

He went. Ilya heard his footsteps cross the roof, nearly to the elevator, then stop.

"See you next season?"

God help him, Ilya turned. Hollander was holding out one hand to shake, like a kicked puppy desperately pulling out its final trick. The last semblance of his self control snapped. Ilya's legs carried him across the roof, backing Hollander into the wall of the elevator column. His breath hitched, eyes searching for an explanation that Ilya couldn't give him. Instead, he leaned in and kissed him, deep and filthy enough to last him two long months at home.

For one glorious moment, Hollander kissed him back. His hands scrabbled for purchase on Ilya's shoulders, the back of his neck, pulling him in closer to rut against him like a wild animal in heat. Ilya let himself imagine throwing caution to the wind, just dragging Hollander to his hotel room and giving him what he needed.

He tasted like top shelf whiskey.

Fuck.

Ilya pulled away. Hollander's eyes were hazy, his mind at war with itself.

I want — "are you fucking crazy, anyone could see —" don't stop please — "we're in fucking tuxedos —"

You're drunk.

Not that drunk.

They stood there, at an impasse, for another agonizing moment, before the laughter of a group of girls leaving the bar and heading their way seemed to bring Hollander's brain back online. He shook his head to clear it, looked at Ilya one last time — "Have fun." Be safe. — and vanished around the corner before Ilya had a chance to reply, leaving him alone on the rooftop again.

Ilya returned to his post, next to the railing. He could almost convince himself the previous five minutes had been an especially vivid stress hallucination, until he realized his cigarette was gone.

Despite himself, a wide grin cracked open Ilya's face.

That little shit.

Chapter 4: the promised land

Chapter Summary

the 2 year wait through the olympics!

August 2011 — Montreal

The summer passed in a blur. Shane was so busy with increasingly elaborate, endlessly ridiculous brand shoots, he barely thought about Rozanov at all. He worked out with Hayden. He spent time at his parents' cottage. He went clubbing with JJ once, and kissed a pretty girl with curly hair and blue eyes, and never called her back. He was fine. Everything was fine.

October 2011 — Montreal

Ilya fucking hated losing. He wasn't used to it, and he wasn't good at it. The fact that it was against the Voyageurs made it sting even worse than usual, the crowd raucous with vicious satisfaction. Even the knowledge that he'd scored one of their two goals that night (and assisted on the other) couldn't quell the acid burning in the back of his throat. He knew what would, though.

January 2012 — Tampa

The season had been going well so far. Shane was pretty sure he was finally carving a place for himself on the team. His rookie season, most of the guys had either ignored him or complained that he was showing off every time he completed a pass. But he had made friends now. And routines. Like studiously checking his texts and emails while they waited at the airport so everyone would just leave him alone for ten fucking minutes.

Shane scoffed and put his phone away before his traitorous thumbs could type something stupid like "yes please." Right on cue, JJ yelled from the other side of the lounge,

"Hollzy, we need you to settle something!"

"What?" he called back.

"Who would win in an arm wrestle, Pike or Comeau?"

Despite his best efforts, Shane could feel his eyebrows furrowing. "Why don't they just arm wrestle?"

"Because we have to bet on it first, obviously. I'm just trying to warn Drapesy he's making a bad investment."

"My money's on Pike," Shane said loyally. Hayden beamed, but Drapeau narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"How much?"

Shane winced.

"Ten?"

"See? I told you! 150 on Comeau!"

The room devolved into chaos, with Hayden valiantly defending his own honor and Shane insisting a ten dollar bet was not an insulting show of lack of faith, but rather a personal stance against gambling anything you're not ready to lose ("I've seen your fucking contract, dude," JJ retorted), culminating in a full tournament that Miity absolutely swept. Shane's phone sat, forgotten, on the bench.

April 2012 — San Francisco

Hollander didn't reply. Ilya hadn't really expected him to. He told himself he didn't care — even his notoriously high sex drive had taken a hit in the face of an absolutely brutal playoff run. The fact that Hollander was still humoring him at all kept him more hopeful than he had any right to be that next time their eyes locked, he'd be stammering out a room number.

November 2012 — Boston

Shane could feel the tips of his ears heating up as he typed, glancing surreptitiously over to make sure Hayden's eyes were firmly fixed on his own phone, just in case he'd developed mindreading capabilities too.

Rozanov sent a picture of his cock. An actual, real life, photo. To Shane's phone. Of his dick. The one attached to his body. He flung his phone down on the bed and tried to feel… offended? Grossed out? Anything but his knee jerk reaction, which had been an almost unrecognizable, all-consuming hunger. Hayden noticed, of course, because he was a good friend and Shane was probably doing something weird with his face. Also because he was a good friend, he didn't say a word, just glanced over like he was ready to step in if Shane needed him. Shane experienced a sudden urge to delete the photo, hand over his phone and ask Hayden to block "Lily," and then throw it out the window. A second, even more powerful, urge would have had him toeing on his sneakers and calling a cab from the hotel lobby. He talked himself down from both ledges, met Hayden's eyes with an apologetic huff of something like laughter, and jerked himself off in the shower later to the image burned on the inside of his eyelids.

January 2013 — Boston

Hollander didn't reply. Ilya frowned. He'd been a little proud of that one.

The gym TV was showing that stupid fucking Rolex commercial again, with Hollander in a suit like the one he'd worn at the NHL awards a year and a half ago. The last time Ilya had kissed him.

Fuck. Almost two years. Ilya's dedication was downright saintlike, really. If it weren't for the memory of Hollander's eager tongue sliding against his own, the desperate little whimpers he'd failed to choke back while Ilya swallowed down his cock, he would have started to think Hollander didn't want him. But he hadn't imagined the heat in Hollander's deep brown eyes that night on the rooftop. And he wasn't imagining the way Hollander looked at him at every face off, or the way he watched him from the bench when he thought Ilya wasn't looking. No, Hollander craved this just as much as Ilya did. What he couldn't figure out was why Hollander kept playing coy.

Ilya also wasn't sure why he even kept trying. He wasn't desperate for sex — his roster was as robust as ever. Mostly women, a few men when he was in cities where he wouldn't be recognized. There was always Svetlana, when they were both in town. No, sex he had in spades. But none of those people made him feel that electric current under his skin the way Hollander did.

He liked trouble. He always had. Maybe that was it. Bad ideas called to Ilya like top shelf vodka after a win, and fucking Shane Hollander might have been the worst idea of them all. He told himself that was why he couldn't stop thinking about Hollander's freckles, or imagining muscled thighs around his neck — just another self-destructive habit.

But a sinking feeling in his gut warned him it was something much, much worse.

April 2013 — Montreal

Shane didn't trust himself to respond, not with the adrenaline already pumping through his veins in preparation for the game. He'd say yes to anything right now, and he wanted to reply with a clear head. It was only later, safely tucked into his own bed, that he felt steady enough to open his messages again.

Fuck. Shane's dick twitched, and he bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood, trying to get ahold of himself. He'd been telling himself for months that he couldn't see Rozanov again, that he needed to get him out of his system, but no matter how much he tried to distance himself, the memory of Rozanov's hands and lips and tongue still affected him as much as ever. He couldn't even jerk off without his brain helpfully supplying images of the look on Rozanov's face when he'd taken his cock into his mouth, the string of desperate Russian he'd overheard —

And that was the real problem, wasn't it? If it weren't for the fact that Rozanov had an inside track to Shane's private thoughts, he was pretty sure he would have folded months ago. But every time he thought about Rozanov touching him, the memory was inextricably linked to an awful, vulnerable, exposed moment of Rozanov… hearing him.

Because it was awful. What else could it be? Letting anyone access his mind like that, seeing his raw, unfiltered thoughts and fantasies, hearing how desperately he needed —

With a jolt, Shane realized he was hard.

Which was fucking crazy, because of course he didn't want Rozanov to hear him whine and whimper and beg for it, to know exactly what he wanted without needing to say a word —

Almost involuntarily, Shane squirmed into the friction of his pajama pants. He palmed himself with one hand.

If they did fuck, what would that even be like? Logistically? He'd had sex with girls, and it had been… fine. But Rozanov wanted to fuck him, which was a completely different thing. Shane had played around a little, but Rozanov was so big, would it even — "Mmf" — god, how would it fit? He'd have to — "Ngh" — open him up, and it would probably take a long time, just those long, slender fingers filling him, stretching him, scissoring — "Ah!" — until he was ready, and then Rozanov would look at him and even if Shane tried to hold back his moans, he'd hear him cursing — "Fuck" — and begging — "Oh shit" — and he'd know how slowly to enter him and then — "Oh god" — he'd hear Rozanov's thoughts, telling him what a good job he was doing and how well he was taking him —

Shane's entire body arched as he came, his head driving into the pillow while his hips lifted off the bed, absolutely ruining his favorite pajamas. He collapsed back into the mattress, breathing hard, and when his hands finally stopped shaking, he texted back,

December 2013 — Montreal

Ilya was on fire the whole night — in the usual way, since he was playing like a fucking machine, and also because every time he caught a glimpse of Hollander, even out of the corner of his eye, a thrill zinged down his spine, straight to his dick. It didn't help that Hollander could barely even look at him without going pink under his helmet. Ilya didn't think he'd blushed as many times in his whole life as Hollander seemed to in a couple hours (Marly had no clue what he was fucking talking about). So, of course, he took every opportunity to get under Hollander's pretty freckled skin.

While ruthlessly checking him into the boards, You like that, Hollander?

While deking the puck around him, Too slow.

And Hollander gave back as good as he got. As they bent for the faceoff, with a shy little smirk on his face like he couldn't believe his own nerve, he'd thought, Enjoy the view. And then he'd winked. Completely floored, Ilya had been just a breath too late as Hollander swiped the puck and took off towards the goal, firing a perfect overhand top shelf shot and graciously providing Ilya with an absolutely stunning view of his ass.

Jesus fucking Christ.

To add insult to injury, it was the game-winning goal.

Ilya was so hard, he could barely see straight.

* * *

Shane paced in the hallway next to the door to the alleyway, trying to stop being nervous. It wasn't going well. He was also really fucking pissed, which should have helped, but instead was just adding more fuel to his panic. He bounced on his toes, faster and faster, trying to burn off some steam.

C'est une putain de mauvaise idée. Pourquoi est-ce que je fais ça? Je suis un idiot. Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas chez moi? Oh mon Dieu, qu'est-ce que j'ai fait. Qu'ai-je fait ? Qu'ai-je fait? Qu'est-ce que j'ai (This is such a fucking bad idea. Why am I doing this? I'm an idiot. What the fuck is wrong with me? Oh god what have I done. What have I done. What have I done. What have I) —

His phone dinged.

Shane flung the door open. Rozanov was standing in the alley, looking so unfairly, effortlessly handsome, that Shane wanted to fucking ruin him.

You will murder me?

Shane jerked his eyes away.

"Maybe," he said. Then, when Rozanov made no attempt to move forward, "Get in!"

Rozanov hadn't gotten more than two steps inside before Shane was slamming him against the wall, earning a breathy gasp that he wanted to inhale like oxygen.

Дерьмо (Shit)! Rozanov sounded more impressed than anything else, which did nothing to dampen the rage bubbling Shane's blood.

Why the fuck did you think it was okay to sext me before the game? What the fuck?

Rozanov's eyes met his as he recovered quickly and asked with a lazy smile,

You were hard, weren't you?

Shane looked away. Rozanov laughed delightedly.

"For how long? Whole game?"

Shane shook his head and started up the stairs.

"You're such a fucking asshole."

Rozanov didn't move, just leaned against the wall and pulled gently at the hem of his sweatshirt.

"You missed me, didn't you?"

Yes. "I fucking didn't!"

Rozanov laughed again, finally following Shane up the stairs. "And I still beat your ass," he added over his shoulder.

"Oh, barely."

Shane walked a little faster as Rozanov caught up, and before he knew it they were both running, elbowing and shoving at each other as they raced to the top. Suddenly, everything felt so normal that Shane forgot to be anxious. He opened the condo door and stepped aside to let Rozanov pass.

* * *

Ilya walked into the apartment (Shane Hollander's apartment!) and paused to take it in. It was well designed, objectively — modern furniture, dim lighting, big windows. Still, something about it felt a little… performative. Like someone had plucked a carefully staged picture straight out of a magazine.

"Wow, nice place."

"Thanks." Hollander followed behind him as Ilya walked into the large open-concept front room. "I bought it a couple years ago, but then this year, I bought another one right next door. I eventually might turn it into one place, but for now, I'm renting the next door one out."

As Ilya turned to face him, leaning on the massive oak dining table, he heard the tail end of the thought (Luckily they're out of town right now) and graciously pretended he hadn't.

Mr. Businessman, he teased.

Shut up.

Mr. Landlord.

You asked.

No, I didn't.

Hollander's eyes dropped. For a second, Ilya worried he'd embarrassed him, but then he realized Hollander was just staring at his lips. Relief and desire pulsed through him as he finally, finally stepped forward and gently captured Hollander's mouth with his own. After so long, he didn't want to assume anything, didn't want to risk scaring Hollander off, but as soon as their lips met, a large, warm hand was cupping the back of his neck, his thumb grazing Ilya's jaw, holding him in place. Ilya couldn't help the shaky moan that fell from his lips, which Hollander greedily swallowed, his mouth opening as the kiss deepened. Fighting for the last shreds of his self control, Ilya pulled away.

Where do you want me?

I don't care, Hollander thought back immediately, and yanked him back in to mouth along his jawline.

"In the kitchen?" Ilya suggested, only half joking. "On the floor?"

Hollander pulled back with a groan. His eyes flickered over Ilya's face like he was searching a map for landmarks.

"Bedroom," he finally decided, and pushed Ilya in the general direction of the stairs. Ilya went, and opened the first door he saw, which was, thank god, a bedroom. A well-appointed bedroom. Suspiciously well-appointed. The bed was absolutely covered in pillows.

"Did your mom buy all these pillows?"

"No. I hired someone. A designer."

Ilya glanced back at him, projecting genuine concern.

You think there is enough?

You're such an asshole.

Ilya tilted his head.

I think maybe you like it.

Hollander tilted his head the other way.

I can smell the cigarettes from here.

No you fucking can't, Ilya objected immediately. I only had one.

You shouldn't be smoking.

You shouldn't be talking.

I'm not. Hollander's eyes trailed down Ilya's body until the last of Ilya's (admittedly limited) patience crumbled.

"Come here."

"No, you come here," Hollander shot back, his eyes locked on Ilya's lips. But he did step forward, almost like he couldn't help it, and Ilya realized he had too.

"No, you come here," he insisted, just to have the last word, and then they were both moving, and Ilya couldn't resist reaching out to pull Hollander to him by the back of the neck, crashing their lips together properly this time, frantic and messy and inevitable. Hollander's fingers tangled in Ilya's hair as his other hand grabbed at his jaw. Ilya hadn't made a conscious choice to move his own hands, but he was pleasantly surprised to find them slipping under Hollander's shirt, caressing his smooth skin. His eyes met Hollander's, already half-lidded with lust, just long enough to hear,

Please, Rozanov…

Ilya swore under his breath and yanked Hollander's shirt over his head, his arms flying up easily in one smooth movement, and tossed it across the room. His own shirt followed right behind, by which point Hollander was already wriggling out of his sweats and falling to his knees, pulling Ilya's pants down his thighs. Ilya sat down hard on the end of the bed. Hollander knelt between his legs, gazing up at him.

I want —

Yes. Anything.

Ilya gasped as his cock was enveloped in the silky heat of Hollander's mouth. He bobbed his head, slowly moving down, taking Ilya deeper and deeper until he was almost fully seated in his tight throat, his tongue swirling around the shaft. His eyes were huge, the black of his pupils nearly eclipsing the brown of the irises, and Ilya was too far gone to look away, or even be embarrassed about babbling incomprehensibly,

Fuck, Hollander, just like that — О боже, чертовски идеальный рот, созданный для этого, ты мне нужен (oh god, fucking perfect mouth, made for this, need you) — don't stop — О, черт возьми (oh fuck) —

Missed this. Wanna taste you, Hollander thought back with a soft, pleased, hum. Ilya yelped as the pleasure coiling in his gut tightened perilously close to snapping.

Holy fuck stop stop stop stop —

Hollander pulled back, looking sinfully hot. His hair was ruffled, his face pink, eyes a little teary, with saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth.

Better? he asked smugly.

Too good. Can't take any more, if you still want me to fuck you.

I do, Hollander thought immediately, then let out a frustrated sigh. Fuck. I don't think I'll ever get used to this.

Same, Ilya admitted. Then, because he couldn't seem to stop himself, But kinda hot, no?

Hollander snorted with laughter and tore his eyes away. Ilya tugged at his muscled forearms, urging him off the floor and onto the bed, where he settled in Ilya's lap, a small smile on his already slightly bruised lips. Immediately, Hollander was kissing him again, the force of it knocking Ilya onto his back, among the pillows. He let Hollander have the upper hand for a minute, enjoying the weight of his body, the cage of his arms, then flipped them so he could crawl down his body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his pecs, his abs, the taut line of his pelvis. When he reached Hollander's dick, he pressed his lips to the leaking tip. Hollander's breath hitched, a low whine escaping as he squirmed helplessly. Ilya looked up and waited for his eyes to open.

Do you have…

In the drawer.

Hollander's long arm reached for the bedside table, fingers grasping for the handle, but Ilya got there first. He couldn't suppress the delight he knew must be all over his face when he revealed a comically large, unopened, box of condoms next to a half-empty bottle of lube. He was tempted to poke around and see if the dildo was in there too, but he had more pressing concerns at the moment.

"You think this will be enough?" he asked, cracking open the box with a little less finesse than he would have liked, his fingers clumsy with urgency.

"Fuck off," Hollander muttered, but he didn't protest when Ilya dropped one more searing kiss on his lips before grabbing the lube and a condom and resuming his place between his thighs. He kept his eyes on Hollander's as much as possible while he took him into his mouth, waiting for any sign of hesitation, but all he heard was, Please please I'm ready need you please — until Ilya had to look away.

Сосредоточьтесь (Focus), he reminded himself, У вас есть работа (You have a job to do).

He lifted Hollander's legs for better access and holy fuck they just kept going, letting Ilya fold him nearly in half. Slowly, gently, he slipped just the tip of one lubed finger past the tight ring muscles, circling cautiously. Hollander moaned, low in his throat.

"Okay?"

Ilya waited, his fingertip just barely stroking the rim, until Hollander managed a shaky,

"Yeah."

Still laving his tongue along Hollander's cock, he pushed in a little further, working in increments, pausing to let Hollander adjust. The sight of him, head thrown back, eyes half-lidded and hazy, perfect pink mouth dropping open in awe, made Ilya's head spin, to say nothing of the little noises he was making — almost involuntary gasps and whimpers — but he forced himself to go slow. He wanted to make this good. When Hollander's hips started rolling back against him, taking his finger deeper, he added a second. Hollander let out a gravelly moan. Ilya glanced up.

Fuck, just like that — oh god —

Ilya crooked his fingers, searching for Hollander's prostate, and he knew he'd found it when he heard him nearly choke on a gasp, babbling,

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my —

Ilya was so fucking hard, it was actually starting to hurt, a low, pulsing ache making itself increasingly difficult to ignore. Through sheer force of will, he managed to keep his movements steady, scissoring his fingers, then finally adding a third. He looked up again to make sure it wasn't too much.

Still good?

Yes — fuck — so good need you please Rozanov fuck me please —

Ilya swallowed hard. He hadn't even gotten inside Hollander yet, and he was already perilously close to the edge. There was no chance in hell he'd be able to get through this with those big brown eyes on him, hearing everything Hollander was holding back on top of the whimpers and moans he couldn't suppress. His voice sounded gravelly in his own ears when he said,

"Turn over."

Hollander did, his limbs a little trembly as Ilya helped him arrange himself on his hands and knees. Ilya's own hands were shakier than he would have liked as he rolled on the condom and lubed himself up, hissing at the friction. For a moment he had to stop, look up at the ceiling, and recite Boston Bears statistics in his head, waiting for the wave of sensation to pass. Once he'd gotten ahold of it enough that he was pretty sure he wouldn't explode as soon as he touched Hollander, he lined himself up. Hollander's breath hitched, just slightly.

"Okay?" Ilya asked again, pressing his mouth to Hollander's shoulder. He felt the answering nod more than he heard the whispered plea accompanying it. Every cell of his body felt like it was on fire with desire so overpowering, all he could do was hold his breath and grit his teeth against it as he slowly, slowly, pushed in. Hollander tensed, and Ilya forced himself to still, letting his forehead rest on his shoulderblade.

"More," Hollander breathed after a moment. "Please."

Ilya pushed in another inch. This time, Hollander just let out a harsh breath and rocked his hips back a little. They gradually found a rhythm, Ilya sliding in deeper with each thrust. He shifted his angle to hit Hollander's prostate and was rewarded with a full-throated moan as Hollander fell to his elbows and pushed back even harder, driving Ilya's cock still further into him. Ilya hardly recognized the sounds that came out of his own mouth as his control splintered, snapping his hips faster, burying himself fully inside Hollander, and his mind whited out with pleasure.

Ilya didn't think it was hyperbolic to say that he'd had a lot of sex. He liked sex. He was good at it. It felt good. It got him out of his head when his head was an unpleasant place to be. He'd thought he'd been at least roughly familiar with the full expanse of the human sexual experience by now. But this…

This was like sex the way his brand new Ferrari was like a golf cart. The way ecstasy was like a cough drop. Beyond good, beyond perfect — it was… devastating.

Ilya's orgasm was creeping up on him — unavoidable, inevitable — and he fought to hold it back just a little longer. He was fucking Hollander in earnest now, nailing his prostate with every thrust, spurred on by his wanton moans.

"Fuck, I can't —" he gasped, "Hollander, are you — oh god —"

Ilya realized Hollander hadn't even touched his own dick, having been too focused on holding himself up and fucking himself back on Ilya's cock. But before he could reach around to stroke him, Hollander was coming with a shout, spilling all over his own stomach, tightening around Ilya so intensely that his own orgasm finally hit him like a freight train, his vision going staticky as he barely managed to stay upright.

Holy fuck. He hadn't even touched him. As his cock gave one last desperate twitch, Ilya's legs gave out, and he collapsed on top of Hollander, driving him into the bed with an anguished groan.

It took him a minute to come back to himself, the ringing in his ears finally fading as Hollander mumbled,

"Now the bed's all dirty."

"What?" Ilya asked blankly, mouthing at his pec. "Shut up."

He kissed him, just to ease the sting of his own words, and it felt… different. Not quite as hungry as they'd been earlier, but deeper, almost lazy. The kind of kiss that promised… something. Ilya wasn't sure what, but it made him uneasy. Restlessness suddenly itched under his skin, like if he let himself lay here in Hollander's warm arms for another moment, he'd be committing some kind of sin he couldn't take back.

"I will shower now, OK?" he asked, hating himself a little for the note of regret in his voice. Hollander blinked up at him, but Ilya didn't meet his eyes as he carefully disentangled himself and headed into the bathroom. He tied up the condom and threw it away, then stepped into the shower. The warm water hitting his shoulders felt like a balm. He rinsed himself off, roughly scraping his fingers through his hair to get rid of the sweat-soaked stick. Then, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he braced himself and returned to the bedroom. Hollander had tucked himself under the sheet a little, his ridiculously sculpted chest and abs still on display. Like a magnetic pull, Ilya found himself drawn back to the bed, flopping onto the mattress with his usual dramatic flair. His head landed inches away from Hollander's armpit, and some weak part of Ilya couldn't resist scooting back into him, resting his head on his chest. Ilya's limbs went loose and floppy, and he barely resisted the urge to nuzzle into Hollander's chest and just nap there, breathing him in.

"You killed me, Hollander," he declared instead. "I am dead."

Hollander's voice was soft and a little scratchy when he replied, “That was so fucking hot."

Ilya's head turned of its own accord, that magnetic pull suddenly irresistible. Hollander looked so content, sleepy, completely at home.

Worth the wait?

Hollander's hand was suddenly warm on his throat, tilting his chin up, and his lips ghosted over Ilya's before dropping a soft kiss on his mouth, then on his forehead. That nauseous something turned in Ilya's gut. For a moment, his mind and body felt completely disconnected — his mind screaming Убирайся (get out) while his body luxuriated in the gentle touch, the warm bed, Hollander's smooth skin against his own. Ilya wanted to throw up. He wanted to kiss Hollander again. He wanted to run. He wanted to fall asleep here, nestled in the crook of his arms. He wanted… god, he wanted —

"I should go."

Because Hollander was a polite Canadian boy, he insisted on walking Ilya to the door even though he'd told him it was unnecessary. He sat on the stairs in a slightly oversized hoodie, clutching Ilya's jacket to his chest while he tied his shoes, looking so fucking adorable, Ilya could barely handle it. He avoided making eye contact at all costs, suddenly certain that Hollander would know somehow, even though he barely knew what it was he was hiding. And yet, his hands fumbled with the laces, buying time even though he told himself he was desperate to leave.

"So, obviously, we won't see each other during the Olympics, right?"

"Right."

"Your family must be happy they're in Russia."

Years of practice had Ilya catching the wince just before it reached his face. He kept his eyes trained on his sneakers.

"Mm, yes."

"My parents are pretty psyched for me. They're pissed they can't come, but my mom's starting to wake up at 4:00am to watch every game."

Ilya's heart twinged. He tied his other shoelace. Hollander was still talking.

"I bet your parents will be there, right?"

"My father, yes, maybe my brother, but who knows?"

Like Alexei would be caught dead at any event championing Ilya. He'd never been to a game — except once, when Ilya was 14. His team had been fucking awful and they'd been up against the best in the league. Ilya had scored a hat trick. They'd still lost. Alexei mocked him the whole way home.

"Cool." Hollander was awfully chatty for a man who'd had his brains fucked out not twenty minutes ago. "Anyways, I'm psyched. I've been dreaming about it my whole life."

"And you win what, bronze medal?" Ilya finally met his eyes, having run out of plausible excuses not to. Hollander just scoffed.

You fucking wish, dude.

Ilya grabbed at the first thought rising to the surface.

Hey, remember when I made you come hands-free?

Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.

Such a good trick, Ilya cooed. The magnetic pull had him again — he caught himself halfway towards kissing Hollander goodbye.

Your cab is definitely here.

But Hollander leaned in, closing the gap. The kiss was almost chaste, by their standards, but selfishly, Ilya couldn't resist going back for seconds. If he was going to last through these weeks in Russia, he needed anything Hollander would give him. He was sure the memory of Hollander's lips — soft, plush, demanding — had been seared into his brain, for better or for worse.

Ilya gently retrieved his jacket as he pulled away. Hollander's eyes were still half-lidded, his limbs loose and pliant against the stair railing.

"Bye," he said, inadequately, and Hollander just gave him a sleepy, satisfied smile and let him go.

As Ilya folded himself into the back of the cab, his heart was still pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears.

It was just sex, he reassured himself. Good sex, but nothing more.

February 2014 — Sochi

Shane knew he'd hit a low point when he passed an ice cream shop on his daily walk and headed in without hesitation. He hadn't heard from Rozanov over a month, and even though he hadn't really expected to, he was starting to get worried. News about the Russian team's ongoing implosion was inescapable, and Shane knew that if it was his team, he'd be taking all of it 100% personally. He had to assume Rozanov was the same way. He'd watched some of their games — not in person, of course, but he'd seen the replays at the hotel. Rozanov had been playing well, but even the best player in the world couldn't save a shitty defense, an injured goalie, wingmates who belonged in a nursing home, and a second line barely out of eighth grade.

He'd just ordered a vanilla ice cream and sat down at the first open table when his phone buzzed. Shane cringed at the speed with which he flipped his phone out, and at the sinking feeling when he saw who the message was from.

Hating himself for it, promising he'd answer her soon, he swiped the message away.

His eyes were so fixated on the screen, waiting for three dots that never arrived, that the large hand landing on his shoulder nearly made him jump with shock.

"Hollander, what's up, motherfucker?" Carter Vaughn jostled him playfully, swinging into the unoccupied seat next to him as Shane slammed his phone face down on the table. Scott Hunter was right behind him, grinning widely.

"Hey!" Shane greeted them both, hoping it came out closer to "what a pleasant surprise" than "what the fuck do you want."

With unerring instincts, Vaughn leaned in, brown eyes dancing, and honed in on the topic Shane least wanted to discuss. "Holy fuck dude, can you believe Russia?"

"Be nice, Vaughny," Hunter chided, but Vaughn just laughed, shaking his head.

"Be nice? They fucking lost to Latvia. Latvia!" He turned back to Shane, who was just thankful the distraction had given him enough time to get his face in order. "Did you see that game?"

"Yeah, it was a straight-up shit show," Shane admitted.

"A debacle," Hunter agreed, sipping his coffee. Shane almost allowed himself to breathe, praying it was over.

Vaughn had other plans. "Hey, what did Roz say about it?"

Fuck. Be casual. He didn't say anything to you. Why would he? You're not friends.

"I don't know," Shane said lightly. "Nothing to me, that's for sure. I think he knows Canada has this in the bag."

Vaughn scoffed at this, successfully derailed. "Nuh-uh! Seriously, this year, baby, we're fucking coming for ya. Trust me."

Shane grinned back, finally back in familiar territory. "You'll look great in silver, Vaughny; don't even stress."

"Oh, good one." Vaughn rolled his eyes playfully and took a bite of his ice cream — some toxic flavored monstrosity with more food coloring than a kids' cereal. They ate in companionable silence for a while, chatting casually, and decided to head over to the men's short-form figure skating event later. Shane was thrilled — he'd trained with one of the skaters who would be performing, and he was excited to show him support.

Still, as he headed off to meet JJ for their planned workout that afternoon, Shane couldn't stop thinking about what Vaughn had said about Russia being unsafe for "folks like that."

Was he… "folks?" Was Rozanov? Shane's heart lurched at the thought of Rozanov here, alone, stuck with a shitty team and his asshole father. Even though he knew it was a bad idea, he sent another text.

He'd already put his phone away long before three bouncing dots appeared at the corner of the screen, then vanished without a trace.

* * *

Ilya lurked in the shadows of the balcony at the Olympic rink, watching the men's short-form event. He had always been fascinated by the way figure skaters moved across the ice — completely fluid, just throwing themselves into the air like it was effortless. Natural. Like they'd never wanted to do anything else.

Is that how his mother had felt? Before she'd been grounded, wings clipped, caged by the responsibilities of a family?

She had been so young, when Alexei was born. Younger than Ilya was now. And she had been good. She'd kept the tapes hidden in the attic, only taking them out when Ilya was home sick from school and it was just them at home, trying to entertain each other.

"Посмотри на это, Илюша (Watch this, Ilyusha)." She'd whisper to him as they curled up on the couch. "Это была моя любимая часть программы. Мой тренер думал, что двух поворотов достаточно для Салчоу, но я знал, что смогу сделать тройной (This was my favorite part of the program. I worked so hard on that jump. My coach thought two rotations was enough on the salchow, but I knew I could pull off the triple)."

His father had found the tapes, after. When they moved. Ilya had tried to hide them at the bottom of a box of books, but Alexei had ratted him out, the bastard. Grigori had made Ilya watch as he burned them.

The memory surrounded him — the acrid, toxic smell, the crackle and pop of burning plastic, the way Alexei had laughed when Ilya had tried to grab something, anything, out of the fire, and singed his fingers before his father could pull him away.

Ilya looked down at his own hands like they belonged to a stranger, and scratched at the little scar on his left index finger. He hadn't let the burns heal cleanly, picking at them every time a scab had formed. They were the only evidence he had that those tapes had ever existed, the only trace left of those sleepy afternoons he had been too young to appreciate. He scratched harder, digging into the scar tissue with his thumbnail, watching it go white from the pressure.

Could he ever love hockey the way she had loved figure skating? Like it was something he was born to do, not just something he was good at?

Ilya was so lost in his own memories, he didn't even notice Hollander approaching until he heard his voice, hushed, like they were in a church.

"Hey."

Fuck. If anyone saw them talking, if his father got wind of it —

Ilya fixed his eyes firmly on the ice.

"Not here."

"No, I'm not… I saw you up here, I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Fine. Go sit down." Please. Please, Hollander, for once in your goddamn life, take a hint.

"We're —"

"We are not anything. Go away, Hollander."

Damn him, Hollander stepped closer, desperately trying to make eye contact. Ilya wanted to look at him so badly it physically hurt, but his mind was a fucking mess and he had no idea what Hollander might overhear. The longer this dragged on, the higher the chance someone would notice them — or worse, that he'd give in and turn his head. He had to end this, now. At any cost.

"Are you okay?"

Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. "Please, go."

"You didn't answer my texts."

No, of course not, because we are in fucking Russia and my teammates are watching me like a hawk and my father already thinks I'm a failure.

Ilya's head moved of its own accord, and his mouth spat, "No, I did not answer your boring text. Now will you go?"

Hollander's soft brown eyes widened like he'd been struck.

Grigori's face leapt to the forefront of Ilya's mind — almost purple with rage, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth, inches from Ilya's nose. Ilya kept his own expression completely impassive. All he could do was stand there and not make it worse. It would be over soon. Just wait it out. His father's open hand flew back. Ilya closed his eyes.

Ilya stumbled backwards until he hit the concrete post behind him. Hollander was still staring at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

No.

Rozanov, did — was that —

No no no no no no no no no

Nausea roiled in Ilya's gut. Whatever Hollander said next was drowned out by the ringing in his ears, the harsh panting of his own breath. On autopilot, Ilya whirled on his heel and practically ran for the stairs. He didn't slow down until he was crashing through the rink doors, out into the fresh air. The harsh bite of the cold wind greeted him like an old friend.

Ilya didn't even have a real destination in mind as he walked through the Olympic village. All he knew was that he had to keep moving.

Chapter 5: a subtle kiss that no one sees

Chapter Summary

post-olympic ghosting through vegas!

February 2014 — Montreal

Shane came home to his empty apartment with a gold medal around his neck and his phone burning a hole in his pocket. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag, and left his suitcase by the door to flop onto the couch, scrubbing his hands over his face. Maybe it was the jet lag making everything seem fuzzy and insubstantial, like the floor could go out from under him at any moment. He'd meant to sleep on the plane, but the adrenaline had kept him buzzing, beaming at JJ every time they'd looked at each other, fielding texts from Hayden, his parents, his entire extended family, and damn near every single person he'd ever played on a team with. The irony was not lost on him that he'd probably received a message from everyone in his life except the only person he really wanted to talk to.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it — that awful blankness on Rozanov's face. The shadow of a raised hand. The horror in Rozanov's eyes when he'd realized what Shane had seen. The way he'd ran — literally ran — away. He would have felt sad, if he wasn't so fucking angry. Didn't Rozanov's father realize how lucky he was? What a star Rozanov was becoming — and had always been? He should have punched that bastard in the fucking face when he'd heard him calling him lazy at the draft. He'd had a sense, even then, that something wasn't right.

Frustrated tears burned the corners of Shane's eyes.

He'd ruined everything.

Rozanov was never going to speak to him again.

If he'd just quit pushing — if he'd realized what Rozanov had been trying to tell him just a moment sooner — if he'd just left him alone, none of this would have happened.

Rozanov had made it clear he didn't want to hear from Shane, so even though he desperately wanted to apologize, he didn't text him. They had one more game against each other in the regular season — he'd give Rozanov his space for now, and catch his eye at the inevitable faceoff. Then he'd find out, once and for all, if the situation was irrecoverable. If Rozanov really hated him that badly.

And if it was… if he did…

Well, Shane would cross that bridge when he got to it.

March 2014 — Boston

It had been over a month of radio silence, and Ilya was starting to lose his fucking mind. He'd flown back home as soon as Russia had been officially eliminated from medal contention — it was bad sportsmanship, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd fucked his way through Boston until the season resumed, taking any opportunity he could find to get himself out of his head (at least, anything that wouldn't show up on a drug test). He'd thrown himself back into the regular season with a vengeance — getting to practice early and staying late, spending hours in the gym on his days off, shoveling ground beef and disgusting protein shakes down his throat just to gain mass — determined to prove that what had happened at the Olympics would not define his legacy.

And still, in his vanishingly few unoccupied hours (like now, alone in his bed), the only thing on his mind was Captain Canada himself: Shane Goddamn Hollander. On his knees, with Ilya's cock in his mouth, blushing tomato red under the dark freckles on his cheeks. On his back, watching Ilya stroke him, whimpering, squirming, begging for more. Standing in front of him on that fucking balcony, eyes wide, frozen with shock.

Boston was playing Montreal soon. Ilya would have to face him.

Humiliation clogged the back of Ilya's throat. He wasn't a fool. He knew why Hollander liked him — because he was good at hockey, and he was hot, and mysterious, and really fucking great at sex. And all of that was true, but it was also part of the persona he'd been curating his whole life. Cocky, aloof, the kind of man who lets everything roll off his back because he knows he's above it. Not some pathetic kid, afraid of his own father. Now that carefully constructed bubble had popped. Hollander knew he was only human after all. Whatever they'd had… it was over.

How would he do it? A text would be rude — he was too Canadian for that. A phone call, maybe? He wouldn't do it during the game, would he? Why else had he waited so long to drop the hammer? Ilya's mind was already picturing the scene — locking eyes for the faceoff, Hollander telling him, Sorry, Rozanov, we probably shouldn't do this anymore, and casually skating off with the puck.

Ilya tossed and turned, burying his face in the pillow. Something petty and childish in him whispered, "He can't end things if you don't look at him." The idea took root, ugly as it was. If nothing else, he could delay the inevitable confrontation until after playoffs. All he had to do was not make eye contact. He'd failed at that once before; he wouldn't fail again.

April 2014 — Montreal

"Fuck's goin' on with Rozanov?" Hayden asked casually, his shoulder knocking against Shane's on the bench. It was the third period — they were down by one — and Shane had been failing to catch Rozanov's eye for nearly two hours. Panic zinged through him, but he forced his head to turn slowly, casually.

"What do you mean?"

"He's only checked you once, and he didn't even have a chirp."

Shane shrugged like he hadn't really thought about it.

"I haven't really thought about it."

"Maybe he's sick," Hayden mused. Shane hummed, tracking the play unfolding across the ice. Shit, Comeau was going wide, and — ugh, Rozanov shouldered through the gap and launched the puck towards the net. Miity knocked it out of the way, and Shane was on his feet shouting with everyone else, then hopping the boards for the line change. His blades bit into the ice, grounding him, more stable than his own feet, as he took off in pursuit.

Shane swiped the puck, landing a vicious elbow to Rozanov's ribs as he slammed him against the boards. Marlow swooped in from the other side, yelling something to the ref, but Rozanov didn't even turn. Something in Shane's chest twisted, sharp and jagged. He slipped the puck between Marlow's skates and watched Hayden send it home, and the blare of the buzzer sounded hollow in his ears.

* * *

Later, hunched over in his stall, ostensibly reviewing game tape, Shane finally let it sink in. Hayden had been right — Rozanov hadn't even glanced his way all night. The one time they'd collided looked more like an accident than a targeted hit.

That was it, then. Rozanov was done. Just because Shane had accidentally overheard something — practically against his will! — the only person he'd ever actually enjoyed having sex with (Shane let that thought pass without further examination) never wanted to see him again.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself.

"Mec, ne te bats pas pour ça (Dude, don't beat yourself up over it)." JJ plucked the tablet out of his hands on his way to the shower, depositing it on top of his locker. "Je sais comment vous sentez lorsque nous perdons en prolongation, mais vous avez fait tout ce que vous pouviez. Personne ne pense que c'est de ta faute (I know how you get when we lose in overtime, but you did all you could. No one thinks it's your fault)."

Right. On top of everything else, they'd lost the fucking game.

"J'étais bâclé (I was sloppy)," Shane said calmly. Truthfully. "Je ne peux pas laisser cela se produire pendant les séries éliminatoires (I can't let that happen during playoffs)."

He stood up and retrieved the tablet. JJ clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him into the wall, and left him to it.

June 2014 — Boston

Ilya spat blood onto the shower floor as he attempted to rinse himself off without putting weight on his left ankle. He'd lost at least ten pounds from the start of the season. His skin was littered with bruises in various stages of healing, vivid purple and green and yellow. The ones over his ribs were especially brutal; the team medics weren't sure if it was a fracture, or just a contusion. He didn't think he'd ever been this fucking exhausted. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him to sit down — or, better yet, just lay on the floor and never get up. The split in his lip kept opening every time he smiled, but he just couldn't stop.

He fucking loved playoffs.

Pushing himself to the limit and then past it, running on fumes, throwing his battered body over the boards and onto the ice, and dominating anyway — it was addictive. He was playing the best hockey of his life, and he couldn't shake the feeling in his gut that this was the year.

It had to be.

Montreal

The Voyageurs were battered and bruised, literally and figuratively, after being eliminated in the third round of playoffs, but they still managed to muster their usual chaotic cheer as they all gathered at Hayden and Jackie's house to watch Game 6 of the final series. Every time Boston scored, everyone booed and took a sip of their various shitty beers. And, of course, every time San Francisco got a (mostly well deserved) penalty against them, everyone cheered and took a bigger sip. (Shane had abstained, claiming beer didn't fit his diet — and anyway, Jackie had thoughtfully picked up a case of ginger ale just for him, so it would have been rude not to drink it.) Jackie had instituted a swear jar on behalf of the twins, who were just starting to talk, and Shane was pretty sure they'd be able to put them both through college by the end of the night. During a commercial break, Hayden pulled out a razor and JJ held Miity down while they shaved his playoff beard. They'd barely gotten through the first period, and Shane could already feel a headache building in his sinuses.

It was a good game, though, when he could actually pay attention. Rozanov had been on a tear all month, like he'd just woken up one morning and decided another year of disappointing playoffs performance was personally unacceptable. Like he'd rid himself of distractions and devoted himself to hockey with the same single-minded intensity he'd applied to —

Nope.

Time passed. The boys talked shit about the Bears and the refs with roughly equivalent enthusiasm. Shane was glued to the TV, heart in his throat.

By the third period, everyone could see what he'd been secretly thinking since the start of this series.

Boston was up 3-1, with only a couple minutes left on the clock.

This was it.

"I can't believe that asshole's about to win the cup," Hayden muttered, one arm around Jackie, who was perched on the arm of the couch.

"Hate that motherfucker," someone — probably Drapeau — groused from the kitchen.

"Shane hates him the most."

The sound of his own name startled Shane out of his trance.

"What?"

"You hate Rozanov."

"Of course," Shane said automatically.

"But… he's very good at hockey," a newly beardless Miity observed. Still on autopilot, Shane heard his own voice say,

"The best, probably."

"Ehh, no. You're the fucking best, Hollander," JJ objected, turning to jab his pointer finger decisively at Shane's chest. One of the other guys grabbed his arm in a supportive gesture that Shane completely ignored, his eyes still locked on the game. (One minute left. SF pulled their goalie.) JJ turned back to face the TV. "And not that… animal shit show, cocksucking Russian."

The corner of Jackie's mouth quirked disapprovingly in Shane's peripheral vision, but the guys huffed and snorted their agreement. He felt like ice water had been dumped down the back of his neck. These were his boys — his team. What would they do, if they knew how right JJ was? Would they say that shit about him too?

Probably.

He'd thought he had gotten used to the tenor of "locker room talk" — the casual racism, homophobia, the misogyny too, although that didn't hit as close to home. But they weren't in a locker room now. They were in Hayden's home, on a bright, sunny day. For years, he'd told himself it didn't hurt to hear guys he'd called his brothers slinging slurs around, because they weren't really targeting anyone, least of all him. He was just as straight as any of them. But that was before…

Three seconds. Two. One.

The buzzer sounded.

Ilya Rozanov's Boston Bears had won the Stanley Cup.

The tension in the room dissolved. People stood up, refreshing their drinks, complaining about what they would have done differently if they had been there, how they would have turned it around. Someone dropped a half-full bowl of chips, and Hayden ran to fetch a dustpan. Shane just sat there, on the couch, frozen. He felt… fuck. So much. Jealous, and angry. No surprise there. Sad, maybe? Wistful? But also…

Rozanov lifted the cup over his head, balancing with ease, his powerful arms not even trembling. He was screaming something in Russian, sweaty and flushed with exertion, dirty blonde curls sticking to his forehead. A yellowing bruise bloomed along his jawline. His eyes were teary, and he was smiling so widely, Shane could see every tooth in his mouth. The camera zoomed in closer, until he could almost spot which ones were fake.

And Shane felt…

Terrifyingly, painfully, gut-wrenchingly…

Proud.

Las Vegas

They'd asked Ilya to present the sportsmanship award with Hollander the day after he had won the Cup, so he'd been feeling generous (and if he was honest, more than a little tipsy) enough to say sure, fuck it.

He was soundly regretting his own stupid, punch-drunk complacence now. Because Shane Hollander was right there — standing exactly on the mark they'd guided him to, in his tux, bouncing slightly on his toes with a nervous energy he couldn't seem to suppress, waiting for him. His dark eyes searched the dim corridor with unerring precision, almost catching on Ilya's hiding place behind an unused set piece.

"Where the hell is Rozanov?" an exasperated director asked.

"I don't know," Hollander said quietly. Ilya wondered if anyone else noticed the tension bleeding through every word. "We, uh, don't exactly talk much."

No, they didn't. Not these days.

"Well, you're on in a minute."

Hollander nodded, visibly starting to panic. Ilya's heart twinged. Once he'd turned back to face the stage, Ilya took a deep, steadying breath and walked up behind him.

"Looking for me?"

"Where the fuck were you?" Hollander demanded, the picture of righteous indignation. "We're on in five seconds!"

"Twenty five," Ilya corrected smoothly. Hollander turned to look at him, but Ilya kept his eyes on the stage until he gave up and asked aloud,

"What were you even doing?"

"I was busy."

"With who?"

That caught Ilya off guard, but then their names were being announced and his feet moved automatically, Hollander right behind him. The crowd roared. The lights glared down on them. Ilya smiled for the cameras as he took his place behind the podium. This, at least, he could do: put on a good show. They read their lines from the teleprompter — Ilya falteringly, but with gusto, Hollander like he was being held at gunpoint.

"… but the most important thing…" Hollander was saying. That was Ilya's cue. He leaned into the mic.

"… is the friends we make along the way!" He paused for the ripple of laughter. "Hey, before we give out next award, can I get a selfie with you?"

"What?" Hollander's annoyance seemed remarkably unfeigned.

"Come on, when will this ever happen again, buddy?"

"Okay, fine, but hurry up."

Ilya pulled out his phone and took the picture. Reflexively, his hand settled on the back of Hollander's neck, trailing down his back as he pressed the shutter. Once, twice, three times. He knew he was letting the moment drag on just an breath too long, but he couldn't help it; the script had gotten into his head. When would he ever have the chance to touch Hollander again?

"Great. Give me your number, I'll text them to you." He cheated out to the camera with a wide, false smile his agent had once told him performed well with midwestern suburban moms.

"No chance," Hollander scoffed. "And the Lord Talon award for Most Sportsmanlike Player goes to…"

As soon as they stepped off stage, Hollander beat a hasty retreat towards the bathroom. Caught in the sway of that damned magnetic pull, Ilya followed him. He'd put this off long enough. Time to face the music.

* * *

It was a nice enough bathroom, Shane noted, the observation tinged with hysteria as he let the door fall shut behind him. Bathroom stalls that went all the way down to the floor. Marble countertop with the sinks carved into it. He'd had panic attacks in worse places.

And, judging by the telltale sparkles at the edges of his vision, he was well on his way to another one. Shane bent over the counter, closed his eyes, and forced his breathing to slow.

In two three four hold two three four out two three four wait two three four in two three

The door slammed open. Shane jerked his head up and made direct eye contact with the absolute last person in the world he wanted to see.

What do you want, Rozanov?

Rozanov glanced away like Shane's eyes burned him. He should have been used to this by now, after months of being avoided like the plague, but it still stung.

"Well…" Rozanov began, but trailed off with a humorless chuckle. Shane snapped.

"Well what? Why are you even here if you —" Shane's voice broke, which was probably a sign to just cut his losses and not embarrass himself further, but he couldn't choke back the words bubbling up in his throat. "You haven't answered a text from me in like six months! You won't even acknowledge I exist unless there's a fucking camera pointed at us, and then it's for some fucking… clown show!" He could feel the worst part coming next — he'd sworn to himself he wouldn't say it aloud, but momentum carried him through. His voice sounded pathetic even to his own ears when he asked, "Are you ever going to look at me again?"

A beat of silence.

Rozanov did look at him then, his blue eyes haunted, and thought,

Someone's coming.

Before Shane could react, Rozanov had one hand around his wrist and the other on his waist, and he was being bodily maneuvered into the handicap stall, the door closing behind them.

"What are you —"

Rozanov held one finger to his lips, staring off into space, his head cocked as he listened hard. His other hand was still wrapped around Shane's left wrist. Suddenly Shane heard it too: footsteps, then the bathroom door creaking open and bouncing off the wall.

"Don't sweat it, man, you'll get 'em next year." Shane couldn't place the first voice, but then a second man spoke, and cold dread hurtled down the back of his throat.

"Yeah, Hunter probably just blew one of the judges."

Dallas Kent.

He felt his own eyes widen as he looked at Rozanov, but his expression was frozen, the same way it had been in that memory.

This was bad. This was really bad.

Shane let the conversation outside the stall fade into the background along with his own panic — suddenly all of it felt unimportant and very far away. Instead, he grabbed Rozanov's jaw and tilted his head down, gently but firmly.

Hey. Rozanov. You in there?

Rozanov blinked.

Yes. Sorry. I…

It's OK. They'll leave in a minute. Just stay with me.

Rozanov nodded. His posture softened from ramrod straight to almost normal, and his head dropped artlessly onto Shane's shoulder. Automatically, Shane's fingers tangled in Rozanov's curls, gently scratching his scalp. Rozanov burrowed deeper into his shoulder with a faint, wounded sound. The anger Shane had been cultivating for months drained out of him, replaced with a nearly all-consuming sadness.

Rozanov hadn't been avoiding him because he didn't want him anymore. It was because he was scared.

Shane pulled back just enough to meet Rozanov's eyes.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to see… that. And I've been so mad at you this whole time for ignoring me, I didn't really think about what a violation it was.

Not your fault. Rozanov's voice was soft, even in his head. Just… I thought I could… I don't know. I don't know what I thought. Maybe that it was easier for us both if I left you alone.

That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.

Rozanov's eyes crinkled like he was fighting a laugh.

Would it help if I leveled the playing field? Shane asked.

What?

Like, if I show you something I've never told anyone about. So we're even.

Hollander, you do not have to do that.

I know. I want to.

Shane glanced away, flicked through his mental Rolodex of embarrassing moments, and landed on something he thought would cheer Rozanov up, even though just thinking about it made his ears turn red.

Got it. Ready?

Hollander —

But now that Shane had made up his mind, he couldn't stop it even if he wanted to. The memory played out in vivid technicolor.

Shane, alone in his hotel bathroom, the night of the draft. He turned on the shower as he stripped off his gym clothes, hissing when his waistband caught on his half-hard cock. Gritting his teeth, he turned the water temperature down and stepped in. The nearly ice cold water sparked goosebumps on his skin and made him gasp with pain, but his dick didn't budge an inch. Shane tried to ignore it as he rinsed the sweat out of his hair. His eyes dropped closed. Almost involuntarily, his hand fell to his side — the hand that had touched Rozanov's, around his waterbottle.

"Fuck it." Shane muttered, and gave in. Just one tentative stroke had his cock fully engorged, aching almost viciously, oversensitive under the freezing water. He didn't turn it up. If he was really going to do this, it deserved to hurt a little. His mind filled with images of a crooked grin, sweat-soaked curls, thin fabric clinging to broad shoulders and muscled arms. Shane's hand moved faster, chasing his release, and he bit back a moan when he found it embarrassingly quickly. Exhausted, he leaned back against the wall of the cramped shower and came to terms with the fact that he had ended his NHL draft day by getting himself off to thoughts of Ilya Rozanov.

The snap of the bathroom door closing brought Shane back to the present. The real Ilya Rozanov was inches away from him, his pupils blown so wide the black almost swallowed the blue of his eyes, thinking,

Holy fuck.

Shane's entire face felt feverishly hot.

Hollander, you… that…

I think they're gone, Shane said weakly.

Rozanov kissed him. Shane's mouth opened on instinct, and his knees went shaky when Rozanov groaned and deepened the kiss, licking into him like he was starving. Rozanov crowded him against the wall, and Shane was deliriously grateful because he didn't trust himself to stay on his feet otherwise. Mindlessly, he ground himself against Rozanov's hardening cock, devouring his answering moan. Rozanov pulled himself together first, moving back to grab Shane's chin, mirroring their positions from only a few minutes ago.

A lifetime had passed since then.

Want you, Shane thought feverishly. He felt crazy, out of control, and somehow more solidly in his own body than he had been in months.

What do you want? Rozanov's head tilted. Be specific.

The answer rushed out of him so fast, it was almost embarrassing.

 Your mouth. Need you. Please.

A smile tugged at the corner of Rozanov's lips, and for a moment, Shane thought he might actually do it — get on his knees in the cramped bathroom stall and suck his dick. But then he shook his head.

No.

Shane was so hard, he might cry.

What?

No, he repeated. We'll go back to our seats, watch the rest of this boring show, and then go to boring party after, and then, when you have been waiting all night, you'll come back to my hotel room, and I will maybe, maybe, do more than just suck your dick.

Shane blinked. That might have been the longest sentence he'd ever heard from Rozanov. He was so torn between admiration and lust, he had no control over the words that sprang into his head next.

You're really going to leave me like this?

Yes. For now.

To his horror, Shane heard a tiny whimper escape his own mouth. Rozanov clicked his tongue with patronizing sympathy.

Poor thing.

Fuck off. He started to twist the door lock, but Rozanov grabbed his arm.

Let's make a deal. If you win MVP tonight, I will blow you, fuck you… whatever you want.

And if you win?

Rozanov kissed him again, his tongue invading Shane's mouth like it belonged there. When he pulled away, Shane felt his absence like a missing limb. His head felt floaty, stuffed with cotton. Rozanov's palm landed on his cheek — gently, but firmly enough to ground him a little.

Good luck tonight.

Rozanov slipped out of the stall and left the bathroom, his exit heralded by the squeak of the door. Shane nearly staggered into the wall, leaned against the metal bar, and tried to remember how to breathe.

* * *

Ilya won.

He must have made a speech, because he remembered standing on the stage and people laughing, but for all intents and purposes, he didn't come to until he was lounging at the end of a booth at the after party, Svetlana a warm, grounding presence against his side. Half his team was crammed into the booth around him, chatting animatedly amongst themselves. Svetlana murmured in his ear,

"Илюша. Ты вернулся (Ilyusha. You're back)."

Fuck. Had it been that obvious?

"Расслабься, ты был очень очаровательным всю ночь. Я не думаю, что кто-то еще заметил, что ТЫ был... в другом месте (Relax, you've been very charming all night. I don't think anyone else noticed your mind has been... elsewhere)."

"Я не хотел (I didn't mean to)..."

"Я знаю. Хочешь поговорить об этом (I know). Do you want to talk about it?"

Ilya shook his head.

"What time is it?"

Svetlana's lips pursed disapprovingly, but she just said,

"A little after nine."

Ilya pulled out his phone and texted Hollander his room number before he could think better of it.

"Ты уверен, что это мудро (Are you sure that's wise)?"

"Света, когда я когда-либо был мудрым (Sveta, when have I ever been wise)?"

His phone buzzed, and Ilya's heart leapt, then fell.

Ilya tipped the screen to show Svetlana, who read the messages with a vindicating eye roll. Then he got to his feet, adrenaline buzzing under his skin.

"Think I'll turn in early tonight," he said in English, for the benefit of the assembled crowd. Marly booed and attempted to start some sort of chant, but everyone was too wasted to pick it up. "Have fun, fuckers. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

That earned him a jeering sort of guffaw, and they all took turns pulling him in for a handshake or fist bump before he managed to extricate himself and head for the door. The hotel was bustling, but Ilya kept his head down and moved purposefully, and even if anyone did recognize him, they didn't stop him. He didn't slow down until he was swiping his key card at the penthouse suite. But as he closed the door behind himself, leaving it unlocked, he suddenly felt frozen in place.

Hollander still wanted him. At least, for now. Under no circumstances could he fuck this up again. And now that he knew they could share memories, not just surface level thoughts, the stakes were so much higher than Hollander overhearing him babbling in Russian. If Ilya's mind drifted, he could see… fuck, anything. Svetlana, or Sasha, or any one of the random people he'd fucked over the years. Or worse, himself, reflected through Ilya's eyes, experiencing the rush of devotion and awe he'd felt that first time. Way too intense for a casual hookup he was intent on not scaring away.

It had been fine in the bathroom. Everything had happened so fast, he simply hadn't had time to think anything embarrassing. But the more downtime he spent in Hollander's presence, the higher the chance that something would slip. Something he couldn't take back.

Still, even though Ilya knew it was a bad idea to see Hollander again (for all the usual reasons along with the new ones), some weak part of him couldn't resist. The kiss earlier hadn't taken the edge off like he'd hoped — if anything, it had sharpened the ache, amplifying it until all Ilya could think about was stripping Hollander out of that tux and taking him apart with his teeth.

Despite the high ceiling and full wall of windows, Ilya suddenly felt claustrophobic. He crossed the room, shrugging off the jacket, and unbuttoned his shirt. When that barely eased the suffocating pressure in his chest, he poured himself a glass of vodka, relishing the familiar burn.

Соберись, чувак (Pull it together, dude).

Ilya leaned against the window and closed his eyes.

The door clicked open.

* * *

Rozanov had left the penthouse door open, so Shane didn't bother to knock, just slipped inside. He scanned the room, taking in the expensive-looking, modern furnishings and skyline view, until his gaze caught on Rozanov, standing next to the window, his shirt unbuttoned, exposing his sculpted chest. He was holding a glass, swirling it gently. His hair was artfully mussed, his eyes glittering in the golden lamplight.

Woah.

Rozanov didn't meet his gaze, just raised his arms promptingly. Shane swallowed hard.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you." Rozanov's eyes trailed down Shane's chest. "Now take off your clothes."

"You're such an asshole," Shane chided, but his hands were already moving. He laid his suit jacket on the couch with his bowtie on top, then removed and arranged his shirt and pants next to it, doing his best to avoid wrinkling the expensive fabric. Rozanov just watched him, silently, looking for all the world like an apex predator casually surveying a watering hole. Like he did this kind of thing every fucking week. He probably did. Shane paused when he got to his underwear and turned back to Rozanov expectantly — and that meant he was facing the windows too.

"Lotta windows," he said weakly. Part of him ached for Rozanov to look him in the eyes, to just take what Shane wanted to give him, fuck him against the windows, common sense be damned — but Rozanov just inclined his head and let Shane follow him into the bedroom, where he pulled the shades down. And, yeah, that was probably for the best. But something in Shane's chest squeezed.

He's doing it again. Shutting me out.

But if he called him on it, Shane knew all he'd accomplish would be starting a fight. And, selfishly, he didn't think he could go another six months without Rozanov touching him.

So he let it go. At least for the moment.

Rozanov had dragged one of the chairs in from the front room. He leaned on it a little, still holding the glass in his other hand. It looked like water, so Shane figured it must be vodka. Was Rozanov drunk? He didn't seem drunk. He seemed completely at ease, as in control of the situation as ever.

"On the bed."

Shane got on the bed.

Rozanov sat heavily in the chair, the movement fluid and unrehearsed, but he didn't spill a drop.

"This is good hotel," he said, staring into the glass. "Very nice vodka. It's hard to find in America."

So? "Okay."

Rozanov's eyes locked on Shane's, the full force of his attention hitting him like a sonic wave.

Touch yourself.

What?

Show off for me. I want to watch you.

You what? Shane's brain was running at quarter-impulse speed, desperately trying to catch up. Rozanov had already looked away, eyeing Shane's (shit) rapidly hardening cock.

"It's my special day, Hollander," he said, a little plaintively, when Shane didn't move. "I want to watch."

"I've… never…" Shane stammered. Rozanov snorted. His eyes were roving over Shane's chest, his stomach, his thighs. It made Shane feel kind of dirty — exposed, on display. Even though he could just stand up and leave at any time, he felt completely at Rozanov's mercy. And, to his horror, he realized he really liked it.

"I thought maybe not," Rozanov mused, his tone light and casual, as if he'd asked if Shane usually put on his left sock or right sock first. "So… show me." He looked at Shane again, dead in the eyes, like he worried he hadn't been clear. How do you touch yourself, Shane Hollander?

Fuck. Give me some of the vodka, at least.

"Mm, no." Rozanov examined the glass again. "Vodka is for after. As your reward."

God, he looked so fucking good. Still mostly dressed, while Shane was nearly naked on the bed. Lounging in his chair like an emperor on his throne. His legs were spread, revealing the beginnings of a tent in his perfectly tailored pants. Almost involuntarily, Shane shifted, letting his own hips open wider. His head dropped against the headboard, but his eyes never left Rozanov's, even though Rozanov was very deliberately ogling his hands, which Shane realized were still in his lap. He lifted one, trailing up his stomach, around his neck, then back his chest. His back arched, the skin tingling where he'd touched it. He was fully hard now, the embarrassment starting to fade into the background. Hesitantly, Shane palmed himself, and his hips jerked, his body automatically chasing the friction. Rozanov watched him.

"Do you wanna know how it feels?"

Please touch me please please "How what feels?"

"Holding the cup."

"You fucking asshole!" Real anger suddenly crowded out Shane's arousal, but Rozanov just laughed, his head falling back in a crude parody of bliss.

"Oh, I can barely describe it. Oh god, Hollander, it —"

Shane wasn't nervous anymore. Actually, he was kind of pissed. He yanked off his underwear and hurled them across the room, smacking Rozanov in the chest. When Rozanov looked up, Shane dragged his palm down the curve of his hip bone and stroked himself properly, hissing at the friction. He teased the head of his cock, collecting drips of precome, and brought it back down, moving a little faster this time. With his other hand, he fondled the balls, making himself gasp.

Rozanov wasn't laughing now. His mouth dropped open on a long, drawn-out,

"Fuck."

And then, like Shane had been waiting for, his gaze helplessly flicked up.

Are you gonna fuck me?

Чертов ад (Fucking hell). Rozanov sounded almost as destroyed as Shane felt, but then his eyes dropped back down, and his voice was steady. "We will see."

Almost. He almost had him. Shane stroked harder, leaking all over himself, and the bedsheets. He could feel his eyes going hazy, hear the pathetic whimper that escaped when his fingers twisted just right, right there — it would be so easy to push himself over the edge, but he couldn't. Not without…

"I need…" he barely got out, "Fuck, Rozanov — I can't —"

Thank fucking Christ, Rozanov finally met his eyes again.

Need you. Fuck me. Please. Please I need you please fuck me please Rozanov —

Jerking his eyes away, Rozanov got to his feet and pulled off his shirt. He reached for his fly, but not fast enough. With a desperation he hadn't even realized he was capable of, Shane fell forward into a crawl and nuzzled at Rozanov's crotch, mouthing at his cock through the rich material of his pants. And Rozanov let him, his fingers carding encouragingly through Shane's hair. Emboldened, Shane undid the zipper and freed his cock, licking and sucking contentedly. His mind went pleasantly blank, buzzing with white noise. God, he'd missed this. The warm weight of him, the strong fingers tangled in his hair, the frantic Russian tripping from his tongue. Shane had just started to sink into that timeless place he only ever seemed to reach on his knees when Rozanov's hoarse voice broke him free.

"Turn over."

Shane did, butterflies flapping absurdly in his stomach as he heard Rozanov hastily removing his shoes and pants. He felt the heat of Rozanov's body like a radiator as he loomed over Shane to pull condoms and lube out of the nightstand. Then, too soon and somehow not nearly soon enough, he felt Rozanov's fingertips circling his rim, gently pushing inside.

"Okay?"

"Yes." Shane's voice sounded exasperated even to his own ears. "Just — hurry."

Rozanov worked him open, mumbling,

"Почему это должен быть ты? Почему ты такой идеальный? Это чертовски ужасно (Why does it have to be you? Why are you so perfect? It's fucking awful)."

Even though Shane couldn't understand the words, the soft rumble of Rozanov's voice made him shiver, goosebumps ghosting over his spine. His cheek hit the mattress and his hands scrabbled for purchase as his body involuntarily pushed itself back against Rozanov's fingertips, needing more, deeper, harder. A broken cry left his throat when Rozanov crooked his fingers, hitting his prostate, followed by an even more embarrassing whine when he pulled them out. But the momentary loss was worth it when the blunt head of Rozanov's cock pressed against him, warm and slick with lube and fucking huge.

Fuck, was it this big last time? It must have been, right?

And then Rozanov was pushing in, inch by torturous inch, and Shane went completely offline. His world narrowed to Rozanov's fingertips on his hips, tight enough to bruise (god help him, he wanted it to bruise), Rozanov's breath, hot on the back of his ear as he murmured indistinct praise ("so good for me, look at you," and Shane fucking preened), Rozanov's cock filling him, stretching him, perfectly too much, dragging punched-out moans out of him with every thrust.

Shane was already perilously close when Rozanov bottomed out with an almost pained grunt and started fucking him in earnest, somehow managing to catch his prostate every time, making his vision go staticky as his head spun with pleasure. His own dick was achingly hard, steadily leaking precum onto his stomach. At the exact moment it occurred to him that he might actually fucking die if he didn't touch himself, Rozanov reached around and jerked him roughly. Shane came with a shout, burying his face in the bed to try to dampen it. A moment later, Rozanov froze, gasping as his own orgasm hit him. Shane's body went limp on the mattress without Rozanov holding him up. His nose wrinkled in displeasure at the sticky mess all over his torso, but Rozanov didn't seem to care, collapsing onto the bed next to him with a long groan.

"Jesus, Hollander," he panted, rolling onto his back. Shane caught his eye.

How about that vodka?

Give me a minute, he thought, laughing, and turned his gaze to the ceiling, breathing hard. Something about the fact that Rozanov, usually so in control, was just as wrecked as he was, sent warmth spreading through Shane's stomach that had nothing to do with the damp spot beneath him.

After they'd both caught their breaths, they took turns cleaning up. Rozanov poured another glass of the vodka, and refilled his own. They sat back against the headboard, neither in any particular rush to get dressed. Shane sipped his vodka, tried not to make a face, and looked over at Rozanov, who was very deliberately not making eye contact as he lit a cigarette.

"What are you doing this summer?"

"Going home."

"To Russia?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Rozanov sounded very tired.

"What do you mean, 'why?'"

"Just… it doesn't seem like you like it there."

"It's home."

Rozanov's tone left no room for argument. The conversation they'd had their rookie year, on the rooftop of this same hotel, echoed in Shane's mind like déjà vu. Then, like in Sochi, he'd pushed too hard. Started a fight. Exposed something Rozanov emphatically did not want to talk about. He'd sworn to himself after the Olympics that the next time — if there was a next time — he would be more considerate.

Well, this was his chance.

So Shane just nodded and said, quietly,

"Okay."

He could do this. He could push down his unease about Rozanov's father, his worry about whether or not he was even safe in Russia. He could ignore the way it stung when Rozanov refused to meet his eyes. He could pretend he didn't want to curl up and fall asleep here, in Rozanov's bed, with his head on his chest, even though he smelled like cigarettes.

He could be casual. That's what Rozanov wanted. He could tell himself he wanted that too.

Chapter 6: a broken wrist and a big trapeze

Chapter Summary

the 2-year timeskip through the Tuna Melt Incident

Chapter Notes

Fall 2014

They fell into an easy rhythm once the season started. Ilya would send some innocuous text like,

Ilya: see you soon ;)

and Hollander usually wouldn't reply. Still, without fail, when their eyes would meet for a faceoff in Montreal, he'd think,

Later?

Or in Boston, something like,

319.

Or sometimes, on particularly unlucky nights,

Can't. Sharing a room.

And Ilya would nod, and hook the puck out from under him, or chase him down the ice and check him into the boards, and later he'd spend an hour or so taking him apart and putting him back together. He kept waiting for the novelty to fade, the way it inevitably did with all the rest, but it just… didn't. Every fucking time, Hollander's desperate whimpers and hot, sweet mouth had Ilya fighting for the self control to not embarrass himself by coming in like fifteen seconds. Hollander didn't seem to notice or care that Ilya would only meet his eyes when he had a carefully crafted surface level thought ready to go — fuck, Hollander, you're doing so well or just like that, you can take it — and then he'd look away, before it fell apart, into you were fucking made for me, made for this, want to spend the rest of my fucking life inside you —

The Bears were playing pretty well, but Ilya didn't hate himself as much this year, and without that, he wasn't sure if he could singlehandedly haul their asses to another Cup. A lot of the guys had gotten complacent after a summer of being treated like kings — too many free beers had boosted their egos to absolutely unsustainable levels. Of course Ilya wanted to win, he always wanted to win, but some vindictive part of him wondered if they needed to learn a lesson about what happens when a good team gets too content sitting on its own laurels.

It didn't help that the Voyageurs were on a fucking tear this season. Hollander had taken Ilya's Cup win last year as a personal challenge, whipping his team into shape with a vengeance Ilya would have been a little intimidated by if he didn't find it so fucking hot. It wasn't a sure thing — there was still plenty of time for Hollander to burn himself out — but the same sense that had told Ilya last year was his year was telling him this year might be Hollander's.

June 2015 — Chicago

This was it. Shane could feel it in his bones. The score was tied after the second period of game 6, and despite a stumble in the first two games (Miity had the flu), the Voyageurs had won the three since then. One more goal. They were so close, he could almost taste it, tangy and metallic on the back of his tongue.

Shit, maybe that was blood.

This had been an especially brutal run. Ottawa had miraculously grown a backbone and turned what should have been an easy sweep into a grueling six-game series, Tampa Bay had taken them all the way through game seven, and New York had gone into overtime five games in a row. Even their latest wins against Chicago had been hard-fought — every game down to the wire. The Hawks were good this year. Really fucking good. Any other year, Shane thought privately, they'd be going all the way. But (and Shane chastised himself for his arrogance even as it crossed his mind) they hadn't accounted for him.

Even playing through bone-deep exhaustion, two broken fingers, bruised ribs, a hairline fracture in his left arm, and a tendon in his right knee that he was very deliberately not thinking about because it threatened to buckle every time he put weight on it, Shane felt fucking unstoppable. He'd scored both their goals tonight, three the previous game, and only one the game before but he'd assisted on the others. The instant his blades touched the ice, the otherwise inescapable aches and pains just faded into the background, like his nervous system recognized it wasn't the time and politely turned them off.

Shane looked around the locker room, poring over the faces of his team. JJ's nose had been almost certainly broken in the first period, Hayden had lost a tooth in the previous game, Comeau's bad ankle was so swollen he could barely lace his skates, and the rookies were swaying on their feet like they were barely maintaining consciousness through sheer adrenaline alone.

They had to be back on the ice in three minutes. Everyone was looking to him.

Shane stood up. He didn't yell — he didn't have to.

"We can do this," he said simply. "I know it. You know it. And I know we're all fucking exhausted, so we're not going to drag this one out. We're gonna end this now. Tonight. Just one more goal, and all the sacrifices we've made this season are worth it. Everything we've worked for, everything we've built, this is what it's been leading up to." His voice raised as he went on, building to a roar. "Who's with me?"

"Yes, cap!" the team chorused, but not loud enough.

"I said, WHO'S WITH ME?"

"YES, CAP!"

"That's more like it." Shane grabbed his helmet and let the buzz of energy in the room refuel him. One more goal. "Let's fucking go."

* * *

The Stanley Cup was lighter than he'd expected. Shane raised it above his head with a triumphant, wordless, cry, heedless of the cameras, the lights, the deafening noise of the crowd. He pressed his lips to the cold metal — is this the same spot where he — and carried it into the dogpile of his teammates. JJ was screaming in his face, grabbing him by the shoulders, and Shane passed the Cup to Hayden so he could grab him back.

"Putain de légende! Mon capitaine (Fucking legend! My captain)!"

Shane let himself be swallowed by the press of bodies, carried away by exhilaration. Then his parents were there, and he was towering over them in his skates when he hugged them, but they didn't seem to mind being nose-level with his undoubtedly disgusting pads.

"We are so proud of you, honey." Yuna's eyes glittered with tears. She grabbed Shane's face in her hands like he was six years old again, keeping his eyes on her even amongst the festive chaos all around them. "So, so proud."

"And we love you," David chimed in, still holding Shane's arm like he could somehow instill affection through osmosis. "All the time, not just when you win. But celebrating this with you is…" Shit, he was starting to tear up too, and Shane realized his own eyes were watery. "The best feeling in the world."

"I love you guys," he choked out, sweeping them back into another hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

They were finally stumbling off the ice when Coach Theriault pulled Shane aside.

"Great work, son," he said gruffly, which Shane knew was the most effusive praise he was capable of, and shook his hand. "Same time next year?"

Shane knew he was grinning like a madman, but he couldn't help it.

"You got it, Coach."

Summer 2015

That summer seemed to drag a little more than usual. Ilya had always been good at keeping himself busy, but maintaining his usual exercise regime and going out nearly every night with Svetlana didn't quite use up all his time the way he expected it to. More and more often, he found himself checking his phone — and more often than not, a message was waiting for him.

jane

jane: Don't make fun of me if you see this fucking ad somewhere.

jane: It's so embarrassing.

Ilya: awwww my jane, so shy

jane: Shut up.

Fall 2015

Shane hadn't realized he was grinning until Hayden looked over, waggling his eyebrows.

"Fuck off," he muttered, without heat.

"Relax, dude. It's your business, I won't pry."

That lasted all of three seconds.

"What's her name?"

"I thought you weren't prying."

"I'm not! Just curious about this girl you've been texting all summer."

Shane shrugged.

"It's nothing serious."

"Damn, Hollzy!" JJ swooped in, "Je ne pensais pas que tu l'avais en toi (Didn't think you had it in you)!"

"Is she from Montreal?" Hayden pressed.

"No. She's American."

"Suuure. I bet she goes to another school," Drapeau jeered.

"I don't give a fuck what you think, Carps," Shane snapped, putting his phone away. "Focus on actually completing a pass, not on my love life."

"So there is a love life?" Hayden whispered as the room devolved into 'ooooh's and 'Drapesy pissed off Cap's. Shane flipped him off.

* * *

The truth was, as the season wore on, meeting up with Rozanov stopped feeling like a rare treat and started feeling like a foregone conclusion whenever their teams played each other. Just part of the routine. Wake up at 6am, quick run, protein shake for breakfast, go to the gym for a bit, eat a carefully pre-portioned lunch from the fridge, head to the rink, practice, warm ups, play the game, head home, fuck Rozanov, asleep by midnight.

And, like, Shane wasn't complaining, exactly. He was having sex on a semi-regular basis for the first time in his life, and it felt amazing literally every time. He wasn't sure what it was about Rozanov that brought something out in him he hadn't experienced with any of the girls he'd dated in high school, or the women who would flock to their tables at the clubs and bars JJ and Hayden sometimes dragged him to. He didn't think it was the mindreading thing, because Rozanov seemed to be going out of his way to avoid creating too much emotional intimacy (which Shane was fine with — he'd learned his lesson). They just had a lot in common. Rozanov was an asshole, but he was also Shane's equal in a way that most people… well, weren't. He was just as competitive, just as competent on the ice, just as dedicated off of it. Shane was getting used to texting him casually, even when they weren't just planning a hookup. And Rozanov was funny. Sometimes Shane thought he liked talking to him almost as much as he liked the other stuff.

Still, something… caught, in his chest, when Rozanov kissed him like he was starving. Like Shane was missing something, even if he couldn't put his finger on it. Something important.

June 2016 — Boston

Ilya had volunteered to host the Bears that hadn't left the city yet to watch the finals, so a half dozen or so of them (plus Svetlana, of course) were spread out in his living room booing animatedly when Shane Hollander lifted the Cup for the second time in two years. Ilya let himself enjoy the drama of the moment, throwing himself back into Svetlana's lap and howling,

"It should have been meeeee!"

She laughed at him, fondly playing with his hair. The network cut to footage from the season while the Voyageurs continued their celebrations in the locker room, and Ilya couldn't resist sending a text, even though he knew Hollander wouldn't be on his phone right now.

To his surprise, the answer came back immediately.

Ilya tipped his face upwards to see Svetlana giving him a knowing look.

"Я в трауре, Света, дай мне передохнуть (I'm in mourning, Sveta, give me a break)."

"До тех пор, пока ты обещаешь не быть скучным этим летом (As long as you promise not to be boring this summer)."

"Я? Скучным? Никогда (Me? Boring? Never)!"

July 2016 — Montreal

Shane's entire face went hot as he blushed dramatically enough that Hayden actually snatched his phone out of his hand and let out a low whistle.

"Give that back." Shane grabbed it, probably a little too roughly, and shoved it into his pocket.

"I'm gonna tell JJ your girl's a freak."

"Please don't."

"Why's she negging you? Is she not rooting for us?"

Shane winced.

This is it he's gonna figure it out fuck fuck fuck — "She's from Boston."

"What?" Hayden threw his head back as he laughed. An older couple jogged around them on the path, and Shane grimaced apologetically at them.

"Are you done?"

"A Bears fan?" he wheezed, bending over to brace himself on his knees. "Why doesn't she just fuck Rozanov? I've heard he's practically the town bicycle of Boston."

Well, you see… "That's… such a fucking grandpa phrase. Who even says that?"

Hayden wiped tears from his eyes. Shane took off again, not particularly caring how long it took him to catch up. He did, after a minute, still chuckling to himself.

"You never do things the easy way, do you?"

Buddy, you have no fucking idea. "I like a challenge," Shane admitted with a small, private smile.

"I knew it was something." Hayden shook his head, grinning widely. "You always play well in Boston." Then his eyes widened, and he nearly tripped over his sneakers. "Does she go to the games? Have I seen her?"

"No comment."

After four whole minutes of jogging in companionable silence, Hayden asked,

"Can I tell Jackie?"

"Sure. Just… don't make a big deal about it in front of the guys. It's really not anything serious, and I don't want them getting on my ass about it."

"Yeah, man, of course. No worries."

Another minute of quiet.

"Except for JJ, right?"

Shane's head dropped back in a groan. Guilt curdled in his gut — he hated lying to Hayden, especially given how supportive he was trying to be — but what else was he supposed to do? Anyway, Shane hadn't asked him to snoop.

"Fine."

Summer 2016 — Moscow

Ilya's father was getting worse. He kept calling Alexei "Andrei," and asking who his wife Polina was. He recognized Ilya most of the time, but kept trying to give him tips about getting signed to a Russian team after he finished with Juniors. On his good days, he berated Ilya for fucking off to America and abandoning the family. On bad days, he screamed for Irina until his voice went hoarse. Ilya had taken him to several doctors and gotten him on some new medications that were supposed to help slow the decline, but he had zero faith in Alexei to make sure he actually took them once he left in the fall. Alexei had insinuated a few times that Ilya should just "take a season off," as if it was that fucking simple. Even if Ilya wanted to stay home (and he absolutely did not), they all knew his salary was the only thing keeping them afloat.

Svetlana dragged him out to the clubs most nights, and Ilya tried to have fun, he really did, but the pounding of the bass in his bones felt too much like the buzz of his phone, and before he knew it he'd be pulling up the same message thread, scrolling aimlessly until she elbowed him in the ribs and demanded,

"Потанцуй со мной (Dance with me)!"

Ilya couldn't shake the feeling that he was just spinning his wheels, in a holding pattern. He had the same conversations every fucking day — "Папа, прими свои лекарства." "Нет, Алексей, мы не можем себе этого позволить." "Что мы делаем сегодня вечером, Света (Papa, take your meds. No, Alexei, we can't afford that. What are we doing tonight, Sveta)?" He took his father to his appointments. He worked out. He fought with Alexei. He went out with Svetlana. He went running. He fought with his father. He fucked some girl he'd met at the gym. He fought with Alexei. He worked out some more. Sometimes he fought with Polina, just for variety. The weeks went on, dark and cloudy, around and around again. And then, every so often, a ray of sunlight peeked through.

jane

jane: Hayden called you the "town bicycle" of Boston the other day.

Ilya: what

jane: It means you're a man whore.

Ilya: it's 2016 «jane», men can be regular whores too

Ilya: get with the times

jane: Where did you learn that phrase?

Ilya: i contain multitudes

jane: Have you just been Googling English idioms?

Ilya: ... maybe

On bad days, Ilya wondered what Hollander got up to over the summers. Somehow, he couldn't picture him out partying and hooking up with random people. Actually, the idea made him wince, like he'd stubbed his toe. He wondered if Hollander felt the same way he did — like their sporadic messages were a bright spot in his monotonous days — or if, between his dumbass friends and his perfect parents and his ridiculous brand shoots, he was too busy to think about Ilya at all.

But he never let himself linger on that too long before shaking himself out of it. He had weights to lift, parties to go to, ungrateful family members to bicker with. The clouds would pass eventually. They always did.

October 2016 — Montreal

"Jackie's pregnant."

"Again?"

"Jesus Christ man, you gotta work on your lying."

"Sorry. But…"

Shane gestured vaguely to their surroundings. They were standing in front of the kid's play area at the Montreal Biodome, watching three-year-old Ruby and Jade splash each other from the touch tank, directly under the "S'il Vous Plaît, Pas D'Éclaboussures Dans Le Réservoir Tactile (Please No Splashing In The Touch Tank)" sign. One-year-old Arthur was peacefully asleep in the stroller Hayden was slowly rolling back and forth.

"Yeah." Hayden sighed. "But Jackie's happy. I mean, she's fucking bored, right?"

"Jar!" Ruby squealed gleefully. Jade took advantage of her twin's momentary distraction to cup her little hands together and dump a full ounce of water down the back of her sweater. Hayden leapt to his feet amid shrieks of rage, hauling Jade away under one arm while yanking off Ruby's sweater with his free hand.

"Alright, that's enough of the touch tank. Ruby, don't cry, we'll get you a dry sweater from the gift shop."

"What do I get?" Jade asked, swinging back and forth in his arm like a monkey until he put her down.

"Well, you don't need a sweater, do you?"

"I do, I do!"

Hayden glared at her, fondly exasperated, and turned back to Shane. Jade grabbed Ruby's hand like they'd never argued at all and rushed off in the direction of the next display. Right on cue, Arthur realized that his stroller had stopped moving and promptly burst into tears.

"So, when are you gonna join me in this nightmare?" Hayden asked cheerfully, bouncing Arthur on his hip.

Shit. Deflect. Buy time. Say something funny.

"Jeez, Hay, you want to get me pregnant too? I don't think I'm ready. I think I still have some good hockey left in me."

"You're an asshole," Hayden said, rolling his eyes. Arthur was refusing to settle down. "Here. Tag, you're it." He passed the baby over, cooing, "Let's go see Uncle Shane!"

Shane held the baby to his chest, swaying back and forth until he gurgled contentedly.

"So Jackie has this friend…"

Here we fucking go. "No."

"I know, I know, but… she's fucking hot, dude! She teaches, like, mommy yoga or something! You like yoga, right?"

"Jar."

Hayden laughed and shook his head, undeterred. "Okay, come on, man, why not? I mean, can I just show you her Insta?"

"I'm just not really interested in dating anyone right now."

Hayden's eyes were suddenly shrewd, like he thought he was onto something.

"Except for Boston Lily?"

"We're not dating."

"You talk to her all the fucking time."

"Jar."

"I just want to see you happy! And I want you to have a hundred kids so you can know my pain!"

"I am happy," Shane said, mostly truthfully. "I have an incredible team, we've won the Cup two years in a row — what more could I want?"

Hayden frowned, then looked over at Ruby and Jade, about to come to blows over whether or not Jade deserved anything from the gift shop.

"Fuck. I gotta go break this up."

"Jar!" Shane called after him. Hayden raised one middle finger behind his back. Arthur blinked up at Shane owlishly, blowing little spit bubbles in the corners of his mouth. Shane sighed. "Tell your dad to leave me alone."

Arthur did not reply.

"Um, excuse me?" Shane looked up to see two young girls standing in front of him, their hands nervously clasped behind their backs. "Are you Shane Hollander?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah." No matter how many times he'd been asked that question, Shane had never come up with a good answer. The girls persevered.

"Could we get a picture with you?"

"Sorry, I, uh… kind of have my hands full," he said, gesturing to Arthur. Just then, Hayden walked back over.

"OK, I had to promise them both a sweatshirt and a stuffed animal, but I think the crisis has been averted."

The taller girl lit up at the sight of Hayden, and Shane figured she must have recognized him too, but she just said,

"Could you hold his baby for him, please, so we can get a picture?"

Hayden raised his eyebrows and shared a disbelieving look with Shane, but replied politely enough,

"No problem."

The girls only took a couple selfies before they left with a heartfelt thanks, but heads were turning all around them. Shane knew if they lingered any longer, he'd be spending the better part of the next hour taking pictures and signing things for every other patron at the aquarium.

"Let's get out of here," Hayden stage-whispered, and they practically booked it to the exit, each carrying a wriggling toddler with Arthur bouncing along in his stroller. Ruby and Jade were not at all understanding about their promised shopping trip being temporarily delayed, but they graciously allowed themselves to be wrangled back into their carseats as Hayden groused,

"'Hold his baby?' Really?"

"I'm sorry, buddy," Shane replied, fighting a laugh.

"First of all, it's my fucking baby!"

"Jar."

"And second — oh wait, do I have all the kids?"

"Yeah, Arthur's still in his stroller."

"Okay, phew. I can't believe we're having another one."

"You sure it's just one?" Shane asked, nodding at the twins. Hayden's face went ashen with terror.

"Don't even joke, Hollander."

Boston

"… but this is Shane Hollander's fortress of solitude. Here in Eastern Quebec is the house he had built on a private lake."

"It's my favorite place on Earth." Hollander was sitting on the lawn of a massive house, in front of an entire wall of windows. "And my parents' cottage, the one I grew up spending my summers at, is ten minutes away."

"Я готова (I'm ready)," Svetlana announced, walking into the living room. Ilya realized he'd been glued to the TV. He'd told himself he would just throw something on while he waited, but he couldn't look away from the soft smile on Hollander's face, and — fuck, he was doing yoga.

"Если только ты не решил, что мы должны остаться и посмотреть (Unless you've decided we should stay in and watch)..." Svetlana paused in front of the TV. Hollander was arching his back, his head tilted back towards the sky, eyes fixed at some point in the far distance. "Что бы это ни было (Whatever this is)."

"Извини. Это так чертовски скучно, что я чуть не впал в кому (Sorry. It's so fucking boring I almost fell into a coma)."

"Mm." Svetlana tilted her head, unconvinced, and turned back to the screen. "Хотя он чертовски горячий (He's fucking hot though)."

Ilya turned off the TV.

Svetlana let it go, and Ilya allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. But as soon as she had him confined in the cab, unable to flee, she asked,

"Знает ли он (Does he know)?"

Ilya's head turned sharply to find her blithely scrolling through her phone.

"Кто (Who)?"

"Jane," she said, the J softer than Ilya would have liked. He fought to keep his voice even.

"Нечего знать (There's nothing to know)."

Her eyes flickered over his face, terrifyingly perceptive as always.

"Когда ты в последний раз трахался с кем-то еще (When was the last time you fucked someone else)?"

"Я не знаю, типа, на прошлой неделе (I don't know, like, last week)?" Ilya scoffed, like the question was immaterial, like he had no idea where she was going with this.

"Это было также (Was it the same)?"

"Это всегда одинаково (It's always the same)."

"Hm." A satisfied smile tugged at the corner of Svetlana's perfectly lined lips, like she'd made her point. Ilya bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

November 2016 — Boston

"I'm heading out for a bit," Shane said, extremely casually, standing in the doorway to the hotel room Hayden was busily unpacking in as if they were staying for weeks and not a day and a half.

"Cool," Hayden said absently, refolding a shirt.

"To meet a friend."

"Nice."

"I'll be back later."

Hayden smirked at that. "I won't wait up."

"It's not — I —"

"So you're not meeting Lily?"

Shane's mouth closed with a snap. He could feel the tops of his ears heating. Hayden just chuckled.

"Go get laid, weirdo."

"Go fuck yourself," Shane said on instinct. Hayden smiled even wider.

"Oh, I plan to. Probably more than once. Love a hotel room."

Shane wrinkled his nose in completely unfeigned disgust. "Gross."

"Bye."

Shane had plenty of time to spiral in the car on the way to the house (Rozanov's house!). Rozanov lived about half an hour away from the rink, practically into the suburbs. When he'd sent the address months ago, Shane had balked — it had been way too far to drive in evening traffic. But this was an afternoon game. The Voyageurs had flown in a day early. For the next 12 hours, he had nowhere else he needed to be. So he'd said yes.

He was already regretting that.

Rozanov had been… kind of weird, lately. Shane couldn't put his finger on it — everything seemed fine on the surface — but he sometimes got the sense that Rozanov was… staring at him? Or something? It sounded stupid even in his own head, but he couldn't think of any other way to put it. Rozanov would always look away when Shane turned, still avoiding prolonged eye contact, but. It was weird. What was even weirder was that Shane was pretty sure he liked it.

What did that mean? If he…

Nope.

And Rozanov had invited him to his home. Where he lived. Shane wondered if he did that a lot. If he was the kind of person who just casually took home girls he'd met at bars, or wherever. Or was this…

Stop it.

Shane physically shook his head to redirect himself. It didn't help.

He'd asked the driver to drop him off a couple blocks over, just for plausible deniability. He regretted that too, because now he was walking the last five minutes himself, every step damningly intentional.

Too late to turn back now. (No it wasn't.) The car's gone. (Like he couldn't order another.) It would be rude to not show up. (Like Rozanov gave a shit about social niceties.) I don't have anything else to do. (Yes he did.)

Who was he fucking kidding?

Shane walked up to Ilya Rozanov's house and rang the doorbell.

* * *

Ilya saw him before he heard the doorbell, nervously lingering on his front porch like he was delivering a pizza. He pulled the door open, trying to act cool and self-assured, like he did this every fucking day, and Shane fucking Hollander walked into his house. Ilya suddenly felt giddy and young, like he'd invited a friend from school home for the first time. He hadn't bothered to throw on a shirt — for a moment, it occurred to him to worry maybe that was too forward, but judging by the appraising look Hollander gave him, he didn't seem to mind.

"Should I, uh, take my shoes off?"

Fuck, Ilya had missed him. "You're good."

Hollander took his shoes off anyway. Ilya's heart seized. It was almost unnerving how natural Hollander looked walking into the bright sunny kitchen, like he belonged there.

"Wow," he said, mostly to himself, but Ilya's ears were trained on him like a German Shepherd's. "This place is great." Then, like he'd just remembered Ilya was even there, "Did you get this built? Or do you know who did?"

Ilya was sure he was grinning like an idiot.

"Mr. Real Estate."

Hollander was backing himself into the kitchen counter so perfectly, it was like he'd planned it. Ilya moved in, slowly, trying not to spook him.

"That's not what I meant, I just…" Their eyes met. Maybe we should talk?

After. Ilya thought back, and before Hollander had a chance to argue, he closed the gap and kissed him. Hollander's eyes fluttered shut and he settled his hands on Ilya's waist with a little sigh. Ilya took control of the kiss with a firm hand on Hollander's neck, and when he opened his mouth and went loose and pliable in Ilya's arms, rewarded him by lifting him bodily onto the counter and stepping between his legs. That made Hollander gasp, and Ilya took advantage immediately, licking into his mouth with a fervor that surprised even himself. Hollander's strong legs wrapped around his waist, and he whimpered helplessly, murmuring something indistinct against Ilya's mouth.

"What?" Ilya asked, pulling back, and before he knew it, Hollander was hopping off the counter and falling to his knees. Before Ilya could react, Hollander pulled his sweats down and and took his cock into his mouth.

"Jesus, Hollander," he gasped, stumbling back against the wall. "Couldn't wait, could you?"

"Mm mm."

If Ilya hadn't been fully hard already, he sure as hell was now. Hollander swirled his tongue around the head of Ilya's cock just the way he liked, jaw falling open, drool puddling at the corners of his mouth as he sucked him deeper. Pressure built in Ilya's stomach, light sparkling behind his eyelids.

"Stop," Ilya choked out. Hollander sat back on his heels, pulling off with a wet pop. Ilya practically yanked him to his feet and crashed their lips together, tasting himself on Hollander's tongue. The kiss was wet and messy, but Ilya didn't care. He walked them backwards, towards the bedroom, unwilling to let their lips part for even a moment, freeing Hollander from his jacket and hurling it in the general direction of the couch. Once they got to his room, he sat back on the bed, kicking off his pants and underwear. Hollander pulled off his own clothes with almost as much urgency as Ilya felt, then practically pounced on him. Ilya fell back, letting him take charge for the moment. Hollander ground down against him, drawing twin groans from them both.

Usually, Ilya made a point of taking Hollander from behind. Anything else felt too risky. But right now, in his own bed, he couldn't bring himself to care. The thought of watching Hollander bounce on Ilya's cock, enjoying the view of his perfect dick, flushed and leaking, slapping against his stomach, was too good to resist. Ilya fumbled for the lube and poured a generous dollop all over his fingers. He took his time opening Hollander up, watching the unpolished, involuntary contortions of his face as he whimpered and begged.

"'M ready, Rozanov, please —"

When Hollander was nearly hysterical with desperation, Ilya lined himself up and watched him sink down, squirming until he got the angle just right and his head fell back on a long moan. He braced himself with a hand on Ilya's chest — not thinking, Ilya covered it with his own, enraptured by the sight of his cock vanishing inside Hollander's tight heat, slick with lube. His balls pulled tight, pleasure building too fast, too soon, as Hollander dropped, his ass flush with Ilya's hips.

A harsh "Fuck" was wrenched from his throat, and he had to shut his eyes, holding himself together through sheer force of will. Hollander fucked himself on Ilya's cock with a determination Ilya had only ever seen from him on the ice, eyebrows scrunching with focus. His own dick was completely neglected, angry red verging on purple, dripping precum — Ilya would never get used to how fucking wet he got. Still holding Hollander's hand, he reached out with his other hand and stroked him roughly. Hollander wasn't quite as big as he was, but it filled his fist nicely. Hollander keened, high in the back of his throat, working himself back on Ilya's cock, then forward into his fist, like he couldn't decide which felt better. Just when he didn't think he could hold his own orgasm back any longer, Hollander's breathing turned harsh and his eyes squeezed shut. Ilya jerked him harder, panting,

"Yes, sweetheart," and Hollander's release splashed all over them both as pleasure whited out Ilya's vision. He worked them both through it, stroking Hollander's softening cock as it jerked and sputtered, fucking up into him until the overstimulation crossed into pain. He lifted Hollander off him and they both collapsed, boneless, onto the pillows.

Later, after they'd cleaned up, Ilya flopped back into bed, pulling Hollander with him. He felt sleepy and warm, his muscles pleasantly sore. Hollander's hair was a mess, his face still flushed as he caught his breath. It occurred to Ilya, not for the first time, that he was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. He couldn't resist pressing his mouth to one smooth shoulder, then his neck.

"I should go," Hollander muttered. Ilya didn't seem to have the strength to avoid his gaze when he looked over.

Or you could stay.

Stay?

Here, tonight.

I can't. You know that.

Why not? The game is tomorrow afternoon. No morning practice.

Hollander had been picking up on Ilya's tricks after all, because he turned his face to the ceiling before Ilya could hear his reply.

"I told Hayden —"

"Is he your mother?" Ilya asked, rolling his eyes. His heart was pounding. He hadn't expected to ever have the courage to actually ask — wasn't even sure if he would have gotten the words out if Hollander hadn't overheard them — but now that he had, the worst part was over. It wasn't any more embarrassing to double down. "Who cares what you told Hayden?"

"No. Just… he's expecting me," Hollander said, and Ilya could hear his resolve weakening. It was dirty pool, but he reached over and turned Hollander's head with just the slightest pressure on his jaw.

Stay.

Okay.

Ilya kissed him, sweet and gentle — not with any particular urgency, just because he wanted to. Hollander kissed him back for a while, but eventually they both drifted off, still naked, limbs carelessly tangled together. Ilya's last thought before he went under was,

Я в полной заднице (I'm so fucked).

* * *

Consciousness returned to Shane in pieces. A warm presence against his back. Soft sheets. Afternoon sun streaming in through his eyelids. He blinked them open. A muscled arm, heavy around his waist.

Rozanov's arm.

Rozanov's bed.

He had fallen asleep in Ilya Rozanov's bed.

Cautiously, Shane rolled over. Rozanov was blinking sleepily back at him, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Shane smiled back.

I'm hungry.

For what?

Rozanov stretched, his head turning away.

"For food, pervert."

"Hey," Shane objected lamely, but Rozanov was already moving. By the time Shane had rolled onto his back, he was getting out of the bed, nonchalantly tossing a pair of sweatpants back onto Shane's chest. Against his better judgment, Shane pulled them on, also accepting the shirt Rozanov left crumpled on top of the comforter. His own clothes were still on the floor somewhere, but he hated wearing jeans anyway, and Rozanov's shirt was softer than his own, slightly oversized with a stretched-out neckline.

Barefoot, he padded into the kitchen and took a seat at the massive kitchen island. Rozanov pulled a ginger ale out of the fridge and slid it across the counter.

"You like tuna melt?"

Before Shane could get a read on Rozanov, he turned back to the fridge.

"You'll… make me a tuna melt?"

"I was going to make one for me, I can make two."

He said it casually, like it was nothing, but alarm bells went off in the back of Shane's mind as Rozanov started getting out ingredients.

What is this? We don't do this.

"You head to Florida after this, right?" Rozanov was asking. Shane let the familiar territory ground him.

"Yeah, right after the game. Tampa, then Sunrise, then we go to Dallas and St. Louis."

"Ah, all the hot spots," Rozanov cracked. Shane snorted. "Ginger ale cold enough?"

"Yeah, it's great."

"Good." Rozanov busied himself with taking things out of containers. "Food will be ready soon."

Shane nodded, keeping his face neutral, but his thoughts raced. They'd abandoned established ground hours ago, when Shane had let himself fall asleep instead of fleeing Rozanov's house like a thief in the night. If he was honest, agreeing to come here at all, to Rozanov's house, in the middle of the day, had been a departure. And somehow, this — Rozanov cooking for him? making small talk? — was the most disconcerting thing that had happened all day.

Rozanov had made it perfectly clear that, despite their… unique connection, he had no interest in opening up to Shane about, well, anything. They kept seeing each other because they had really fucking great sex, and that was it. And if Shane had sometimes wondered, offhandedly, why Rozanov even bothered with him when clearly he could have anyone he wanted… if he'd occasionally worried about Rozanov over the summers, alone in Russia with his awful father… if he'd ever had the vaguest sense that maybe he liked Rozanov a little more than he was supposed to… he'd shut any of that shit down immediately, and shoved it into the deepest pit in the back of his mind.

Because that's not what this was.

Shane liked rules. He'd had the NHL players' handbook memorized before he'd even been drafted. He'd spent his childhood scrutinizing everyone around him, figuring out the unsaid scripts that dictated their lives, learning when to react, when not to react, how to behave. Rules kept him safe.

And Rozanov was breaking the rules.

The snap of the oven door startled Shane out of his spiral.

"Ten minutes," Rozanov said, and headed into the living room to turn on the Buffalo vs. Chicago game. Adrift, Shane followed him, sitting on the couch at the exact right time to catch an especially brutal hit.

"Jesus Christ," Rozanov muttered, spreading out on the other side of the couch. "You know this guy, Ryan Price?"

"Yeah, from playing against him and not wanting to fight him. You did a season with him, right?"

Rozanov nodded, eyes trained on the TV.

"He is not what you would think."

"How so?"

"Like, he's quiet… doesn't talk, keeps to himself. Not bad guy, doesn't make friends."

"Well, he gets traded every season," Shane said fairly. "Tough to make friends that way."

"Probably he wants to get traded again. Buffalo is terrible."

"Yeah, and their team sucks too," Shane chirped. Rozanov let out a wheeze of laughter.

"And people say you're not funny."

Shane felt his eyebrows crease, but he couldn't help it.

"They do?"

"Yeah. They say you're boring too."

Shit, really? "Who says that?"

"Me."

Asshole.

But at least they were back in familiar territory.

"What's your favorite city to play in?" Shane asked, when the conversation lulled. "On the road?"

"Mmm…" Rozanov seemed to be giving it a lot of thought. "I like New York, because it's New York. They fucking hate me there."

"They hate you everywhere," Shane pointed out.

"No, not Florida. Is full of Boston people. And you?"

"I like Ottawa. Because it's my hometown. Toronto, Winnipeg, I'm happy they have a team again."

Rozanov smirked to himself. Shane suddenly felt a little defensive.

"What? Are those boring answers?"

"Yes."

"Well, I like the hot places too."

Rozanov nodded, his eyebrows raised insinuatingly.

"Hot, like, weather hot."

"Okay." Then, disarmingly casually, "L.A. is hot. Hot women."

Where is he going with this? "Yeah, sure, I mean, there are hot women everywhere."

"There is a girl, I like her very much, Svetlana."

Shane had completely lost track of the conversation. Blood pounded in his ears.

"Oh."

"She's old friend, from Russia. Her father was famous goaltender of Soviet team. She knows everything about hockey."

Jealousy flared, hot and sharp, in Shane's stomach.

"Cool." Why aren't you making tuna melts on your day off for her then?

"And she likes you very much."

"That's… nice?" Shane heard Rozanov snicker, but he couldn't look at him. "So, she's like your girlfriend?"

"No, no, nothing like that. She's old friend, sometimes we fuck, but… she's busy these days, you know, new business selling fancy cars."

"Sounds perfect for you."

"Yes, is close to that. But…"

"But what?"

Rozanov was very carefully pointing his face straight forward.

"But it's nothing more than that, for either of us. But it's nice to have regular woman like that around."

"You think she's the only woman in Boston who'd sleep with you?"

"I think I will find someone else."

Of course you will. So what do you want with me? What are we doing?

Rozanov was still fucking talking. Shane thought maybe he wanted to punch him. Then he heard,

"But you know me, I'm lazy, so…"

"I don't know that side of you at all," Shane said firmly. That's just your asshole father getting in your head.

To his horror, Rozanov turned to look him in the eyes, perfectly timed to catch the stray thought. But instead of chewing him out for overstepping again, he just shrugged.

Maybe. Maybe not.

The oven beeped.

"Stay," Rozanov said, like Shane was a fucking dog. "I'll get it."

They ate the tuna melts on the couch, Shane doing his best to not get crumbs everywhere, Rozanov scarfing down his food like it was his last meal. Rozanov was watching him, Shane could see out of the corner of his eye, but never quite met his gaze.

"You like them?"

The tuna melts? "Yeah."

"Girls."

"Oh," Shane said, after probably too long of a pause. "Yeah, sure. Of course I do."

"I never hear about your girls."

This was starting to feel like an interrogation. Shane could feel his shoulders rising towards his ears.

"I mean, it's private. I keep a lot of things private." As you of all people should know.

Rozanov looked at him, his internal voice a little softer, less measured.

I like girls.

Yeah, no shit.

But I also like you.

Lucky me.

Rozanov turned back to the TV. Shane felt the loss of his attention like a cloud had passed in front of the sun.

"Not as person, of course," he went on, in that awful, careless voice Shane could never interpret. He should have been grateful that Rozanov was acting normal again, but he wasn't.

"Of course not, I'm boring," he shot back.

"But you have a good mouth."

Shane was getting whiplash from the turns this afternoon had taken.

What the fuck is going on? Are you trying to get to know me? Are you trying to brag? What are you saying? What do you want from me?

Before Shane could snap, Rozanov's phone rang. His face went carefully still.

"I have to take this. Sorry." He stood up and walked into the other room, handing Shane the remote on his way out. Shane heard him say, "Привет, папа (Hello, Papa)," before he turned the corner, leaving him alone to ruminate. He turned up the volume to give Rozanov privacy, even though he didn't understand anything he was saying, and let his eyes track the plays folding out on the ice. Somehow, he couldn't seem to settle into the rhythm of the game — he felt completely disengaged, his brain whirring faster and faster, the alarm bells blaring full red alert: Run. Get out. Right now, while he's distracted. Just go.

But for reasons he didn't even understand, when Rozanov walked back into the room, his face unnervingly calm, Shane was still sitting there on the couch, waiting patiently. He muted the game.

Don't say it don't say it don't say it "Everything okay?"

Rozanov shrugged, sitting down next to Shane.

"Fine."

Don't push don't push what the fuck are you doing what is wrong with you "Were you… was that your dad?"

A weird look flashed across Rozanov's face, too fast for Shane to catch. Then he huffed out a laugh.

"Papa."

"Yeah. It's… probably the only word of Russian I know, just because…"

"I remember." Rozanov's jaw worked as he formulated his thoughts. Then, seemingly giving up, he sighed, shifted closer to Shane on the couch, and tugged him down, until his head rested on Rozanov's chest. Shane let him. It felt… kind of nice, actually. Rozanov was warm and solid, and his hand came up to pet Shane's hair. Absentmindedly, Shane found his hand toying with the string of his sweatpants. When Rozanov didn't resist, he ran his hand down the inside of his thigh, gently squeezing him. Then, suddenly bold, he turned his head and pressed his mouth to Rozanov's pec, dropping kisses down his stomach, then mouthing at his cock through the thin material of his sweatpants. Rozanov's hands felt huge, but gentle, as they held his head, supporting his descent, then slipped under the back of his shirt. The disembodiment he'd felt creeping up on him faded, and Shane let himself be grounded by Rozanov's hand on his back, Rozanov's rapidly stiffening cock under his mouth.

After a moment, Rozanov pulled him up, exposing the taut column of his neck as he captured Shane's lips with his own. Shane swung his leg over his thigh and kissed him back, straddling his lap, rocking tentatively against him. The familiarity of Rozanov's lips, his hands, the hard lines of muscle underneath him, settled him. Sure, it had been kind of a weird day, but this, he knew. This, he could do. Shane pulled off the shirt and let it fall somewhere behind him. Rozanov realigned his position to free himself from his pants, and Shane sat up a bit to do the same. He was already almost as hard as Rozanov, and as he took them both in one hand, the dry friction immediately brought them both to full mast. It was almost painful, but fuck, it felt too good to stop. Rozanov's breathing was uneven, hitching with every stroke; Shane realized his was too. Their foreheads rested together, and he wanted to kiss him again, but first — Shane brought his hand up, and Rozanov didn't need to meet his eyes to know what he wanted. Without hesitation, he spat into Shane's cupped palm. It wasn't much, but when Shane brought his hand back down to stroke them both, he was leaking enough to make up the difference.

"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov gasped out, and Shane did kiss him then. If he weren't so far gone he would have been embarrassed by what a shitty kiss it was — sloppy and desperate, biting at Rozanov's lower lip like he was trying to draw blood, smearing his open mouth across Rozanov's cheek, over his jawline. Rozanov didn't seem to care — he just groaned, helplessly thrusting into Shane's fist. God, he was so fucking close, blind to everything except the merciless, inescapable wave building in his gut. His mouth hung open, unable to form words. Frantically, he grabbed Rozanov's chin with his free hand.

You gonna come for me, Rozanov?

Fucking make me.

Shane tipped his head back and whined. Everything was so — so much, too much, too good, fuck he was — oh god, just — right there — just a little more — his head fell forward again, eyes wide with shock and pleasure as his orgasm crashed over him and —

"Fuuuck, Shane."

It hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Oh god it's you. It's just you. No one else has ever made me feel this way. I don't think anyone else could. I want this I want you more than I've ever wanted anything and I can't —

Shane looked Ilya Rozanov in the eyes, blue and green and golden and all of the sudden, like an impressionist painting coming into focus, he just… saw it.

Saw him.

All of him.

It just kept coming, washing over him, moments out of context, conversations he couldn't understand, people he didn't recognize, but the emotions were unmistakable. Devastating. Damning. The longing, the despair — "We are not anything." — the grim, forlorn endurance — furious eyes, a closed fist, "Тебе не стыдно (Are you not ashamed)?" — the sorrow — "Мама, проснись (Mama, wake up)!" — the rage, the glimmer of desperate hope through it all — "Посмотри на это, Илюша (Watch this, Ilyusha)." — and his own eyes, sparkling in the dim lamplight of a cheap hotel room, the constellations on his rosy cheeks…

This is why he wouldn't look at me. This is what he's been so afraid of. Oh fuck this whole time —

"Ilya," Shane whispered.

Ilya kissed him, deep and thorough, a wordless apology. Shane's heart stuttered to a stop.

If I saw him, he saw me.

Panic clawed at his throat. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His mind was flooded with Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, leaving his body to its own devices.

Shane's legs straightened, stood up. His back bent, his hand grabbing the shirt and throwing it over his head. His arms wriggled into the sleeves. His mouth said, haltingly,

"I should go. I should… I should go. I shouldn't… stay. I can't. Team meeting in the morning that I'd forgotten. So."

His eyes pointed themselves at the wall. His mouth was still moving.

"Thank you for the tuna melt. I'm sorry. This… I can't…"

His ears received a message and did not transmit it to his brain. Stubbornly, dumbly, his mouth said,

"I can't do this."

As if from the bottom of a very deep well, he heard,

"Hollander."

"I'm sorry," Shane repeated, powerless to stop his knees from bending, his feet from moving, jerkily, robotically, his hand reaching for his phone, his wallet, grabbing his shoes. His body walked out of the house and closed the door behind itself.

* * *

Shane came back to himself standing in the middle of a dark hotel room. The light flicked on, making him wince. Hayden's voice was rough with sleep, but filled with good humor.

"How'd it go? You in love?"

Chapter End Notes

so i haven’t been writing author’s notes just because i haven’t really had anything else to say haha — buuuut we’re roughly at the halfway point (unless the next couple chapters balloon out even more ridiculously than they already have) so i wanted to do a little check-in!

1. for anyone confused about shane calling drapeau “carps,” you’re right, that’s not canon. i made it up based on the typical progression of hockey player nicknames: drapeau —> drapesy —> drapes —> carpets —> carpsy/carps. in my mind shane wouldn’t usually call him that since it’s kinda dirty, so everyone gets a kick out of it when he snaps lol

2. pls believe me i have been trying to stay consistent on the bears and voyageurs teammates, but it’s been tricky! for example, in the books, drapeau is (i think) a goalie, but in the show miitka’s the goalie, so i relegated drapeau to maybe a second line, or defense or something. and we don’t get many canon names for the bears either, so sorry for any inconsistencies there

3. you might also have noticed a LOT of dialogue taken straight from the show and the books. i’ve been mostly following the timeline of the show, with some supplementary book scenes they didn’t have time for, and really only starting from scratch during some of the time jumps (like the my moon my man montage in ep 4, which covers two years that the book skips entirely). i have a pretty clear sense of who these characters are internally, but most of this story is running almost directly parallel to canon, so it would have felt weird to me if i completely rewrote all the dialogue for basically the same events
a. i’ve also been using book details that the show only changed for copyright or budget reasons (most notably the team names) EXCEPT for the sex condo bc i preferred the timeline the show went with, including the 2 year wait instead of earlier casual sex like in the books
b. the other reason i’ve used so much book dialogue, especially for ilya, is because i don’t trust myself to accurately portray his improvement in english over the years and i don’t want to write him like a caveman haha

4. ok last thing i’m so sorry (this is what i get for saving up all my thoughts): i'm aware that i probably wrote shane especially, but also ilya, to be a little more emotionally self aware than they are in canon. i tried to make it clear that shane does still struggle with social cues, but it’s easier for him to interpret ilya when he’s hearing his thoughts, because there’s an undercurrent of emotion there (even though it didn’t bubble over until the tuna melts). as a result, most of their miscommunications happen because ilya is avoiding eye contact and speaking aloud, so shane has trouble figuring out what he’s trying to say. that’s why shane gets so annoyed about it — he likes not having to puzzle out ilya’s careful non sequitors, and being able to see straight through to what he really wants. ofc that’s also why ilya is doing it in the first place — because he’s so terrified of revealing too much

ps, that line about chicago making it all the way if not for shane is just me coping because we did actually win the stanley cup irl that year haha

Chapter 7: i don’t mind if you don’t mind

Chapter Summary

post tuna melts through the club!

Chapter Notes

November 2016 — Boston

"Ilyusha?" Svetlana's voice echoed through the house. Ilya was on the couch. It felt like he was always on the fucking couch these days. Like maybe Shane Hollander had left his magnetic pull there along with Ilya's dignity, keeping him chained to the last traces of his existence like a dog to a post. He didn't respond. She'd find him eventually.

"Илья? Ты дома (Ilya? Are you home)?"

He wasn't depressed. He wasn't. Because he hadn't missed a single practice all week, and he'd scored a hat trick yesterday and gone out with his team to celebrate and wingman Marly, and he was eating, so it didn't matter if in his own time he went home and sat in the dark. He was just tired. Everyone got tired sometimes.

Svetlana switched on the lights. Ilya winced, blinded for just long enough for her to cross the room and flick his forehead.

"Дура. Ты меня напугал (Asshole. You scared me)."

"Чего ты хочешь, Света (What do you want, Sveta)?"

"Ты не отвечал на мои сообщения (You never answered my texts)."

"Я был занят (I've been busy)."

Ilya squirmed in the face of Svetlana's shrewd gaze.

"Да, ты выглядишь очень занятым (Yeah, you look really busy)."

"Хорошо (Well)?" Ilya threw his arms wide. "Я слушаю (Let's hear it)."

"Что ты хочешь услышать (Hear what)?"

"Ты мне скажи. Я знаю, это гложет тебя (You told me so. Go on, get it out of the way. I know you've been dying to say it)."

"Ilyusha…" Svetlana sat down next to him with a heavy sigh. "Расскажи мне, что случилось (Tell me what happened)."

Ilya bit the inside of his cheek.

"I fucked up. He bailed."

"Как все перевернулось с ног на голову (How the tables turn)?"

"Отвали (Fuck off)." Ilya grumbled. Svetlana tugged at his shoulder, maneuvering him sideways until his head landed in her lap. Her delicate fingers combed through his hair, teasing out individual curls. Despite Ilya's best efforts, he could feel some of the tension in his shoulders dissolving as his eyes drifted closed. Somehow it was easier to think like this, surrounded by Svetlana's warm lap and gentle hands, the smell of her ridiculously expensive perfume.

They stayed like that for a while. Ilya wasn't sure how long. He had lost track of time well before she'd even arrived. If he was being honest, he had fallen out of sync last Friday at around 4pm, when Shane Hollander's big brown eyes had swallowed him whole, and Ilya had let the riptide take him. Shane's mind had been… scattered. Fragmented. Full of emotions he didn't understand and memories he didn't want to think about, all held together with a kind of grim, unshakable dread, like if he let anything slip through the cracks, it would all come tumbling down. Years of microaggressions he'd logged and set aside, teammates casually making him the butt of jokes in a way he couldn't quite place and had instead chosen to ignore, every mistake he'd ever made and the efforts he'd gone to to make sure it never fucking happened again. An all-consuming, self-sustaining pressure cooker he could only escape when Ilya had him pinned against a wall — and he hated himself for that too.

Of course, Ilya was terrified about what Shane had witnessed in his mind. All week, he'd been convinced that was why Shane had run — because he was so horrified and disgusted by how broken Ilya really was. But now, he decided it was more likely he'd just freaked out because things had gotten too real. Shane hated being taken off guard. Ilya knew that — it was why he'd tried to ease them into a gradual conversation — but his efforts had been thwarted when they'd both been thrown into the deep end. So of course Shane needed time to process. Ilya could give him that. Then maybe he'd come to his senses. Maybe things could go back to normal. He just had to wait it out.

When he'd taken a deep breath and burrowed further into her lap, Svetlana said softly,

"Я тебе так и говорил (I told you so)."

Ilya half-groaned, half-laughed, swatting feebly at her as best he could without moving his head.

"Я знаю, что это была плохая идея. Все это. Я просто не мог удержаться (I know it was a bad idea. All of it. I just... couldn't hlep myself)."

Svetlana sighed again, still playing with Ilya's hair.

"У тебя такое большое сердце, солнышко (You have such a big heart, sunshine)."

"Никому не говори. У меня есть репутация, которую нужно поддерживать (Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain)."

Montreal

Shane had read an article once that compared the human brain to a supercomputer, with foreground and background processing. Foreground processing required conscious thought, and could be used for playing hockey, solving a puzzle, or writing an important email. Background processing was mostly subconscious, just the brain noodling over fears and desires, putting pieces together, idly noticing a squirrel or the weather.

Shane had liked the metaphor a lot, mostly because it gave him the words to explain that his background processing didn't just "happen," the way people seemed to think it was supposed to. No part of his brain was ever idle. It made him a fucking machine on the ice, because he couldn't help noticing movement out of the corner of his eye, spotting an opening a tenth of a second before it happened and already having the puck in place, picking up on a defenseman holding his stick weird because of a strained wrist he really shouldn't have been playing on.

But it was off the ice that he relied on his background processing the most.

It was always alert, always working. Right now, it was busy noticing the downward quirk at the corners of his dad's mouth, the tightening around his mom's eyes. Snapshotting the set of their shoulders and the pinch of their faces, running it through an extensive internal database of every facial expression they had ever made, finding a match, and the surrounding context — that time he'd gotten his ears pierced on a whim (and taken them out two days later) because his whole juniors team was doing it and he hadn't wanted them to call him a pussy.

Disappointment. Worry. He had missed something. He was out of the loop, and they had noticed.

Having solved that little mystery, Shane's background processing returned to its default programming — Ilya Rozanov, prime time, all the time. The mole on his cheek, his comically round ass, the look on his face when Shane had fled like a fucking coward —

"Shane…" His father leaned forward, holding his gaze. "Is everything all right?"

Fuck. He was ruining lunch.

"Why, because I don't want wine?" Shane asked lightly.

"Well, you just seem… tense."

"I'm fine," Shane assured his parents. The words rang hollow in his own ears. Anxiety crawled up his spine. Was it that obvious? Could everyone see it?

"Well, I think a little trip to London next summer, for Wimbledon, just the three of us, would be fun, and I think you should think about it. We could make a week out of it. Go to a play, see Big Ben. You loved it when you were a kid."

"You guys should go. You'd have a great time." Shane attempted to inject some enthusiasm into the suggestion, but he couldn't tell if they were buying it. "You're the tennis fan, Dad."

Yuna scoffed. "They're not going to send us the tickets, honey, it's you they want. We're just the parents, you're the main attraction."

"Well then, I'll just lie, tell them I'm coming, they won't kick you out. And you can just tell them I'm sick or something."

"Honey, I don't want you to lie. That's not who you are."

You have no fucking idea who I am.

God, he'd been lying to them for so long — about the Ilya mindreading thing, about the Ilya sex thing, about the "possibly liking men in general" thing — even if he wanted to come clean, he wouldn't know where to start. He knew they wouldn't understand. How could they? He barely understood it himself. He felt so fucking guilty all the fucking time, he wanted to —

Shane realized he'd been quiet for a moment too long.

"Sorry, I'm… I'm in a weird mood."

Understatement of the goddamn century.

"It's okay." David said softly. "Anything you want to talk about?"

Absolutely not. "Let's... let's think about London," he said, a little impressed with himself for how normal his voice sounded. "Maybe it could be fun. I'm just going to use the washroom."

Shane walked to the bathroom on unsteady legs, locked himself inside, sat down on the classy little bench — why did nice places always randomly put a bench in the bathroom? — and let his head drop back against the wall. The "thunk" it made was oddly satisfying. He did it again. And again. Until the back of his head felt sore and he was worried it would leave a bruise. Maybe he wanted it to.

Ressaisis-toi. Tu vas bien. Tout va bien (Pull it together. You're fine. Everything's fine).

Everyone was fucking worried about him. Hayden, after he'd had a deeply embarrassing meltdown on the hotel room floor. JJ, since he'd gone an entire practice without saying a word because he was afraid he'd scream if he opened his mouth. Now his parents, because he'd bitched at them about some Swedish princess at goddamn Wimbledon. Shane wanted to throw up.

"I think I will find someone else."

Shame and resentment warred for custody of Shane's curdling stomach.

Whatever his thing was with Ilya — Rozanov, he corrected himself, slamming his head against the tile again. Whatever it had been, it was over. It had to be. They had no future. Rozanov would find some nice Boston girl to marry — maybe Svetlana, he seemed to like her well enough — and forget all about him, and Shane… well…

"I never hear about your girls."

Shane could date a girl. He had dated girls. He could like girls. Yes, his previous experiences had been… less than ideal. But maybe he hadn't really been trying. He could try harder. He just needed a distraction. Something to keep his mind off Il- unproductive thoughts.

Like the universe was answering his prayers, Shane's phone buzzed.

* * *

Shane couldn't in good conscience call himself an expert, but as parties went, this one seemed to be pretty good. Drinks were flowing, people were laughing and chatting and dancing, and JJ was holding court by the bar. After a full night of socializing (mostly just following Hayden around and occasionally smiling at people), Shane had hunkered down in a corner booth, hoping he didn't look like he wanted to die. He just needed a break. The party showed no signs of dying down, and he wondered how much longer he had to wait before it wouldn't be rude to leave.

"Please tell me you're hungry."

Shane looked up to see a gorgeous blonde woman, about his own age, smiling widely at him and holding a massive tray of fritters.

"Um," he said eloquently. Rose Landry (holy shit, Rose Landry!) took that as an invitation to slip into the booth across from him. She kept up a running commentary as she made herself at home, not letting him get a word in edgewise (which was probably for the best, because he was embarrassingly starstruck).

"The chef just handed me these fritters, and they look delicious, but I can't possibly eat them all." She grabbed one and took a big bite. "Oh my god, these are so good! You have to try some!" Shane must have still been staring at her like an idiot because she added, "Sorry, I'm a pig. I'm Rose, by the way," and held out one perfectly manicured hand to shake. Thankfully, Shane's muscle memory kicked in. He took her hand, smiled, and said,

"Shane. Nice to meet you. I'm a big fan."

"Really?" Her eyes sparkled with delight. "Well, would you be surprised to know I'm a huge fan of yours?"

"You like hockey?"

"I was born and raised in Michigan," she explained between bites of a second fritter. "Damn right I like hockey."

"Oh. Well… thanks."

"You're welcome. Eat a fritter, Shane Hollander."

Shane ate a fritter. They really were good (even though they were absolutely not included in his nutrition plan). He and Rose got to talking about the Red Wings, who were on a humiliating run this season, and then about how weird it was for Rose, living in LA after spending her formative years in the midwest.

"I miss the seasons," she said wistfully. "Sometimes I genuinely feel nostalgic for, like, having to walk to school in waist-high snow, or spinning out on black ice."

"Plenty of that around here," Shane said with a grimace. She laughed.

"Last time I was filming in Montreal, I didn't get to see any snow. It was only for a week, in the summer. I don't even remember the name of it — some horrible FBI movie. I had like five minutes of screentime."

"Under Dark?" Shane asked sheepishly.

"Oh my god, shut up. You saw that?"

"I spend a lot of time on planes." Shane said, a little defensively. "I watch a lot of movies."

"Well," a teasing smile played at the edges of Rose's lips, "what did you think?"

Shane hesitated before answering,

"About five minutes of it was pretty good."

Rose cackled, throwing herself back against the leather booth. Her laughter was infectious — Shane was surprised to find a broad grin on his own face. It was his first natural smile all night. They talked for another hour, about their childhoods, their careers, and Rose's new movie (which sounded marginally better than Under Dark), and exchanged numbers before they left. As he drove himself home, Shane was buzzing with energy. He really liked Rose. He'd genuinely had a good time talking to her. He wanted to get to know her more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like that about anyone except — nope.

Shane almost wanted to laugh. All this time thinking he was broken or something, and the only issue was his standards being too high. But Rose was perfect — funny, and interesting, and sweet, and beautiful, and he liked her. He actually liked a girl!

December 2016 — Boston

"Roz! You gotta see this!" Marlow called across the gym, from the stationary bikes he and St Simon were ostensibly using while they chatted. "You're gonna shit, man."

Ilya groaned, approaching reluctantly.

"Stop showing people porn in the workplace, Marly, it's a fucking HR violation."

"No no no dude it's not — you're not gonna believe it, just —" Marlow elbowed St Simon vigorously. "Show him."

Ilya pulled out one earbud and glanced at the phone, which was open to some random gossip site.

Is Rose Landry Dating NHL Star Shane Hollander?

"No," he heard his own voice say, distantly, over the ringing in his ears.

"I know, right? She's, like, a huge fucking movie star."

"How the fuck did he even meet her during the season?" Marlow demanded.

"She's shooting a film in Montreal."

"And how the fuck do you know that?"

"It says it right there."

Ilya was barely listening. He couldn't stop looking at the picture. Rose was beautiful, of course, and Shane looked… content. Ilya recognized the little smile on his face. It wasn't his media smile, it was genuine amusement. Like they were sharing a joke.

St Simons was reading the article aloud, faster than Ilya's eyes could skim the page. "The two met at a mutual friend's party, according to unnamed sources. 'I've never seen Rose this happy,' the source goes on to say."

Ilya took the phone, swiping through the pictures just in case they were holding a "JUST KIDDING" sign in one of them.

"I'd be fucking happy if I was banging Rose fucking Landry," Marlow scoffed. Ilya shook his head and handed the phone back.

"Probably nothing."

January 2017 — Montreal

Shane was dutifully conducting his usual stretching routine when Hayden skated up and nudged him. When Shane looked up to ask what his deal was, Hayden just grinned and pointed at the jumbotron, which was showing Rose Landry in the nicest box, flashing his name on the back of her jersey. He could feel a helpless smile spreading across his face — she'd been threatening to surprise him at a game for weeks. JJ let out a wolf whistle on his way past, and even Comeau shook his head in grudging admiration and muttered,

"Good for you, Hollywood."

"Shut the fuck up," Shane said automatically, rolling his eyes, but then Rose blew him a kiss and he felt the smile reasserting itself. She was just effortlessly charming — it was like he was physically incapable of being in a bad mood around her. They were both so busy, they'd really only been on a few dates so far, but his parents were thrilled. His mom couldn't let a ten minute phone call pass without asking when they could meet her ("Not yet,"), or demanding details about their latest date ("We went shopping and then had dinner"). The guys were, if possible, even more stoked about it. They'd taken to calling him "Hollywood" (which made him a little uncomfortable but hey, there were worse nicknames), and he got chirped at least twice a day about how the fuck he'd managed to bag her (he truly didn't know either).

So yeah, they weren't "serious" yet, but things were going well. He always enjoyed spending time with her. She was fun to talk to. Her stories were interesting, and her perspective was fresh, compared to all the braindead hockey players he usually hung out with. She didn't make fun of him for checking ingredients and macros on restaurant websites before he made reservations, and she could almost always tell when he was ready to leave. She was perfect.

Well… there was the one thing.

Rose was a good kisser, but Shane wasn't. It had never come naturally to him, except — nope. He wasn't good at reading when she wanted him to lead, or pull her closer, or pick her up, and she was so small and delicate, he was constantly worried he'd accidentally hurt her somehow. But he was learning. He was getting better. She'd given him a blowjob once, which had been… nice! And he'd returned the favor, which had been… not as nice, but he'd applied himself to the task and gotten it done. He wasn't a total asshole.

For absolutely no reason at all, it suddenly occurred to Shane that they were playing Boston in a couple weeks. He hadn't seen Il- Rozanov since the disastrous game after… the thing. They hadn't looked at each other once. But it had been months since then, and these days, he barely even thought about it. He'd moved on. Clearly Rozanov had too — Shane just so happened to stumble upon blind items and shitty tabloid articles about him hooking up with some model or pop star practically every week. And that was for the best. After all, Shane had a girlfriend. It was… good, that Rozanov was having fun, and not sitting around ruminating. Shane certainly wasn't. It didn't make him want to throw up hardly at all anymore.

"Hollander! Get your head in the game!" Coach Theriault barked. Shane looked up and realized warmups were over.

"He's busy daydreaming about his girlfriend," Drapeau sneered. Shane could see him gearing up to say something truly nasty, but JJ clapped him on the shoulder just a little too hard, teeth bared in something almost passable as a smile.

"As if you're not."

Drapeau scowled, and JJ's grip tightened until he shut his mouth. JJ's a good friend, Shane thought as they headed back towards the tunnel. It's nice not having to lie to him and Hayden anymore.

Everything was so easy with Rose. That's what he'd wanted. Right? What he never thought he'd have. He was so fucking lucky to have even met her — the fact that she actually seemed to like him back was beyond even his wildest dreams. He looked up at her in the box and let gratitude wash over him, until it almost drowned out the guilt.

* * *

It's just a game, Ilya told himself, over and over, as his body moved through the automatic motions of adjusting his pads and tying his skates. A game like any other. A game you're going to win. Montreal's away team locker room was cramped and a little musty — he wondered idly if it was a deliberate tactic, to demoralize opponents before they even stepped foot on the ice. Well, it wasn't fucking working. Just another game. You've done this a thousand times. He stood and took an experimental step, testing the mobility of his ankles. Not quite enough support on the left skate. He bent down and retied it.

"Never seen you this quiet before a game, Rozy." Marlow observed from the next stall over.

"He's fucking locked in, bro!" Carmichael shouted over the obnoxious music blaring from his phone speakers. "Montreal's not gonna know what hit them!"

"Damn right." Ilya let a slow, predatory smile unroll across his face, cold self-assurance settling into his bones. St Simon whooped, anticipation dancing in the air as the team got to their feet. Ilya slammed his hand against the metal of the locker and roared,

"Roll out!"

* * *

Ilya kept his face impassive as he glided into place for the first face-off. Shane skidded to a stop in front of him, visibly eager to get this over with as fast as possible. The ref lingered within earshot, daring Ilya to say something stupid and earn a penalty five seconds into the fucking game. Not tonight. Ilya stayed perfectly still, feigning calmness, watching, waiting — there. Shane's eyes flicked up. Ilya's held them fast.

Is your girlfriend ready to watch you lose?

She's on set.

Ilya pouted mockingly.

So you'll be all alone tonight?

Fuck off, Rozanov.

Ilya reeled. The puck dropped. Shane hooked it. Ilya flew down the ice in hot pursuit, his blood freezing cold in his veins.

Rozanov. He called me Rozanov.

So it was serious. Shane was done. For good. And he really liked this girl — maybe even loved her. Whatever Ilya had thought he'd seen during that brief glimpse into his mind, whatever he'd hoped for all those months… he'd been wrong.

Or.

Shane passed to Pike. Ilya pivoted, his blades carving into the ice.

Or maybe…

Ilya slammed Pike into the boards and stole the puck. The crowd screamed its disapproval, a living animal all around him as he sprinted across the ice, lungs burning.

Maybe I was right. Maybe Shane… does feel the same way. Maybe he —

Ilya fired a shot at the net, off-hand. It hit the post, but Marly caught it on the ricochet.

Maybe he was so fucking terrified about feeling the same way, he ran as far in the opposite direction as he possibly could.

Marly shouldered someone out of the way and sent the puck back to Ilya. He snapped it into the net, just barely skimming under the goalie's leg pad.

Goal.

Marly and St Simon jumped him, and Ilya forced his mouth into the shape of a smile, arms thrown wide in hollow celebration. He pushed down the flood of emotion — he could deal with that later. Right now, all that mattered was the ice under his skates and the tiny black dot moving across it.

* * *

Fuck, Shane hated clubs. It was too loud and everyone was sweaty and gross and the lighting was always bizarre — too dark to properly navigate the space, but with blinding strobes that gave him a migraine. He grimaced as he shouldered his way through the crowd towards the VIP area, but then Rose was beaming at him and he couldn't help feeling a little better.

"You made it!" she squealed, leaping up to throw her arms around him. If the pink flush to her cheeks was any indication, Rose was already well past tipsy. Shane hugged her back, a little worried she'd fall over when he let go, then greeted her friends Jiya and Miles, who were co-starring in the movie. They were both insanely attractive, of course — Miles in particular, not that Shane was noticing. He settled into the couch next to Rose as they resumed their conversation about some actress she was convinced had gotten an undisclosed chin lift.

"And, like, I wouldn't even care if she was honest about it! Like, go girl, live your life or whatever, but she always makes the shittiest comments to me about 'aging gracefully' and I just —"

Someone handed Shane a beer, and he put it to his lips on autopilot, grateful to have something to do with his hands. Rose and her friends didn't seem to expect him to contribute much to the conversation, which he was also grateful for — he nodded and smiled along, occasionally making indistinct noises of agreement, and that was good enough for them. He sipped his beer, slowly starting to relax, acclimating to the space. When he glanced down at his watch, he was genuinely surprised to discover that over an hour had passed.

"Got somewhere to be?" Miles asked teasingly. Shane looked up at him and was surprised all over again by how handsome he was, stammering,

"Oh — No, I just — uh —"

"Relax, I'm just fucking with you." Miles assured him. He was smiling, but Shane got the feeling he was also… assessing him somehow. Maybe he didn't think Shane was good enough for Rose. He wasn't wrong.

The music shifted, and Rose gasped, eyes wide as she clutched at Shane's arm.

"Oh my fucking god I love this song." With a sudden strength completely disproportionate to her petite frame, Rose hauled Shane bodily off the couch and dragged him out to the dance floor, Miles close behind them, ignoring all of his (admittedly weak) protestations about not knowing how to dance. She arranged his hands on her waist like she was setting up a mannequin, and Shane mostly just stood there and swayed a little bit in place while she bounced around, her hands slipping easily behind his neck. Her eyes dropped closed, hips swinging, limbs loose and flowey as she moved. Shane found himself a little in awe. He didn't think he'd ever felt that much… freedom. His body was a carefully honed tool, not, like, some sort of vessel for whatever random feelings he felt like expressing. The only times he'd been able to really let go like that were — nope.

His eyes scanned the throng of dancers around them — all locked in their own moments, lost to the pounding base and heady cocktail of alcohol and smoke and too many bodies crammed into an enclosed space. No one gave a shit who he was or what he was doing there. It was almost… nice, feeling anonymous for once. But then the back of his neck prickled, and his head turned, and —

No. No no no you can't be here what are you doing here?

Because Ilya Rozanov was right there, just across the dance floor, wearing the sluttiest shirt Shane had ever seen him in, those long, muscular arms wrapped around some girl, his tongue practically in her fucking ear, his eyes locked on Shane's, inescapable, deadly.

Having fun, Hollander. You should try it.

The music was drowned out by the blood rushing in Shane's ears. His vision was pulling in at the edges.

You are unbelievable. I can't — who is that?

I don't remember her name. She's pretty, no?

Oh fuck he was going to throw up. He had to look away. He had to shut this down. He couldn't —

Fuck you, Rozanov.

I'm not the one who ran away.

All you fucking do is run away!

Rose's arms suddenly tightened around Shane's neck, and she stood on her tiptoes to whisper,

"Shane, are you ok?"

He looked down at her and opened his mouth to say yes, but his throat tightened and his lungs ached, and all that came out was,

"Can't —" I can't breathe Rose I can't breathe what do I do tell me what to do

"Hey, let's… let's get some air, okay?"

Shane didn't have the strength to argue. The club was suffocating, but she took his hand and effortlessly wove through the crowd, with Shane stumbling in her wake. Finally, they crashed through the emergency exit into the alley. Shane sat down hard against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. The world spun around him, and he pressed himself against the cold brick like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the face of the earth.

in two three four hold two three four out two three four wait two three four in two three four hold two three four

Everything hit him all at once — the heartbreaking vulnerability on Ilya's face on that fucking couch, the sudden clarity, the euphoric rush of memories and emotions, the sickening out of body sensation that had followed. The panic he'd felt seeing Ilya tonight had been the most emotion he'd felt since November. Fuck, he wasn't over it. Not even close.

in two three four hold two three four out two three four wait two three four in two three four hold two three four

Slowly but surely, Shane got himself a little more under control. When he finally opened his eyes to wheeze an apology, Rose was crouched down in front of him, her warm hands steadying on his shoulders, her eyes gentle, but unyielding.

"Shane, you need to tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on."

"So you just had a panic attack for no reason?"

"It wasn't a —" Shane shook his head, eyes squeezing closed again. "I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because it's bad. I did something really bad and now I'm being punished and it's all my own fault."

"Shane, look at me."

Painstakingly, he pried his eyes open. Rose's voice was softer than he'd ever heard it.

"You don't have to tell me, if it's private. But I promise, whatever it is, I won't judge you. Is this… how long have you just been bottling this up?"

Eight years, but Shane couldn't bring himself to say that. He shook his head again.

"A long time?"

He nodded.

"Has that helped?"

His voice cracked open.

"No."

"So maybe it's time to try something different."

Shane's forehead hit his knees as his breathing harshened again. Rose waited. It felt like hours before he was steady enough to whisper into his own thighs,

"You can't tell anyone."

"I won't."

Shane looked up. His face felt hot and puffy — he swiped at his eyes, humiliated by the tears stinging the corners.

"I mean it, Rose. My career — my whole life would be over."

"Shane, I swear on… on hockey itself, I will protect your secret with my life."

A choked laugh tore itself free from his throat. He said haltingly,

"I, um. It's. There's a bad part, and there's a really bad part, and there's a crazy bad part."

"Okay, start with the regular bad part."

Shane took a deep breath. His vision was still blurry, but he couldn't tell if it was from the self-inflicted asphyxiation or the tears. "My, uh. I. I think I really. Fuck. I think I'm in love."

"That's the bad part?"

"It gets worse."

His legs straightened, and Shane leaned back against the wall. Rose sat down next to him on the dirty concrete and held his hand.

"With a… with. Um."

"With a man?"

Shane's mind whited out with panic. He must have made some sort of sound, because Rose patted his knee with her other hand. "It's okay, I promise. Actually, I… kinda saw that part coming. Like, it sometimes seems like I'm not… really doing it for you."

"Oh," Shane said, his voice weak and wobbly. He couldn't look at her.

"Shane, it's really fine. I'm not mad or anything — we've only been out a few times. You didn't owe me an explanation, especially if it's something you're still coming to terms with. Anyway, I went to theater school, so literally like 70% of my boyfriends have left me for other guys."

Shane nodded mutely. An almost overwhelming relief coursed through him. He sighed heavily, fresh tears burning the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back.

"I really do like you. I like… I like talking to you, I like being with you, it's just —"

"I'm not him."

"Yeah," Shane mumbled, and hated himself for it immediately.

Rose gave him a minute, then asked,

"So what's the really bad part?"

"A couple months ago, he kind of said my name. While we were. Uh. And I said his."

"You'd never said each others' names before?"

Shane winced. This was it. Rose wasn't stupid — she'd seen him and Ilya staring at each other, and she'd know what it meant as soon as he said it. But he'd come this far, and he just didn't have the energy to lie.

"Not… first names."

Rose's mouth opened, realization sparking in her eyes, and he should have stopped there, he'd already said too much, but the words kept coming.

"And I ran away. Like, I made a dumb excuse about forgetting a team meeting and left. And I've been avoiding him ever since."

Even if he hadn't seen the moment the penny dropped, Rose confirmed it.

"Until tonight."

Shane nodded. His heart was racing like he'd run a marathon.

"Until tonight."

Rose let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

"And none of this is the crazy part?"

Shane laughed too, almost hysterically.

"No. You wouldn't even believe that part if I told you."

"Try me."

Shane did genuinely consider it, but he'd already spilled way more of his guts tonight than he'd planned, and he wasn't sure where to even begin. Ilya and I can hear each others' thoughts? See each others' memories? Wander around inside each others' minds? Even the most understanding friend in the world (which Rose was certainly proving herself to be) wouldn't know how to take that.

"Next time," he said, attempting to resurrect the last shreds of his dignity with a wry smile. Rose nodded.

"Can I… can I give you a hug?"

"Yeah," he choked out. She threw herself into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him like a life vest. Shane hugged her back, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like expensive shampoo and alcohol and sweat, a small, solid presence in his arms. More tears stung his eyes, but he didn't let them fall as he basked in relief so overpowering, it was almost painful. He'd been keeping this secret for so long, the fact that someone else — anyone else — had witnessed it, and didn't hate him for it, felt unreal. The fact that in this dark, deserted alley behind a Montreal club at 2am, Rose Landry of all people had offered him absolution… it was the kind of thing that made people believe in miracles.

It could have been minutes or hours later, but eventually, Rose pulled back, cupping Shane's face in her hands, wiping at his damp cheeks with her thumbs.

"Let's be friends," she said suddenly. Shane blinked up at her, disoriented. Undeterred, Rose plowed on, "And I don't mean it in an 'I hope we can still be friends' bullshit way. Let's be friends. Let's be best friends. Because I really do care about you a lot, Shane. And I feel like you might not have anyone else to talk to about… this kind of thing."

"I'd like that." She could have asked him to sign his soul over to the devil and he would have agreed just as readily. "You're right. I don't. And… I care about you too."

"Good." She hugged him for another moment before letting him go, slowly getting to her feet. "I'm going to get my purse and tell Miles and Jiya everything's fine, but you're giving me a ride back to my hotel. Do you have your phone?"

Shane felt for his pockets. Wallet, keys…

"No, I think I put it on the table."

"Okay. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Shane didn't think he could move even if he wanted to. His entire body felt completely wrung out. The emergency exit door opened, laughter and music spilling into the alley, and then closed again, leaving Shane alone. His breath still sounded too loud, but steady, in his ears. He pressed his fingers to his pulse, which was finally approaching something like normal.

Putain de merde, je l'ai vraiment fait (Holy shit I actually did it).

Je l'ai dit à quelqu'une (I told someone).

Et je ne suis pas mort (And I didn't die).

Triumph reigned for two glorious minutes. Then he remembered —

Merde. Je dois encore le dire à Ilya (Fuck. I still have to tell Ilya).

Chapter End Notes

after 6 and a half chapters of basically straight canon rewrite, the timeline will actually start to diverge a bit now haha

also, for the record, i literally googled when people started using “locked in” and apparently athletes had adopted it by the early 2010s. so even if it feels anachronistic, it’s technically not! carmichael’s just a little ahead of the curve

Chapter 8: i don't shine if you don't shine

Chapter Summary

all star weekend :)

January 2017 — Tampa Bay

Ilya didn't think he'd ever been so amped up about a stupid All-Star game before. After however many years of the NHL finding increasingly elaborate pretenses to play into the bullshit rivalry, they'd finally folded — this year's game was East vs. West, so Shane was on his team. Even better, Ilya had offered to wing, so Shane could be on his line. It had been Svetlana's idea, but he was happy to take the credit when their teammate Mike Brophy, a massive New Jersey defenseman, pulled him into a conversation at the bar to praise his sportsmanship.

"Didn't think you had it in you, Rozy. But with the two of you on a line together, we're gonna be fucking unstoppable!"

"Anything to win." Ilya grinned back, like it was a matter of simple math and not a lifelong dream coming to fruition. "But don't worry, if Hollander can't keep up, they can always send him back to second line."

Brophy hooted with laughter, loud enough to attract the attention of Carter Vaughn and a couple more players, who came over to join the conversation. Ilya was halfway through a spirited, entirely facetious, defense of why he should have been named captain instead ("Does first overall draft pick mean nothing these days?") when Shane Hollander himself walked into the bar, wearing a white, button-up linen shirt, open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up. Ilya hadn't seen him since that night in the club, and he honestly wasn't sure where they stood. Shane had seemed awfully jealous for a man purportedly in love with his serious girlfriend — but he'd also told Ilya to fuck off. So. Who was to say, really. Nonetheless, he looked unfairly good. Ilya's mouth watered, but he forced himself to pretend he hadn't noticed him until Vaughn beckoned him over with an enthusiastic,

"Heeey, Hollywood!"

Tentatively, Shane entered the circle, everyone eagerly shuffling out of the way to make room. Vaughn threw his arm around him. "Where's your girl?"

Ilya looked up, a little too invested.

"We're just friends," Shane said airily, like he hadn't just turned Ilya's entire life upside down.

"Really?" Vaughn asked.

"Really?" Ilya repeated, his voice softer than he would have liked.

Shane met his eyes square on.

We broke up. I'm gay. And I'm in love with you.

Ilya choked on his beer.

Brophy patted him on the back absentmindedly, focused on whatever Shane said next, but Ilya couldn't hear it over the sound of himself hacking up a lung. When he finally rejoined the conversation, Shane's ears were pink enough that he guessed he hadn't meant to offer that last part. Still, Ilya thought,

Fucking menace, why would you spring it on me like that? Here? Now?

Didn't mean to. Shane sounded so fucking embarrassed, Ilya couldn't bring himself to press the issue. Instead, he crossed his arms and asked,

"So, Hollander, you really think you'll be a better captain than me?"

Amid a chorus of "Oooooh"s, Shane tilted his head, eyes sparkling with defiance.

"Well, I was captain of an Olympic team."

"Same."

"A winning Olympic team," he corrected himself. Everyone laughed, Vaughn slapping Shane on the back way more vigorously than Brophy had when Ilya had nearly fucking died like thirty seconds ago. Ilya spluttered with melodramatic rage,

"And people say I'm the asshole! No, Hollander is asshole!" What's your room number?

105. Shane was grinning madly. God, he was so fucking hot. "What, you can dish it out but you can't take it?"

"Is it gonna be like this all weekend?" Brophy groaned. Vaughn chuckled fondly, shaking his head.

"Cats and dogs."

"You know, we've never spent much time together, off ice," Ilya mused, like it was just a casual thought, like his heart wasn't hammering out of his chest. "Maybe this weekend will give us a chance to get to know each other. Who knows what we might have in common?"

The guys jeered, but Shane smiled again, smaller, just for him.

"Yeah, maybe."

* * *

He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

Ilya had a shit ton of energy to burn off, and it was only 2pm, so he decided to go hang out with the only people who seemed capable of matching his sudden zest for life.

"CANNONBALL!" he bellowed, launching himself into the pool. The resulting splash nearly drowned several of the players' children waiting expectantly in the shallow end — he feared that would affect the judging.

"Mmmm, eight."

"Nine."

"Eight and a half."

"Tough crowd!" Ilya blustered, shaking his head in mock frustration. "What will it take to get a perfect score?"

The littlest girl, who hadn't given her rating yet, giggled and suggested,

"Maybe try again?"

Ilya groaned, falling backwards into the water to float on his back. "That was my fifth try! I think this contest is rigged. Maybe I should take my talents away."

"Nooo!" they begged in unison, grabbing at Ilya's legs when he tried to float away.

"Alright. We try something else," he said, popping up again. The kids hung onto his every word. "A race."

"What do we get if we win?" one of the boys asked, folding his arms shrewdly.

"Ah." Ilya pointed to him. "New York?"

They all squealed with laughter, but Ilya bent down, deadly serious.

"You will not. But if, somehow, I lose… I will buy you all candy bars from machine inside. Okay? And I will not be losing this time."

The delighted shrieks that earned him were nearly deafening. Ilya looked up at Shane, who was reclining on a nearby lounger.

"Hey, Hollander!" Shane sat up, eyebrows furrowing over his dark sunglasses. "Hollander, make sure that none of these cheaters cheat, okay?"

"Okay," Shane called back, shooting him a lazy thumbs up. But you really should check with their parents first before you give them candy.

Relax, Shane, is vacation.

For a second, Ilya worried that the sound of his first name would set off another Incident, but Shane just smiled dopily. Ilya's heart did something weird.

He turned back to the children.

"You know that guy?"

"Yeah," one of the girls said immediately. Ilya feigned confusion.

"Who's this guy?"

"That's Shane Hollander."

"Really? You've heard of this guy?"

"He's the best player in the league!" New York boy insisted.

"Okay, you're out of the race. Out of the pool. Out of Florida. Goodbye. Where's your dad?"

The kids screamed with laughter, and when Ilya risked a glance back, Shane was still smiling helplessly. Feeling generous, Ilya told the boy,

"Okay, I forgive you. You can stay."

They lined up against the wall.

"On your marks, get set, go!"

Ilya threw himself forward and held his hand over his head like a shark fin. He swam halfway across the pool, well ahead of the kids, peacocking a little as he felt Shane's eyes still on him. Then he stopped in his tracks, splashing frantically, bellowing,

"There is a shark in the water! A shark —" His head hit the surface of the water, and he thrashed dramatically, pretending to drown. Once the last of the kids had made it to the other side of the pool, he stood up, hair sopping wet, water dripping down his face. "Okay, you guys won fair and square."

Ilya hauled himself out of the pool, directly in front of Shane, who was so hypnotized, Ilya walked all the way up to him and shook water on him like a dog before he flinched away, laughing.

"Hey Hollander, could you give these kids some money? I don't have my wallet."

Shane didn't respond. He was busy ogling Ilya's bare, wet, chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. When his eyes finally rose to his face, Ilya smirked.

Like the view?

Now who's the fucking menace?

Oh, right. Speaking of… We should probably talk.

Probably. Shane's lips quirked. After the game?

The kids were loudly demanding their prize, so Ilya turned away and yelled,

"Hey! Brophy! I need ten bucks! Hollander's a cheapskate."

 * * *

The game was fucking electric. Shane loved playing against Ilya, but that was nothing compared to the thrill of playing with him. Carson, their left wing, was solid, but Shane was pretty sure they could have swept the game with a two-man line. They weren't even trying to read each others' minds — it was like every time he wanted to pass, he just looked up and Ilya was already in place. They sailed down the ice, sending the puck back and forth, effortlessly evading the Western team's defense. Ilya lined up a shot, and the goalie threw himself to the right to block it, but at the last second, Ilya passed underhand to Shane, who knocked it into the top left corner of the net. The crowd went insane, and Shane's cheeks hurt from smiling. He turned to Ilya, who was already flying towards him, folding him into a bear hug. Shane hugged him back, too caught up in the moment to resist when Ilya obnoxiously kissed him on the cheek. Their teammates were laughing and cheering, like this was just one of Ilya's usual shenanigans, but Shane knew he was blushing fiercely.

"Great passes." That was fucking incredible.

"Great goal." You were fucking incredible.

Are we still… later?

Yes. Ilya's eyes were soft, even as he started to back away. We are still.

* * *

Ilya went out to their team celebration (they'd fucking crushed West, 6-2) with everyone else and performed his usual good cheer, but he couldn't seem to stop his hands from shaking, or his knee from bouncing under the counter. The only place he wanted to be was in Shane Hollander's bed, but Shane was still here, just across the bar, making conversation with Vaughn. Ilya was trying not to stare at him too obviously, but every time he spotted motion out of the corner of his eye, his head wanted to turn. He was quickly developing a crick in his neck from the effort it took to stay still.

"You good, Roz?" Carson asked casually as he waved at the bartender for another beer. "Your head's on a swivel. Looking for someone?"

"Just taking it all in," Ilya replied with an easy smile. "This weekend has been… nice."

"Yeah, it has." Carson grinned back with a friendly shoulder bump. "You know, you're not nearly as bad as everyone says, Roz."

"Thanks," Ilya deadpanned. Carson laughed, grabbed his beer, and walked away. Ilya scanned the room again. In the short time he'd been distracted, Shane had vanished.

"I'm heading back to the hotel."

Ilya jumped three feet in the air as Shane spoke, directly behind him.

"Черт возьми (Holy fucking shit), Hollander!"

Shane's face was completely neutral, maybe vaguely amused. Voice light and careless, he asked,

"Want a ride?"

"Thanks, Cap." Ilya smirked like he meant it as a jibe instead of a flirt, for the benefit of their audience. "So responsible."

"Don't feel too special." Carter Vaughn popped up behind Shane, flushed and cheerful with inebriation.

Really?

I didn't want to be suspicious.

Ilya called shotgun, and Vaughn crawled into the backseat of Shane's practical rental car, filling the silence with good-humored banter.

"Glad you two could put aside your shit for one weekend. Fuckin beauties. That last goal was so sick, Boston and Montreal are gonna start a damn bidding war to get you on the same team. The league won't allow it, though. Too OP. They have to give the rest of us a chance."

They came to a stoplight, and Shane looked over at Ilya.

It really was amazing, playing on the same line. It's gonna be kind of a bummer when I get back home.

Ilya preened. Ah, yes. Pike never could keep up with you. Not like I can.

No one can keep up with me like you can. Shane said, and turned back to the road as the light went green. Ilya's breath caught in his throat. The five minutes left to the hotel suddenly felt too long to wait. If it weren't for Vaughn, still prattling away in the back, Ilya would have grabbed the wheel and pulled the car over so he could get his mouth on Shane right there in the drivers' seat.

"Fuck man, if I could read Scotty's mind like that, we'd have as many cups as both you chuckleheads combined. Makes the rest of us look like a fucking beer league. It's embarrassing."

Maybe he wouldn't notice if I just —

"Absolutely not," Shane said under his breath.

"What — I didn't — you're not even looking at me!"

Shane made eye contact in the rearview mirror. I know that face.

Ilya crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, somehow maintaining a scowl despite the wide, ridiculous grin fighting to break through.

* * *

They barely made it inside Shane's hotel room before Ilya was pressing him up against the door, kissing him like the world was ending. His hands were everywhere — holding Shane's jaw, sliding under the hem of his shirt, yanking at his hair — and Shane just let him, too frenzied to even think about pulling back or asserting any kind of control. Fuck, he'd missed this. No one kissed like Ilya did — greedy and urgent and demanding, wet and sloppy in the best way. A helpless moan bubbled up in his throat. When Ilya stepped back to admire his handiwork, Shane was already so hazy, all he could manage was a pathetic whine.

So fucking beautiful. Ilya sounded almost as wrecked as Shane felt. Look at you. Rose Landry doesn't kiss you like this, does she?

Hypnotized, Shane shook his head. He couldn't even formulate a lucid thought, let alone speak. A vague sense that he was forgetting something — that he had meant to say something — made itself known in the very back of his mind, but then Ilya kissed him again, his tongue invading Shane's mouth, and everything went staticky. Ilya's lips traced a path to his ear, then mouthed at his neck. Shane felt like he was crawling out of his fucking skin. He grabbed uselessly at Ilya's shirt, fingers barely cooperating. Somehow he managed to pant out,

"More. Please. Ilya, need you —"

Ilya groaned against the sensitive skin behind his ear, goosebumps prickling down the back of his neck, and pulled back in order to start removing their clothes as efficiently as possible. Shane probably wasn't much help, but he managed to lift his arms enough that Ilya could get his shirt off, and toe off his own sneakers. Finally, he could touch Ilya properly, pressing against his smooth, warm skin. Ilya's lips were soft and wet, his tongue licking into Shane's mouth. His arms were strong, certain, but he held Shane like he was something precious. They stumbled towards the bed, desperation making them uncoordinated, and when Ilya landed on top of Shane on the mattress, the sensation of their cocks rubbing against each other made them both gasp. Helplessly, Shane squirmed against him, chasing the friction. He was so hard, every slight movement had him whimpering into Ilya's mouth.

"Fuck me," he gasped.

"Do you have —" A particularly wild roll of Shane's hips made Ilya grunt and lose his train of thought. They rutted against each other like mindless animals, blind to everything except the building pleasure. Ilya tried again. "Lube? Condom?"

"I don't — nngh. Fuck. I don't know."

Ilya couldn't quite reach the nightstand drawer, and when he started to lean away, the loss of his weight hit Shane like a physical wound. He pulled him back, crashing their lips together again. Between messy kisses, he babbled,

"Nevermind, later. Too good. Don't stop."

Ilya's large, calloused hand slipped between them and stroked them both. It was too rough at first, not that Shane minded, but soon Ilya's hand was lubricated by pre-cum and it started to slide easily. He bucked against Ilya, fucking up into his fist, seeking more sensation. Almost hysterical, he whined,

"Oh god, Ilya, I'm so close, please —"

"Shhh." Ilya pressed his mouth to Shane's ear. "I have you. I have you, Shane. Come for me."

Shane's hips jerked off the bed, his whole body convulsing as he came with a choked yell. Suddenly, hot tears filled his eyes, trickling down his into his hair as his vision briefly whited out. Distantly, he was aware of Ilya coming too, a full-body shudder, as both their cocks pulsed, shooting ropes of cum onto their stomachs. Ilya flopped onto his back, heaving for breath. Shane squeezed his eyes shut against the tears.

"Hey." Ilya's voice was hoarse. He wiped at Shane's face, fingers achingly gentle, which only made Shane cry harder.

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't — I don't know why —"

Ilya grabbed tissues from the nightstand and wiped them both off as best as he could, then pulled Shane onto his chest, his hands rubbing comforting circles on his back. Shane hadn't cried like this since he was a kid, wracking sobs that seemed to come from the depths of his lungs. Even when he'd spilled his guts to Rose, he had been able to mostly keep it together. But for some reason, here, with Ilya holding him like this, he just couldn't seem to stop. Ilya's face was wet too — Shane wasn't sure which of them was to blame.

Eventually, Shane cried himself out. His breathing slowly started to even, and he realized his arms were around Ilya's head, his fingers playing with his hair. He also finally realized Ilya had been whispering something into his neck, over and over.

"Я тебя люблю (I love you)."

"I've heard that before." Shane's voice came out hushed, like anything louder would shatter the moment. "Your mom said it to you. What does it mean?"

The steady motion of Ilya's hands froze.

"What else did you see?"

"Not much. Just her face, and who she was to you. How much you care about her. And that you were sad about something."

Ilya's throat bobbed, his head turning away. Shane pulled back just far enough to see tear tracks shining in the dim lamplight.

"She would have loved you," he murmured, his voice breaking. "Like I love you."

And Shane had… hoped? guessed, maybe? thought he'd felt something beyond lust in Ilya's mind? But actually hearing the words felt like Ilya had cracked his chest open, yanked his heart out, and eaten it whole.

"Holy shit."

Ilya laughed wetly, and Shane's head was suddenly too heavy to hold up, so he let it fall onto the pillow. Ilya shifted his own head a little so they could look at each other. Shane had never seen him like this before, with all the posturing and defensive sarcasm stripped away. His eyes were so beautiful, hazel with flecks of gold, still glassy with tears. He looked… devastatingly human.

I love you too, Shane thought. Obviously. And I'm sorry — I'm so fucking sorry I left like that. The guilt's been eating me alive. I kept telling myself you would move on, and it would be…

Easier?

Yeah. I guess so.

It would be.

Probably. But since when do we do anything the easy way?

Ilya smiled fondly.

How could we let this happen?

I don't know, Shane thought honestly. We are very stupid and irresponsible.

Ilya's arms tightened. Shane could feel the rumble of his laughter against his chest. Their lips met, and they kissed leisurely for a few minutes until Shane's face crumpled again and it started to taste like salt. He buried his face in Ilya's neck.

"Oh god, Ilya, what are we gonna do?"

Ilya stroked the back of Shane's neck like he was trying to soothe a startled cat.

"I never thought this far ahead," he admitted. "Maybe… we just go back to normal?"

"Normal? Like, we hook up four times a season and you spend the rest of the year —" Shane cut himself off, but Ilya caught his eye, fucking other people?

You have better idea?

Shane closed his eyes so he could think in private. Ilya waited patiently, his hands absentmindedly exploring Shane's back. Shane was still thinking hard when sleep caught up to him and pulled him under.

* * *

"Ilya, wake up." Ilya's entire body shook with the force of Shane's hands on his shoulders. He groaned, unconsciousness reluctant to release its grip. His eyes felt like they were glued shut. "I have a better idea."

"What?" Ilya finally managed to open his eyelids a crack, blinking blearily in the lamplight. "What time is it?"

"I don't know. Just listen." Shane's face was inches away, his eyes wide with excitement. When he was satisfied Ilya was awake, he leaned back on one elbow, propped up on the pillows. The other day, you were saying we might become friends this weekend. Well, what if we did?

You want to… be friends?

No of course not, Ilya, but I'd rather people consider us friends than enemies. What if we just tell people that we finally found common ground, and we start, like, turning down the temperature into more of a friendly rivalry than an active feud? We can build it slowly, so people don't get suspicious, but eventually we can start hanging out more and everyone will just think we're friends. And then —

Wait wait — too early. Brain… not... Slow down.

Shane huffed impatiently. Ilya scrubbed his hands over his face, finally feeling properly awake. He looked back at Shane, who thought immediately,

Right now, people get weirded out when they see us together.

Ilya nodded. Because the league has been pushing the rivalry for a fucking decade. Everyone thinks we hate each other.

Exactly. But what if people didn't think that? Lots of guys have friends on other teams. We're not rookies anymore. There are younger guys coming in, frothing at the mouth — let them hate each other. We don't need to keep this up until we retire, do we? Is it that unbelievable that the two best players in the league —

Ah, he admits it!

Shut up. It just makes sense that we could develop a grudging respect for each other. I mean, that's how it started, right? Even when we were in juniors and I actually kind of hated you, I admired you too.

Ilya was too sleepy to hold back the ridiculous smile taking over his face. Hollander, you admired me? he cooed.

Nevermind, I still hate you.

No you don't.

Shane smiled down at him sweetly. No I don't. Anyway, my plan — we start dropping hints this weekend that we squashed the beef.

That we —

We don't hate each other anymore. When people ask us about it, we can just say playing on the same team helped us get to know each other better, and we have a lot in common.

They won't believe us.

Not at first. But we're playing the long game. It'll take months, maybe years, but eventually, everyone will get used to it. We can hang out more, in public. And then…

Shane looked away, his cheeks flushing. Ilya could tell he hadn't rehearsed this part. He mumbled,

"Youcanstaywithmeforthesummers."

"What?"

"You don't have to go back to Russia. If you don't want to. You can stay with me, at my cottage. We can train together and hang out and — and stuff."

Ilya's heart was pounding out of his fucking chest. It was all he'd ever wanted — more time. Weeks. Months, maybe. For just a moment, he let himself dream about what it would be like. Then he cleared his throat and leered, "I like the sound of 'and stuff.'"

Shane laughed and hit him in the chest.

"Shut up, asshole. There's more."

"More?"

Back on track, Shane met Ilya's eyes again.

We could start a charity. And it wouldn't be bullshit — I've been wanting to anyway. I have too much fucking money already. We could find a cause we both care about and start doing camps over the summers to raise money for it, and then it makes even more sense for us to be seen together.

The long game, Ilya repeated. Okay.

And we'll still live in separate countries. And we still won't see each other a lot during the season. But if we ever have free weekends in common, we could hang out. Or holidays, maybe, if you want. We wouldn't have to sneak around as much, at least. It's not perfect, but… it's something.

Ilya turned his head to the ceiling. He had to get this right — couldn't risk Shane hearing the thought half-formed. Slowly, he said,

"I have… been thinking. Sometimes I wish… I had been drafted by a Canadian team." Shane's dark eyebrows furrowed in Ilya's peripheral vision, but he didn't interrupt. "America is… not so good. For Russians. Now. And Russia is not so good for… Russians like me."

"Are you in any danger?" Shane asked quietly.

"No. I don't think so. But I am very careful. I would like to… not have to be. And I… um. I am a free agent, after next season."

"Ilya." Shane breathed. "You'd leave Boston?"

"I have just been thinking. Maybe… a Canadian team." He couldn't resist looking over to see Shane's reaction.

Holy shit, really?

Yes.

Like where? Montreal couldn't afford us both, could they?

Not Montreal.

No. I know. Shane looked away, eyes darting as he thought fast. Then, What about Ottawa?

Ottawa is terrible.

Yeah, so they desperately need a star center. And they're nowhere near their cap, so they could definitely afford you. We'd still be division rivals, but it's a nice city. I grew up there. And it's only a few hours from Montreal. And you could get Canadian citizenship.

Hope threatened to overwhelm Ilya, and he had to close his eyes.

"We don't have to decide now," Shane said hastily. "On any of it. It was… just an idea."

Ilya pulled him in by the back of the neck and kissed him. Shane opened his mouth with a little moan, eagerly accepting his tongue, soft and yielding the way Ilya could never get enough of. Ilya felt him hardening against his thigh, and his own cock twitched in interest.

"Still want me to fuck you?"

"Yes please."

Ilya dug through the nightstand drawer and came up with a tiny bottle of lube and a couple condoms.

Very thoughtful of hotel, he thought, presenting them to Shane with a shit-eating grin. Shane evaluated the lube with a critical eye. "Good enough?"

Shane sniffed.

It'll have to do.

Ilya chuckled as he crawled back over him.

So picky. You are expert now?

Is it wrong to have standards? Shane defended himself. Ilya stuck his tongue back into his mouth to shut him up. When Shane's eyes were half-lidded and hazy again, Ilya pulled back, drizzled nearly half the bottle onto his fingers, and drew delicate circles around the rim of his asshole. Shane gasped, instinctively jerking away, then pushing back against Ilya's fingers with a needy groan. Ilya stroked Shane's dripping, rock-hard dick with his free hand and began gently pushing one fingertip in.

"So wet for me," he murmured, pressing his lips to the tip of Shane's cock. Shane's hips bucked, another involuntary reaction, driving Ilya's fingers in deeper. Ilya played with him, ruthless, watching the contortions of his face almost reverently as he added a third finger, scissoring, curling. He knew he'd hit the right spot when Shane threw his arm over his own mouth to drown out a high-pitched whine. No one else can do this for you, can they? No one else makes you feel this good.

No one. Shane sobbed voicelessly as Ilya took him into his mouth, suckling the head. Just you, oh god, Ilya, only you, fuck me please —

Ilya was so hard, his dick was flushed purple. Just the sensation of rolling on the condom and slicking himself up made him see stars, like somehow even more blood was rushing south, which felt physically fucking impossible at this point. He gritted his teeth against it and lined himself up. Shane was still looking at him, his inner monologue just a mindless, desperate chant.

Ilya fuck me please fuck me fuck me —

If you keep begging like that I won't last long enough to get you off, Ilya threatened, sinking into the tight, slick heat of him, and Hollander let out a breathy little whimper that almost took Ilya down. Christ, Shane —

So good holy fuck Ilya more please —

Ilya pushed in deeper, slowly at first, then gaining confidence when Shane's eyes rolled back in his head with ecstasy.

"Oh, god —" he breathed.

Ilya bottomed out with a gasp, his balls pulling painfully tight. Holy shit, his stamina had never been worse. With any other partner, he would have been humiliated to find himself so close to the edge after less than thirty seconds, but Shane seemed almost deliriously turned on by the effect he was having. His dark eyes snapped back to Ilya's, huge black pupils nearly drowning out the brown.

Are you gonna come?

Ilya bit the inside of his own cheek as hard as he could, but rather than helping him focus, the pain only sharpened the heat building in his gut.

Ilya, move, Shane demanded.

Can't. Fuck, I can't —

Shane reached down to stroke his own cock, hissing at the sensation.

I'm close too. Move, please.

Ilya moved. It couldn't have been more than four thrusts before Shane was coming with a groan, spilling all over his own stomach, and his orgasm ripped through Ilya like nothing he'd ever felt before. Ilya's mouth opened in a soundless scream as he came, a feedback loop of pleasure building between them until Ilya didn't even feel like a person anymore, all coherent thought burned away, every nerve searingly overstimulated, seeing out of his eyes exactly as difficult as attempting to see out of his left elbow. It seemed to go on forever, until it occurred to Ilya that this genuinely might be what killed him — but the fact that he'd been able to think a full sentence meant they were finally on the downswing. Some indeterminate amount of time later, Ilya returned to consciousness, slumped bonelessly on top of Shane.

"That's new," Shane observed breathlessly.

Ilya was too blissed out to speak. He couldn't really lift his head either, but he managed to shift just enough to catch Shane's eye.

Woah.

Is it gonna be like that every time now?

Is it fucked up if I say I hope not?

No. Shane's chest shook with weak laughter. I don't think I could handle it. Maybe on special occasions.

Birthdays? Ilya suggested. Shane laughed harder.

Birthdays, Christmas maybe.

Which Christmas, yours or mine?

Both.

Both??

They were both laughing now — exhausted, cathartic laughter as Ilya's soft, completely spent cock slipped out of Shane, cum drying tacky on their stomachs. Shane wrinkled his nose.

I feel gross.

I don't think I can walk.

They managed it, somehow, holding each other up on shaky legs until they made it to the shower and could lean against the walls. Ilya was usually picky about shower products, especially for his hair, but they both scrubbed themselves down as quickly and efficiently as they could manage using Shane's body wash, then washed each others' hair with whatever shampoo their hands landed on first. After a cursory attempt to towel off, they stretched out on the bed again. Shane checked his phone.

"Fuck, it's nearly six. You have to get back to your room before people start waking up."

"Everyone's hung over, and we all fly out in the afternoon. Hotel will be dead until eleven."

Shane pursed his lips disapprovingly. Ilya folded.

"I will leave soon," he promised. "Just in case. Tell me about the plan again."

Shane kissed him, soft and sweet. Ilya didn't try to deepen the kiss, just enjoyed it.

"Thank you," Shane mumbled against his lips. Then he pulled back and met Ilya's eyes again.

Let's just review phase one for now.

I love you so much. Shane's face went shy and disbelieving, but Ilya didn't look away. What is phase one?

If people ask you about me, just say something casual about how I'm actually not that bad. Don't lay it on too thick. I'll do the same. Then, when we've laid the groundwork, we can start being nicer to each other in interviews. Again, nothing crazy, but you know they'll ask what it was like playing together, so we can just say that we're not stupid jealous kids anymore and now we can appreciate how we make each other better.

That's all phase one?

Well, phase one-A and B.

Then… what's phase two?

Shane's jaw clenched, and Ilya could see how much it scared him to say it, but his voice didn't wobble.

Sometime over the summer or next season, we make sure we're seen getting lunch or something. In public.

Are you sure? That's… people will talk.

Not if we can pull off phase one.

Okay. So, phase one, tell people we are friends now. Phase two, lunch.

No no no no — straight up telling people we're friends is phase three, when they ask us about the lunch. Then, once everyone seems willing to accept it, announcing the charity is phase four. Phase five, in a few years, you come to Ottawa and maybe we can tell… my parents, people we trust. You can get Canadian citizenship, so you don't have to worry about Russia. And then… maybe when we retire, phase six. We can be together for real.

Ilya couldn't help the soft huff of incredulous laughter that escaped him.

You really think that far ahead?

I do about this.

You want that? To be together?

I do. So much it terrifies me.

The sight of Shane's beautiful, earnest face threatened to overwhelm him. Ilya closed his eyes. This whole night felt like something straight out of his wildest dreams.

He loves me. He wants me. He made a whole fucking plan for us to be together. I can have everything I've ever longed for and all I have to do is say yes.

"Ilya," Shane whispered, and he realized he was crying again. How was that possible? How was there any liquid left in his body?

"You should know," he choked out, scrubbing his hands over his face. "What you are getting into. I am not… you know how I feel. You know. But it…"

"Ilya, if you're about to tell me it doesn't matter how you feel again, I am going to punch you."

Ilya's laugh came out closer to a sob. Shane pulled him closer, resuming their earlier position. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and fall back asleep in his arms, but Shane had to know. He had to understand.

"My father is sick. Alzheimer's. And he… well. You know. My brother is an addict. My mother died when I was young. She… I am a mess, Shane. And you are so incredible and your parents are so proud of you and I… you have always been better than me."

"That's not true!"

"It is. You have more patience. You work harder. You skate faster."

"That was one contest, and you know I was just giving you shit about it — it was less than a second's difference. Ilya, I'm not perfect. Neither of us are. I love you. We'll figure out the rest. Okay?"

Ilya wanted to protest, but he felt too wrung out. He nodded weakly.

"Okay."

* * *

Shane walked Ilya to the door a little after 7am, sticking his head out into the hall first to make sure the coast was clear.

You're good to go. Remember phase one.

You mean phase one-A?

Fuck, I love you so much. We can do this. Just… be casual. Lay the groundwork.

Yes, Captain, Ilya thought with a jaunty little salute. Shane bluescreened for a moment, genuinely considering dragging him back inside until their flights left, but Ilya dropped a quick peck on his lips and slipped through the door, quickly vanishing around the corner.

Shane laid back down and tried to catch a little more sleep, but his body, ever the well-oiled machine, betrayed him. The sun was rising, and he needed to move. He got dressed and went for a leisurely jog around the neighborhood. Overnight, the entire world had shifted. The colors were brighter, the birds' chirping sounded more musical, the people he passed were smiling cheerfully. Shane realized his own lips were upturned into a small smile, nothing like the tight grimace he usually mustered in public. His muscles were deliciously sore, and his heart had never been lighter.

He loves me. We have a plan. Someday, someday, someday —

"Hollzy?"

Carson was waving at Shane from the other side of the street, holding a tray of coffees in his other hand.

"Hey, Carson!" Shane called back, pausing to wait for him to cross. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Couple of the guys sent me on a coffee run." Carson explained, trotting across the street. "Hazards of being the only rookie on the team, I guess. But I didn't drink that much last night, so I don't mind."

Shane couldn't help feeling a little protective — he remembered how hard the Voyageurs had been on him. "Don't let them give you too much shit, okay?"

"'Sall good," Carson said with a cheerful grin, falling into step beside Shane as they headed back towards the hotel. "Totally worth it to play on a line with you and Roz, even just for one game. The guys are gonna be so fucking jealous when I get home. This whole weekend feels like a Make-a-Wish, honestly."

Shane laughed. "Carson, they call it the All-Stars for a reason. If you got an invite, it's because you earned it, just as much as I did my rookie year."

"Thanks, Hollzy," Carson said, a little shyly, looking down at his feet. He wasn't much shorter than Shane, really, but there was a certain youthfulness about him that Shane didn't think he'd ever seen in a mirror. Then, like a sixth-grade girl at a sleepover, he leaned in and asked conspiratorially, "How fucking bizarre was it playing on the same team as Rozanov?"

This is it. Be casual.

Shane shrugged casually.

"It was a little weird," he admitted with a light chuckle. "But it went pretty well, I think. As much as we love to chirp each other, Rozanov is one of the few players in the league right now that really keeps me on my toes."

Carson nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. I guess I always just thought you hated each others' guts."

"Maybe when we were kids, but it's been a long time since then. If nothing else, I know that when he's on the ice, it's gonna be a great game."

"That's for sure," Carson agreed. They turned the last corner, the hotel just up ahead. Shane held the door open for Carson, then waved him off towards the elevators. As the doors closed behind him, Shane allowed himself a brief, wide grin.

Phase one-A had officially begun.

Chapter 9: put your back on me

Chapter Summary

phase one begins. ilya goes home.

February 2017 — Boston

Phase One-A could go fuck itself.

Ilya had spent the better part of a decade carefully honing his reactions to Shane Hollander's name. A scoff, a chirp, an eye-roll, like the very subject was beneath him — anything to deflect, to not raise suspicion. Now all that hard work was completely undone, because every time Marly said something like,

"You meshed well with Hollander, huh?"

Ilya had to suppress his first reaction, as usual (Oh Marly, you have no idea how well.), but also his second (He was slow, but I'm good enough to make up for it.), and sometimes even his third (If I thought I could get away with it, I'd smuggle him back to Boston in a heartbeat.) until he landed on something like,

"Surprisingly well, yes."

Shane's voice rang in his ears on a loop.

Be casual. Lay the groundwork.

Ilya knew casual. Ilya ate, slept, and breathed casual. The way he felt about Shane was in absolutely no fucking way casual. He was surprised by how much easier it had been to feign loathing than neutrality. Every time he opened his mouth, he was walking on eggshells.

St Simons had really tested him in the locker room after practice when he'd asked,

"So, Roz, is Hollander a better liney than Marly?"

And Ilya had said, immediately,

"Yes." Fuck. Too honest. "So's Connors, and he's barely out of diapers." Shit, too mean. Shouldn't make Marlow the butt of the joke. "Doesn't matter, really. Best liney I know is 6'2, Russian, and fucked more girls in Tampa than there are days in a week." Okay, that's good. A little over the top, but they'll buy it.

They had. St Simons had laughed and clapped him on the back, and Marly had groaned, but shaken his head fondly.

"Never change, Rozy."

Ilya had given them his patented fuckboy smirk, the one with half-lidded eyes and a lazy uptick at the left corner of his mouth, and turned back to his phone, where the one person he didn't have to be casual with anymore had just texted him back about Frank Zullo, a defenseman for the Admirals, who had finally gotten himself kicked off the team after a bar fight.

Ilya's pulse skipped as blood rushed southwards, and he had to put his phone down and run plays in his head for a minute before he got it under control. He should have been used to it by now, but Shane's ruthless streak still caught him off guard sometimes. Because Shane was polite and well-spoken in interviews, and he rarely caught penalties, he'd gotten a reputation in the NHL as some kind of sweet little angel, in need of protecting. But Ilya knew better. He'd witnessed first-hand how much muscle was packed into those thick thighs, the raw strength in his arms and shoulders. He'd seen the defiance flashing in his deep brown eyes, watched him take down refrigerator-sized defensemen with a brutal, precisely targeted, completely legal check, heard him picking apart his own teammates with cutting, meticulous accuracy.

("You telegraph your passes so clearly, even Miity could intercept you. Stop dropping your left shoulder."

"It's just my posture, Hollzy!"

"Then fix your posture. It's a liability.")

All this to say, Ilya had managed to Pavlov himself into getting embarrassingly turned on every time Shane said something even remotely bitchy. So he was relieved to see that his next text was entirely wholesome.

Fuck, Ilya was hard again.

March 2017 — Montreal

"Shane, how are you feeling about playing Boston next week?"

Shane was sweaty and exhausted after a hard-fought win against New Jersey. He'd barely had time to step off the ice and remove his helmet before he'd been surrounded by a scrum of reporters, like piranhas chomping for blood. He repeated the mantra that had dictated his life for the past month.

Casual. Casual. Casual.

"Good," he said casually. "Looking forward to it. Should be a great game."

"Any comment on your scoring race with Ilya Rozanov? You're up by three right now."

"Oh, really? Nice." Shane grinned. "I'm sure he'll put up a good fight through the end of the season. Wouldn't be any fun if he gave up now."

"Shane, that was an awfully fond smile for someone who's been your biggest nemesis in the NHL for years. Is there any merit to the rumors that you two mended some bridges at the All-Star weekend?"

Fuck, was that too much? OK, this is fine. Casual. Casual. Casual. Casual. Casual. Casual.

"I think 'nemesis' is a little strong," Shane said with a casual chuckle. "We've definitely always pushed each other to be better on the ice, but that doesn't mean we have to hate each others' guts off the ice. Playing together at All-Stars was fun, and it'll be just as fun to kick his ass next week."

Judging by the reaction of subdued murmurs rather than shocked gasps, Shane let himself hope he'd managed to thread the needle. His cautious optimism lasted for approximately forty five seconds, until he walked into the locker room and Comeau demanded,

"Fuck was that, Hollzy?"

"What — what was what?"

"We all heard you out there, talking about Rozanov like he threw you a fucking tea party at All-Stars. What, did you sit around painting each other's nails? Braiding each other's hair?"

Shane pinned him with a withering glare to conceal his panic as he scrambled for a retort that wouldn't be even more suspicious, but Hayden spoke up first.

"Just say you're jealous you didn't get an invite, Gil."

Comeau scoffed. "You couldn't pay me enough to go to that fucking fairy convention."

Drapeau snorted with laughter, but Hayden rolled his eyes. "Whatever, man. Cope harder."

Shane sat down in his own stall and mechanically unlaced his skates, the conversation around him completely drowned out by the ringing in his ears, the frantic thump of his own heartbeat. Something nudged his shoulder, and he looked up to see Hayden's lips moving.

"You good?"

"Fine."

He pulled off his skates, then his sweater and pads, letting muscle memory take over. He blinked, and cold water was washing over him. Another blink, and he'd toweled himself off and was throwing a shirt over his head. Once more, and he was sitting in his car in the parking lot. His vision was a little blurry.

I'm fine. I just have to get home.

His phone buzzed.

The screen shifted. Shane's thumb hit the green button.

"Shane, where are you?"

Shane opened his mouth and heard a horrible wheezing sound.

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah."

"Are you hurt?"

He shook his head.

"Are you shaking your head?"

He nodded.

"Shane, I need you to talk to me."

"'M f'n."

"Sweetheart I need you to breathe. Can you do that?"

Shane nodded again.

"Breathe in. Nice deep breath."

His lungs began to inflate. Stuttered. Froze.

"That's okay. Breathe out."

He breathed out.

"Good. In."

His lungs seemed to accept a little more air this time.

"Out."

Shane closed his eyes and let the commands wash over him, let his lungs obey automatically, without any conscious input, settling into a steady rhythm. Slowly, his brain came back online.

"Ilya?" His voice sounded weirdly hoarse.

"Oh thank fuck, Shane, you scared me."

"Sorry. What happened?"

"I think you… were not yourself. It happens to me, sometimes. Dissociation." He pronounced the word carefully, like it was an ancient spell that might blow them both up if misspoken.

"Oh," Shane said quietly.

"Did your team give you shit about interview? Your texts didn't make sense."

"What?"

Shane glanced back down at his phone.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Ilya. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just, um… in my car. In the parking lot."

"You were about to drive home like this?"

"I — it was the next step. I showered, got changed, packed up — it was time to go home. I wasn't thinking." Ilya let out a shaky breath. Suddenly thirsty, Shane pulled his water bottle out of his bag and took a gulp before answering Ilya's earlier question. "It was just Comeau being an asshole, as usual. He's never liked me, ever since I replaced him as first line center my rookie year."

"As usual? So you freak out every time he opens his idiot mouth?"

"No," Shane admitted reluctantly. "It was just… I thought I'd done such a good job at not being too obvious, and then I walked into the locker room and he was being a homophobic dick about it, and I guess it caught me off guard. Do you think I pushed it too far?"

"No. You were very casual." Shane could hear the smile in Ilya's voice.

"Fuck off," he grumbled, fighting back his own grin. "I just… didn't realize how hard this was going to be."

"I know." Ilya sighed. "It's so much easier to pretend I hate you than to pretend I like you a normal amount."

"Maybe we should… slow down? Stretch out the timeline a little? Give people more time to adjust?"

"Shane, there is no timeline," Ilya said gently. "Phase one will take as long as it takes. We are not in a rush. Okay? I am not going anywhere."

"Okay." Shane's voice came out in a near whisper. He took a deep breath of his own accord, feeling steadier. It suddenly occurred to him, "Hey, have we ever talked on the phone before?"

"No, I guess not." Ilya seemed equally surprised. "Is nice, yes?"

"Yeah. Really nice. I like hearing your voice."

"Next time, we should video call. So I can see your pretty face."

"Mm, sure. Just my face."

"Hollander, are you accusing me of ulterior motives?"

"That's an awfully big word, Rozanov. I was just accusing you of being full of shit."

Ilya laughed, bright and genuine. Shane knew he probably had more important things to do, but he just couldn't bring himself to hang up.

"Will you… stay on the line with me? While I drive home?"

"Of course."

April 2017 — Boston

Ilya lived half an hour away from the hotel where opposing teams always stayed. Shane burst through the open front door in exactly thirty three minutes.

"I thought you weren't coming." Ilya grinned against his his soft lips as Shane walked him towards the bedroom with single-minded focus. Shane pulled away to rip Ilya's shirt off over his head and reminded him,

I have to be back at the hotel by three.

I know.

Shane pushed Ilya onto the bed, yanked his pants out of the way, and took him into his mouth, then all the way down.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Ilya gasped. " You're — fuck — when did you get so good at this?"

Shane looked up at him, brown eyes dancing with mischief.

I learned from the best.

Ilya groaned helplessly, threw his head back, and lost any semblance of control.

* * *

The clock on Ilya's nightstand read 2:26, and Shane would have done almost anything to buy himself even ten more minutes. He felt like he was just floating in space, with only Ilya's warm, strong arm tethering him to reality. A contented little sigh slipped from his mouth, and his face nuzzled against Ilya's chest before he could get a grip on himself, like his body had acted of its own volition. Ilya let out a soft huff of laughter, but tightened his hold accordingly.

The harsh buzz of a phone broke through the haze. Ilya extricated himself from Shane, who didn't resist except for a disapproving grumble, and grabbed it, then scoffed and threw it back down.

"My brother."

"You can take it if you want to."

"No, I don't want to."

"What does he want?"

Ilya wouldn't look at him.

"I don't know. Money, probably."

"Is your dad —"

Ilya just shook his head.

"Okay," Shane said quietly. He was getting better at reading Ilya now, even when he didn't have an inside scoop, and Ilya was performing indifference the way he always did when Shane was pushing too hard. He pivoted. "Sorry."

"Is okay."

"Oh, I wasn't clear." Shane let the ghost of a smile tug at his lips. "I'm sorry in advance for tonight's game. We're gonna destroy you guys."

Shock settled over Ilya's face, tempered by the unequivocal delight in his eyes.

See, this is what I am always saying. I am not the asshole — you, you are the asshole. Everyone must know this. He cheated out to the room, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Everyone! Shane Hollander is an asshole!"

Shane laughed maniacally and smacked him in the chest.

* * *

Alexei was calling again. Ilya turned his phone off and tossed it into his stall.

"Alright everyone, listen up! The rumors are true." He announced, clapping his hands officially. "One thousand dollars for every goal scored tonight, okay, boys? Montreal goes home crying, please, please!" Ilya dramatically mimed tears, drawing a chorus of laughter, and Marlow stepped in, cementing the A on his chest as he barked,

"You fucking heard him, boys, let's go!"

Ilya grabbed his helmet. His phone buzzed uselessly from the shelf.

* * *

They'd won the game, 3-2. Ilya trailed behind his team into the locker room, shouting,

"No no no no is not true, I said you fuckers owe me one thousand dollars for every goal I score. You each owe me three thousand fucking dollars."

"Fuck off, Rozy," St Simons scoffed. Ilya grinned widely.

"You all agreed, huh? Cash or check accepted."

Goddammit, his fucking phone was still ringing. Buzzing with adrenaline, Ilya grabbed it and snapped,

"Какого хрена ты хочешь? (What the fuck do you want?)"

* * *

Ilya typed for a long time. Shane sat down on the bench, absentmindedly gnawing on his thumbnail. Shit, I shouldn't have said that. It was completely insensitive. Then the text came through.

Suddenly feeling oddly shy, Shane bit down on his lower lip. Before he could think better of it, he sent,

Shane deleted the text with Ilya's name before he could forget — then, after a moment's hesitation, he deleted the Cyrillic too. Finally, he looked up from his phone, tuning back into the cheerful chaos of a post-game locker room. Which was… less cheerful than he was used to, even after a loss. He was prepared for exhaustion, maybe a little dejection, but it hadn't been an embarrassing showing by any means. Still, as Comeau stomped past him, he cast a spiteful glare over his shoulder. Shane felt his own eyebrows crinkle slightly, but he decided to let it go.

JJ was not feeling nearly as generous.

"Reprends toi, Comeau (Get over yourself, Comeau). We all saw you fumble that interception in the last period."

"He didn't even say anything. But why am I not surprised Hollander's loyal lapdog would come to his defense?" Drapeau snarked, pausing his own trek across the room to linger at Comeau's side.

"Get a load of dumb and dumber over here," Hayden muttered. Miitka snorted with laughter, and JJ had gone dangerously quiet, but everyone else seemed to be ignoring the whole interaction — except for the rookies, who had frozen in their stalls, eyes darting back and forth like they were watching a tennis match.

"So you don't think it's interesting that the so-called 'golden boy' and 'bad boy' of the NHL kissed and made up, and now suddenly we're losing games?" Drapeau's voice was deceptively light, but the contempt dripping from each epithet was unmistakable. Shane's blood turned to ice in his veins. His hands balled into fists, nails biting into the meat of his palms, but he forced himself to sit still, tilting his head slightly. His voice came out hard, but level.

"What are you trying to say, Patrice?"

"We're just asking questions." Comeau raised his hands like Shane's reaction had been disproportionate, even though he knew it hadn't been. He fought to stay calm, staving off that horrible out-of-body sensation creeping in at the corners, keeping his voice steady.

"I led this team to two cups. None of you had a problem with me then. But now that I've had a single half-way pleasant interaction with Rozanov, you're 'just asking questions' because we lost one fucking game, to a team that's ranked second in the conference?"

Drapeau had the decency to look ashamed. Comeau did not.

"Let's all take a breath," Hayden suggested, ever the peacemaker, as if he hadn't been egging on the conflict a moment ago. "It was a tough game, emotions are running high. We'll regroup tomorrow at practice." His voice sharpened as he added, "And you'd all better have your heads on straight by then."

The building tension dissipated, with Drapeau and Comeau heading into the showers while JJ started stripping off his pads. Shane sat in his stall and tried not to pass out.

It's fine. We handled it. Hayden and JJ have my back. No one suspects anything.

"That was weird," Hayden said casually, resuming untying his skates. "Dunno what their fucking deal is."

"Comeau's been looking for an excuse to hate me for years," Shane admitted quietly. "But he must be really desperate if he's going with something this stupid."

"Yeah," Hayden scoffed in agreement. "As if you would ever actually be friends with Rozanov, of all people. Rozanov! We fucking hate that guy!"

So much for phase one.

Hayden didn't notice Shane's wince — he had worked himself into a righteously indignant lather. "And obviously you would never throw a game. You've never even let the twins win at Go Fish!"

Shane cracked a smile. "It would be dishonorable. I respect them as competitors."

"Exactly." Hayden smacked him hard on the back. "You're too… you, to ever do something like that."

"Nous ne nous en soucierions pas même si vous êtes ami avec Rozanov, Capitaine (We wouldn't care even if you were friends with Rozanov, Captain)," JJ assured him from across the room, although he belied his statement with a mumbled, "No accounting for taste."

Shane snapped.

"I just don't think it's that big of a deal," he said exasperatedly, not deliberately addressing the room but also not really caring who overheard. "Rozanov is an objectively good player. We have some things in common, but we still get on each others' nerves to no end. So what? Are people gonna throw a tantrum if I say I looked up to Scott Hunter as a kid? Will everyone question my leadership if I say I think Eric Bennett is an outstanding goalie? Who gives a shit?"

Shane hadn't realized how loudly he'd been talking until he stopped, and the room was dead silent.

For a long moment, the only sounds Shane heard were the dull patter of the showers and the harsh pants of his own breath in his ears.

"My best friend got drafted to Detroit."

As one, every head in the room whipped around to the source of the hesitant, but clear voice piping up from the corner: Taylor, a rookie from Chicago. He flinched at the sudden undivided attention of the team, but went on,

"Am I supposed to never talk to him again?"

"That's completely different," Roy, JJ's D-pair, said comfortingly. "And it's not like he's in Boston."

Taylor's face was ashen with terror, but he crossed his arms stubbornly. Shane admired the kid's backbone.

"So if he got traded to Boston, I'd have to cut him off?"

Mutters of reluctant agreement resounded around the room. Taylor's shoulders slumped.

"It's fucking Boston!" Comeau yelled from the showers, like that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

Shane scrubbed his hands over his face and felt his stupid plan crumble to dust, tasting the ashes in his mouth. All he wanted to do was call Ilya — but Ilya had enough to deal with right now. He was on his way to Moscow, to a family that didn't deserve him and a country that would happily put him in prison just for loving Shane. Suddenly, the locker room felt claustrophobic. Shane was surrounded by his team, but he had never felt so alone.

* * *

Svetlana met him at the airport. Ilya had no idea how she'd gotten the timing right, but when the taxi pulled up to the international departures entrance, she was leaning against the wall next to her suitcase, smoking a cigarette.

"Ты не обязана идти со мной (You don't have to come with me)." Ilya said tiredly, hauling the away game suitcase he'd hastily repacked out of the trunk.

"Я знаю (I know)."

She passed him the cigarette. He took a long drag.

"Я пытаюсь бросить (I'm trying to quit)."

"Хорошо (Okay)."

After a few minutes, Svetlana flicked the butt into a nearby ashtray, grabbed her suitcase, and set off for the front desk. With nothing better to do, Ilya followed her.

"Ты сказал Jane (Did you tell Jane)?" She tossed over her shoulder.

"Да (Yes)."

"Что он сказал (What did he say)?"

"Он сказал, что мой отец был придурком, и он рад, что он умер но ему жаль что мне приходится разбираться с этим (That my dad was a dick and he's glad he's gone, but he's sorry I have to deal with it)."

Svetlana grinned.

"И тут я поняла, что он мне нравится (I knew I liked that one)."

She didn't speak again until they were sitting at the gate, waiting to board.

"Я собираюсь перекусить. Хочешь что-нибудь (I'm going to grab a snack. Want anything)?"

"Нет (No)."

Svetlana came back with a water bottle and two sandwiches. She handed one to him. He ate it.

Moscow

"Ну, ну, ну, тудный сын возвращается (Well well well, the prodigal son returns)!" Alexei jeered. Ilya shut the door behind himself, tucked his keys into his pocket, and said flatly,

"Ты звонил. Я здесь. Давай покончим с этим (You called. I am here. Let's get this over with)."

His father's house was cold and empty, but not much moreso than usual. Ilya remembered the way the life had gone out of their apartment when his mother had died, but there had never been much life here to begin with. Polina was sitting on the living room couch, poring over documents. Alexei had met him in the front hall. His wife and daughter were nowhere to be seen.

"Катерина наконец-то бросила тебя (Katerina finally left you)?"

Alexei scowled.

"Заткнись, черт возьми, Илья. Ты ничего не знаешь (Shut the fuck up, Ilya. You don't know anything)."

Ilya ignored him, leaving his suitcase by the door to walk into the living room.

"Привет, Полина. Могу ли я чем-нибудь помочь (Hello, Polina. Anything I can help with)?"

His father's wife looked up at him. She had been beautiful once, but time and hardship had drained the softness from her cheeks, and her eyes were tired and hollow. She gestured vaguely at the papers scattered on the coffee table.

"Он хотел, чтобы его похоронили через весь город рядом с ней, но церковь говорит, что на его семейном участке есть место, и оно уже оплачено (He wanted to be buried across town with her, but the church says there's room in his family plot, and it's already paid for)."

The idea of his mother being forced to share her final resting place, the peace she had yearned for so desperately, with Grigori burned in the back of Ilya's throat.

"Тогда на семейном участке (The family plot is fine)." he said brusquely. "Он не заметит разницы (He won't know the difference)."

One corner of Polina's perfectly lined lips twitched, and she set some of the papers aside, turning her attention to the dozen or so remaining.

"Решено тогда (That's settled then)."

"Когда отпевание (When is the will reading)?"

"Завтра (Tomorrow)." Alexei informed him, throwing himself into an uncomfortable-looking armchair. "Он сказал, что оставил мне дом. хотя непонятно, какой. он много что говорил в последние дни (He told me he left me the house. But he said a lot of things, in his last days. Impossible to say which of them he meant)."

He clearly wanted to be asked for details, but Ilya was too exhausted to care. All he wanted to do was go home to his own condo and take a long, hot shower. And then eat a whole pizza. And then sleep for three days.

"Во сколько (What time)?"

"Адвокат будет здесь в полдень (The lawyer will be here at noon)."

"У него были... некоторые долги (He had… some debts)," Polina offered quietly. "Я не знаю, хватит ли денег на похороны (I don't know if his estate will cover the funeral)."

"Я оплачу это (I'll pay for it)."

"Это самое меньшее, что ты мог сделать (It's the least you could do)," Alexei muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be overheard. Ilya pretended he hadn't.

"Я буду завтра на отпевании (I'll be back tomorrow for the will reading)."

"Ты не собираешься помочь мне с похоронами (You're not going to help plan the funeral)?" Alexei challenged.

"Тебе действительно плевать на то, что я хочу сказать (You really give a shit what I have to say)?"

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Alexei froze. Ilya took advantage of the momentary hesitation to beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

Ilya had never felt strongly about his apartment in Moscow — he only stayed there three months out of the year, and even then, he was rarely home, so he hadn't put much effort into the decor or furnishings. As a result, it was minimalist, utilitarian, and not particularly homey. Still, he almost wept with relief when he opened the door and caught a glimpse of his bed. All thoughts of eating or showering flew out the window. Ilya undressed, crawled into bed, and was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

* * *

Ilya dreamed of his mother again. He usually did, his first night home. In this dream, he was sitting in the stands of Boston practice rink. All the lights were off, except for a single spotlight, tracking the graceful figure moving across the ice.

Irina.

Her long blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail, and it streamed behind her as she glided effortlessly on her outside edges, slender arms sweeping in time to the music. As Ilya watched, she stepped out of the arc and leapt into a spin, landing on her other foot, folding herself nearly in half. Then, spinning faster, she grabbed one skate and lifted it above her head, both arms curving elegantly in the air.

A whistle blew. Every light in the rink flicked on. Ilya blinked, momentarily stunned. When his vision returned, the scene had changed; a hockey game had broken out on the ice, blocking his view of the delicate figure in the center circle. Ilya stood up and rushed to the boards, finally catching a glimpse of his mother, crumpled on the ice. The players skated around her, but none of them seemed to see her — it was like she was surrounded by an invisible forcefield.

"Мама, вставай (Mama, get up)!"

Irina didn't move. The game went on around her, faster and faster. It was getting ugly, players sending each other sprawling with vicious checks and high-sticks, shouting horrible things at each other, every play devolving into chaos. Miraculously, they were still narrowly avoiding Irina, but the wickedly sharp blades seemed to miss her only by inches. Ilya screamed, banging against the glass, but he was drowned out by the crunching of blades cutting through ice, men shouting at each other in Russian and English. Someone was brutally slammed into the boards directly in front of Ilya — when he leapt back with a gasp, the player looked up, the only one to notice him.

Time seemed to slow.

Dark eyebrows furrowed over the man's sparkling brown eyes, and freckles were scattered across his flushed cheeks. His full lips moved, but Ilya couldn't hear what he was saying, and before he could figure it out, the player was pushing off the boards, shoving his way through the melee and skating directly towards Irina, still lying undisturbed at center ice. He bent down, carefully lifted her in his strong arms, turned back towards Ilya, and the massive Zamboni hit them both at full speed.

* * *

Ilya woke up screaming.

He sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, covered in sweat. His throat was sore, and the room spun around him. How long had he slept? Of course he hadn't bothered to buy a clock for his bedroom. He grabbed for his phone, but it wasn't on the nightstand — he must have left it in his jacket pocket. Ilya forced himself to breathe, leaning over the side of the bed until the urge to vomit passed. After several long minutes, he finally felt steady enough to walk across the room and retrieve his phone.

4:37AM.

A very quick, very cold shower helped shock his system back into something like normalcy, but Ilya's heart was still beating too fast to even try to fall back asleep. He threw on a fresh t-shirt and boxers, then picked up his phone again. Over a hundred missed texts — mostly from the team groupchat, but a couple from Svetlana about meeting up for breakfast, and one from his coach, wishing him well.

Only one missed call, though. A FaceTime call. Hating himself a little for how badly he needed to see the face in question, Ilya called him back.

Shane picked up on the second ring, and Ilya's heartbeat stumbled in a way that had nothing to do with the nightmare. He was shirtless, his hair a little rumpled, smiling softly, and he was wearing glasses.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

Ilya was struck dumb.

"You wear glasses?"

"Just for reading." He reached up to take them off, and Ilya found himself begging silently,

No, leave them on.

Shane blushed, but his hand dropped.

Wait. Shane?

"Yeah?" What's wrong?

You can hear me?

Of course I can — oh.

Ilya was sure he was grinning like an idiot.

It works over FaceTime. How is that even possible?

Well, we are looking at each other. Can you —

Shane looked away, his internal voice cutting out.

"Now is not the time to run experiments," Ilya said. Fondness so devastating, so overwhelming, it physically ached, coursed through him. Shane turned back just in time to catch it, and smiled widely.

Sorry. How are you? Is your brother giving you a hard time?

Not too bad. What are people saying about me?

Nothing. The media's being super secretive, and the Bears haven't —

Good. Ilya glanced away, thoughts racing. It wouldn't take him more than a few days to wrap up his affairs here — he'd have to set up the trust for Anastasia, but he could meet with his own lawyer about that after the will reading, and he could just sell the condo if Alexei wanted the house instead, and then the funeral… I will be back by the end of the week.

You should take more time than that.

Why? So you can catch up to me in the scoring race?

I'm being serious. He was making his little serious face too, mouth downturned at the corners, the beginnings of a pout forming under his cupid's bow. God, Ilya loved him so much. I hate that motherfucker, but he's still your father. It's okay to have… I dunno, complicated feelings about it. You know you can talk to me. About… whatever. I want to help, if I can.

You are helping, Ilya promised. But I… I don't think I have… I don't — I don't know. I don't know what feelings I have about it yet. Maybe it will sink in, after the funeral. Right now, all I can think about is logistics. Selling my apartment. Making sure my niece is taken care of. Paying off my father's debts, the funeral, the dinner —

Selling your apartment?

The only reason I kept coming back here was a sense of… duty, or guilt, maybe, to my father. Either way, now he's gone.

Ilya, Shane breathed. His eyes shone in the lamplight. Are you — that's —

Yes. So if you really want to help, I need to… not think. For ten minutes.

If there was one thing Ilya had learned about Shane Hollander, it was that he loved being given a mission. So he was thrilled, but not surprised, to see those broad shoulders straighten, his jaw set determinedly, as Shane thought,

I can do that.

* * *

Most of the estate — at least, what was left of it after they'd paid Grigori's debts — went to Alexei. Polina got a modest sum, although her thin lips twisted with displeasure and they all knew she thought she deserved more.

Ilya got the house.

One final fuck you, from a shitty father to both his terrible sons. He'd given the one buried in gambling and drug debt, with a family to support, enough rope to hang himself with, and to the one who had run away to another country as soon as humanly possible, he'd tied a weight heavy enough to drown himself with. Alexei and Ilya shared the closest thing they'd ever experienced to a knowing look.

The lawyer shook both their hands before leaving, asking them to give his regards to Polina, who had fled to her bedroom, but none of them had any particular interest in tracking her down. When the door shut behind him, leaving Ilya and Alexei alone in the front hall, Ilya said,

"Я продаю его. Или можешь забрать себе. Но моя квартира лучше. Меньше головной боли (I'm selling it. Or you can have it, if you want. But my condo is nicer. Less upkeep)."

Alexei blinked.

"Что (What)?"

"Дом (The house)," Ilya said impatiently. "Если вам это  он не нужен, мы можем это его продать. Мне все равно (If you don't want it, you can sell it. I don't care)."

"Почему — твоя квартира (Why — your condo)?"

"Я ухожу, алексей. Наименно. Навсегда. Я заплачу за похороны, и моя квартира и дом оба твои. Но я больше не отправляю  дам тебе денег. Я установлю траст открою счет для Анастасии, когда ей исполнится восемнадцать. Но клянусь христом богом, Aлексей, после этого ты не получишь от меня ни цента. Я закончил (I'm leaving, Alexei. For good. I'll pay for the funeral, and my condo and the house are both yours. But I'm not sending you any more money. I'll set up a trust for Anastasia to have once she turns eighteen, but I swear to god, Alexei, you are not getting a single fucking cent from me after this. I'm done)."

Alexei was still blinking, his mouth gaping open like a dead fish. Ilya clapped him, not unkindly, on the shoulder.

"Увидимся на похоронах (I'll see you at the funeral)."

Buffalo

Shane was sitting against the headboard of his hotel bed watching SportsCenter on the TV when he got the text. It had been three long days, and even though Ilya had warned him how busy he would be, Shane couldn't stop worrying that something had gone wrong, that he wouldn't be coming back. He practically lunged for his phone. Hayden, napping on the other bed, didn't budge.

Ilya was outside, in some kind of park, lit by an orangy streetlight that made his curls look like a golden halo. Shane itched to run his fingers through them, to sooth the tightness around his eyes, the dark circles underneath. His mouth was pinched, like he was holding himself together with needle and thread. Shane sat down hard on the stairs. The thought slipped free before he could stop it.

Oh, baby.

Ilya's throat bobbed like he was trying not to cry.

It's done. We sold the house. I signed over the condo. The funeral, the trust, everything's done. I'm leaving tomorrow.

How are you?

Okay.

Shane waited.

Not good. Probably bad.

How's your family?

Ilya shrugged. Glad to be rid of me. My brother… hugged me, yesterday. When we signed the lease. He has not done that since… I don't know. Since we were very small.

That's… good?

Maybe. Sometimes I wonder, what it might have been like if my father were different. He… Ilya sighed, looking away, and spoke aloud for the first time, in a voice choked with tears. "It is hard, like this, trying to organize my thoughts."

"You could tell me in Russian, if you want." Shane offered. "I won't understand, but… maybe it would help."

Ilya shook his head.

"I want to. But… anyone could hear."

Shane considered for a minute. When he needed to think through something difficult, he would usually picture himself back in his hiding place at the rink he grew up at, in the crawlspace behind the boards. What if he could take Ilya there?

"Do you trust me?"

Ilya sniffed, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his black sweater.

"Of course."

"Look at me. I want to try something."

Ilya's startlingly blue eyes settled back on Shane's, taking his breath away like they did every time. He forced himself to focus, picturing the crawlspace. That one time, on the couch, he'd felt like he was falling into Ilya's eyes. So this time, he reached out and pulled. Ilya gasped, and everything went black.

The rink constructed itself around him, smelling like cold plastic and sweat. There were the squeaky, uncomfortable stands, the ice that seemed to sprout divots within moments of being freshened, the squealing whistle of a skating coach trying to get her class of fifteen 10-year-old girls under control. All of it familiar, steadying, and safely out of range from his current position, tucked in the space between the boards and the back wall, a private, forgotten corner.

Shane looked down at his legs, short and skinny and covered in scrapes and bruises, then at his equally tiny hands. He couldn't have been more than twelve years old — because the next year, he remembered, he'd joined a better team and started practicing in the bigger rink across town. He looked up to see another boy his age sitting next to him, with honey-blonde curls and a sharply pointed chin that framed a troublemaker's smile.

"Ilya?"

"Shane," the other boy breathed. "Is this — where are we?"

"My childhood rink, in Ottawa. I always used to hide back here."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Well, actually, he did know. Shane looked down at his knobbly little hands and mumbled, "The other kids were mean, sometimes. I was always the youngest on the team, and usually the best, so after practice, when we were waiting to get picked up, they'd give me a hard time."

"That's fucked up. Didn't your parents do anything?"

"I never told them. My mom would have gone on a warpath."

Ilya laughed softly, scooching in a little closer until the sides of their bodies pressed flush together.

"You know, Yuna Hollander is a legend among the other NHL managers."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. My manager complains about her all the time. She snags all the best brand deals, negotiates rock sold contracts… they live in fear of her wrath."

"That tracks." Shane grinned. Then he shook his head, frowning. "Sorry, this isn't about me. I brought you here so you could talk in private."

Ilya took a deep breath. Their eyes were still locked, but here, in this shared mindscape, Shane couldn't hear anything until Ilya spoke it aloud. Maybe that was for the best. He waited patiently, letting his hand rest on top of Ilya's. His fingers were scabbed, Shane noticed, like healing burns. He had seen the tiny, faded scars on his thumb before, but these looked fresh. Absentmindedly, he caressed them with his fingertips. Ilya flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Я чертовски зол (I'm so fucking angry)."

Ilya's voice came out in a rush, all of the sudden, taking them both by surprise.

"Со всеми из них. На них всех. Когда я нахожусь в америке, на расстоянии океана, я могу попытаться игнорировать это, подтолкнуть его вниз, задвинуть подальше, но это всегда возвращается. Это живет под моей кожей глубоко во мне эта... Ненависть, и я не могу избежать этого. Избавится от этого. Я — я ненавижу своего отца больше всего, но теперь он ушел, мерт, так что я не могу — я не могу кричать на него или бить его, и гневу некуда деться, так что … это просто. Он гноит. Это рана гноится. С тех пор, как он заболел, он может забыть забыл все ужасные вещи, которые он сделал, но я не могу. И я чертовски зол из-за этого (With all of them. When I'm in America, an ocean away, I can try to ignore it, push it down, but it always comes back. It lives under my skin, this… hatred, and I can't escape it. I — I hate my father most of all, but now he's gone, so I can't — I can't yell at him, or punch him, and the anger has nowhere to go, so it just. It festers. Ever since he got sick, it's like — he can forget all the awful things he did, but I can't. And I'm so fucking pissed about it)."

Shane put one arm around him and rested their heads together, closing his eyes. The unfamiliar syllables washed over him like music.

"Он был ужасен. Мне, Алексею, — моей маме. Для меня, алексея и мамы. И он сделал нас ужасными. Мы с Алексеем... до смерти моей матери я иногда думал, что, возможно, мы могли бы быть друзьями. Но после... он никогда не простил меня за то, что я нашел ее. И я никогда не простил его за то, что он оставил меня, когда мой отец отправил его в военную школу. Как будто у него был выбор (He was terrible. To me, to Alexei, to — to my mother. And he made us terrible back. Alexei and I… before my mother died, I sometimes thought maybe we could have been friends. But after… he never forgave me, for finding her. And I never forgave him for leaving me, when my father sent him to military school. Like he had a choice)."

Ilya scoffed, hard and bitter.

"Я не понял понимал.  Я был просто зол. На моего отца за то, что он жесток. На алексея, за то, что он упал в очередь он стал таким же. На мою мать, за то, что она бросила нас. И я все еще злюсь. Все время. Shane, я не — (I didn't understand. I was just angry. At my father, for being cruel. At Alexei, for falling in line. At my mother, for abandoning us. And I still am. All the time. Shane, I don't —)"

His throat nearly closed up as hot tears coursed down his cheeks. Shane wiped them away with his thumb. Ilya turned into him, hiding his face in Shane's neck. Shane held him tighter, pulling him close. His voice was muffled, but it didn't matter — Shane couldn't understand the words anyway.

"Я больше не хочу злиться. Но я боюсь остановиться. Я не знаю, как жить без гнева, чтобы пронести меня через это выжить. Потому что, когда я не злюсь, мне грустно, а потом — (I don't want to be angry anymore. But I'm afraid to stop. I don't know how to live without the anger to carry me through. Because when I'm not angry, I'm sad, and then —)"

Ilya stopped, breathing shallowly through his mouth, nose plugged with snot. Then he went on, even quieter than before.

"Я тебя не заслуживаю. Но я клянусь Богом, Шейн, если ты позволишь мне, я проведу остаток нашей жизни, пытаясь быть достаточно хорошим для тебя. Я буду подчиняться каждому этапу твоего плана вдохновителя, я скажу всему миру, что ненавижу тебя, или что мы лучшие друзья, все, что ты захочешь, я буду следовать за тобой, как собака, потому что это все, на что я хорош. Потому что я так сильно тебя люблю, что даже не знаю, что с этим делать. (I don't deserve you. But I swear to god, Shane, if you let me, I will spend the rest of our lives trying to be good enough for you. I'll obey every phase of your mastermind plan, I'll tell the world I hate you, or that we're best friends, anything you want, I'll follow you like a dog because that's all I'm good for. Because I love you so much, I don't — I don't even know what to do about it)."

Ilya blew his nose into the hem of his own t-shirt, a young, unselfconscious gesture completely befitting the 12-year-old boy he appeared as. Then he heaved an exhausted sigh, deeper than any 12-year-old should have managed.

"I am done."

Shane released his grip, letting Ilya sit back up until just their shoulders were touching. Carefully, he replied,

"Я тебя люблю (I love you)."

Ilya barely stifled another sob.

"That's the only part I understood," Shane promised. "Do you feel better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

The rink dissolved.

The first thing Shane noticed when the stairwell reasserted itself around him was that his lungs were burning. The next thing was that according to his phone, less than a minute had passed. Ilya's face was the right age in the phone screen, and his eyes were only a little damp. Shakily, he said, "Good trick, Hollander."

"Anytime."

They were quiet for a minute. Then, a little shyly, Shane thought,

Maybe you could teach me Russian someday.

Ah yes, so I can't hide anything from you.

No, just — it's your native language. We always talk in English, it just… doesn't feel fair.

I will teach you some useful phrases. Ilya granted, but Shane could already tell he meant trouble just by the smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

Like what? He asked anyway.

"Harder, please." "Yes, sir."

Shane laughed.

Fuck you.

No no, more like, "fuck me please."

How about… I wish you were here right now?

The smirk softened into something gentler, sadder, and Ilya said,

Я тоже (I wish I was too).

Chapter 10: the stars are blazing

Chapter Summary

shane doubles down. ilya makes a decision

Chapter Notes

April 2017

Early reactions to phase one had not been encouraging. The press was politely baffled. The Voyageurs were actively hostile. No one seemed inclined to give Shane the time of day to explain himself. Objectively, he deduced, it was probably best to just let this go. But Yuna Hollander had not raised a fucking quitter.

So of course, he doubled down.

* * *

In Buffalo, at the post-game presser:

"Shane, any comment on Rozanov's continuing mysterious absence?"

"Whatever's going on, I'm sure he wouldn't miss games without a good reason. I just hope he'll be back in time for us to demolish the Bears next week — they won't even put up a fight without him."

* * *

When he walked into the locker room to see the rookies crowded around Taylor's phone:

"Dude, apparently Roz was seen in Moscow with this smoking hot model chick!"

"No way oh my god — Hollzy, have you seen this?"

"I'm sure he's got a google alert set up for his new bestie," Drapeau muttered snidely.

Shane took a glance.

"That's his friend Svetlana. She's really cool, actually — her dad is Sergei Vetrov."

"And how the fuck do you know that?"

"I met her in Tampa." (He was lying through his fucking teeth. He'd met her over FaceTime two days ago. It had been awkward at first, until she'd said, "You know, your second line center drops his left shoulder every time he's about to pass," and he'd said, "THANK YOU! I keep telling him it's a liability but he doesn't believe me!" and after that, they had been fine.)

"You sure they're not together?" Schneider, a third line winger, asked doubtfully.

"Why, you think you have a chance, Schneidsy?" Hayden teased, making the rookies snicker.

* * *

At dinner with his parents:

"Honey, are you sure you want to associate your brand with Rozanov's? He has a bit of a… reputation."

"I'm not 'associating our brands,' Mom. I made one polite comment about a fellow player whose personal life is under the microscope for some reason."

"You know, Rozanov doesn't need you to stick up for him."

"I know," Shane said firmly. "Anyway, about the Canada Dry sponsorship…"

* * *

At warm-ups, before the next Montreal-Boston home game:

"Hey, Rozanov."

Ilya looked up, delight shimmering in his eyes.

"Hollander."

We still on for tonight? After? "I was sorry to hear about your father."

Ilya smirked.

"You Canadians are so polite." Of course.

The code to the front door is 1919. "There are worse reputations."

Front door? Brave. "I can't think of any."

"Fuck you."

Later. "I am busy, Hollander. You see, I am about to play a hockey game. Will you be there?"

"I'd tell you to bet your ass on it, but I guess you can't until we've handed it to you."

Ilya's entire face scrunched in genuine confusion.

"What?"

I don't know. You made me nervous. I didn't have time to think of a good chirp.

Mine was pretty shit anyway. Not up to my usual standards.

The absurdity of the situation suddenly hit Shane, and a laugh bubbled out of his throat. Ilya snorted, turned his face back to the ice, and shooed him away.

"What was that about?" Hayden asked when Shane made it back to the boards, still chuckling.

"Just offering my condolences."

"Then why were you laughing?"

Shane shrugged. Casually. "He said something funny."

* * *

"What did Hollander want?" Marly asked curiously as they settled onto the bench. Ilya bit down on the inside of his cheek and waited himself out.

First impulse: He was inviting me over to have gay sex later.

Second impulse: I have no idea, I wasn't even listening.

Third impulse: Just trying to fuck with me before the game.

And finally: "He heard about my father. Said he was sorry for my loss."

"Oh." Marly tilted his head thoughtfully. "That's nice of him."

"He's a good guy," Ilya admitted, tempering the honesty with, "Even if he does have a weak backhand."

Marly chuckled.

"You should hang out with him more often, Rozy. He could be a good influence on you."

Ilya's jaw dropped in mock outrage.

"Never. If anyone is the influence, it is me. I am bad influence. He has no influence."

"Whatever you say, man." Marly shook his head.

"Roz!" LeClaire barked. Ilya took the ice for the faceoff.

Shane was already waiting. He looked up, eyes crinkling expectantly. There was a healthy pink flush to his cheeks, making his freckles stand out under his visor. He looked so beautiful, it made Ilya's heart ache.

I hope you have a better chirp ready this time.

Ilya didn't. He scrambled for a reply, and settled for the first thought that popped up.

Have I ever told you how much I love your freckles?

If he had been trying to catch Shane off guard, he couldn't have chosen a better method.

What?

Is the truth. I am nuts about them.

Shane's whole face blushed tomato red.

I have no idea why. I hate them.

Noooo, Shane. They are stunning.

Shane looked like he was about to cry.

Shit, am I using that word right? Take my breath…

Are you trying to fuck with me?

Maybe a little. But I mean it.

Shane let out a little huff of laughter, clacking his stick against Ilya's in a friendly sort of way. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya noticed the ref's lips purse disapprovingly, but he didn't call it.

You are such an asshole.

The puck dropped. Shane snagged it and took off, flying down the ice with Ilya in hot pursuit. He cornered him against the boards, bullying the puck away, and started towards the opposite goal. He hadn't gotten more than halfway when Shane caught up to him and stole it back, tossing a cocky glance over his shoulder, and Marly was on a collision course —

Shane, look out!

But Shane's eyes just narrowed with confusion, and the tenth of a second's distraction was enough. He was still off balance when Marlow slammed into him at full force, and all Ilya could do was watch, horrified, as he crumpled to the ice.

* * *

Fuck. Have the lights always been this bright?

Ow.

Fuck.

Can I — ow.

Where — what happened?

(Ilya's wide, terrified eyes, motion in peripheral vision, IMPACT — sprawling, cold)

Oh god, my head hurts.

Shit.

This is really bad.

* * *

"Marlow, you motherfucker —"

A massive blue blur had bodied Marly, gloves off, fists flying, the rest of the team quickly throwing themselves into the fray. Ilya barely noticed.

Shane wasn't moving.

"Hollander, get up."

Oh god it was just like his fucking nightmare, seeing him like this, collapsed, helpless, and still. So still. Someone was grabbing Ilya, pulling him back, and Shane wasn't moving, he wasn't moving —

* * *

Blurry, indistinct shapes were jumbling together in Shane's field of vision. He squinted, trying to focus his eyes, but it didn't seem to make a difference. A familiar voice echoed, distantly, as if underwater, but he couldn't make out the words.

"Ilya?"

Shane wasn't sure if his own lips were moving, but the sound was closer.

"Is he okay? Fucking tell me!"

"Mmokay," he mumbled. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Someone was lifting him. In the background he heard,

"Get to your bench, Rozanov. I'm not gonna tell you again."

The world was jolting, spinning, the light shifting. They were moving him off the ice.

"I need you to stay awake, okay, Shane?"

"Tell him I'm fine," he begged.

The noise was louder, thundering, like… applause? Maybe? Then it was quieter, and the light dimmed. The tunnel. Fuck, they were taking him out of the rink, and no one had told Ilya —

"Please, he's gonna worry."

* * *

Ilya thought he'd seen Shane's hand move when they'd put him on the stretcher, but maybe it was just his own imagination. The backs of his legs met the boards, and he lingered there, vomit crawling up the back of his throat.

She had looked exactly like that. Limp, like her consciousness had just abandoned her body, left it to its own devices. One arm dangling off the couch. Gone.

Он не ушел. Он не может быть. У нас есть план (He's not gone. He can't be. We have a plan).

Shane was just so… vibrant. So full of life. Even in his sleep, his eyebrows would move, he'd mumble under his breath, his limbs would twitch a little. Ilya had never seen him like this. Like he was —

"He's awake."

Ilya whirled around. He'd somehow drifted towards the end of the Voyageurs bench, where three terrified rookies had reconvened, avoiding the brawl Ilya had mostly ignored. Ilya vaguely recognized the one they had seemingly elected as spokesman — Taylor, he was pretty sure.

"What?"

"I heard Hollzy talking to the medics. He said 'tell him I'm fine.'"

"I heard it too." A second kid, somehow even scrawnier than the first (God, were we ever that small?) corroborated, eyes wide and earnest. "He was pretty close to our end of the bench, when he went down. I think he said your name."

Relief coursed through Ilya, nearly bringing him to his knees, until the implications sank in.

Мы так облажались (We're so fucked).

"It's okay," Taylor said quickly, reading the panic on Ilya's face embarrassingly easily. "We know you're friends."

"Yeah, we're cool with it. Some of the other guys have been giving Hollzy a hard time, but, like, you two are legends. It must be hard to find people who can keep up."

Ilya managed a strained smile, filing that little mention away for later. He had more pressing concerns right now. Shane would freak the fuck out if he'd been overheard saying Ilya's first name, even if it was just the rookies — but maybe, somehow, he'd had the presence of mind in the midst of what was almost certainly a serious concussion to remember not to…

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone." The third kid, who was built like a brick wall with baby-fat cheeks, added solemnly.

Черт возьми (Damn it).

"There is nothing to tell," Ilya said breezily. "Thank you. We will never discuss this again."

His tone made it clear it was not a suggestion. The rookies nodded like bobble heads. He fled to his own bench.

Ilya spent the rest of the game on autopilot, barely able to look at Marlow, and playing like shit as a result, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The knowledge that Shane was probably not dead was a cold comfort — every time he blinked, he saw him lying there on the ice, so small and helpless. They won, but it was a hollow victory. A couple people went out to celebrate, but Ilya just went back to the hotel to stare at his phone, scrolling through useless news articles, waiting for Shane to text. He knew it was stupid — he had enough experience with concussion protocol to know Shane wouldn't even be allowed to touch his phone for the next few days — but he didn't seem to have the energy to do anything else.

It was well after midnight, and Ilya had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, when the call came. He'd turned his volume up all the way just in case, so the blaring alarm was probably audible halfway across the hotel, sending him flailing for a couple seconds until he realized it wasn't the smoke detector and leapt out of bed, fumbling to pull his phone off the charger on the dresser.

"Shane?"

"Ilyaaaaaaaa."

О, черт, они дали ему хорошие вещи (Oh fuck, they gave him the good stuff).

"You probably shouldn't be on your phone."

"M'not. I used… seeee-ree. 'S'on speaker."

He sounded ridiculously proud of himself. Ilya almost burst into tears.

"Are you alone?"

"Yup." (He popped the 'p' with gusto.) "Mom finally left. Been waitin' to call. All night. Just wanna talk to you. Wanna hold you. Can you come visit tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Actually nevermind. Just come now."

"I can't," Ilya said, his heart breaking. "I'm sorry. Visiting hours are over."

"Who gives a fuck? I'll tell them you're my Ilya and I need you."

Ilya's knees gave out, and he sank to the hotel room floor with a choked wheeze he'd deny later.

"Are you trying to kill me, Hollander?" he gasped, once he had regained the power of speech.

"No," Shane said, suddenly deadly serious. "I'm out for playoffs. We won't go all the way without me. So you have to win."

"Shit. That bad?"

"Broken collarbone and a concussion. So. Coulda been worse."

"Could have been worse," Ilya repeated, heaving a relieved sigh.

"All part of the game." Shane was still going, like Ilya hadn't even spoken. "We all get our bell rung eventually, right?"

"Right." Ilya's voice came out in a near whisper. His head fell back against the bed behind him, eyes dropping closed.

"Can you still come see me t'morrow? I wanna… I was gonna ask you somethin'."

"You can't ask me now?"

"Mmmmm no. Wanna do it properly. And 'm tired."

"Okay. Get some rest, детка (baby). I'll swing by the hospital before we fly out tomorrow."

"Ya… ya t—" Shane gave up, groaning frustratedly. "Ilya, tell me."

"Я тебя люблю (I love you)."

"Yesssss. That. T'morrow. Come."

"I will. I promise."

"Good."

Shane went quiet. After a moment, soft snores echoed over the line. Ilya's thumb hovered over the "end call" button, but didn't connect. Muting himself, he crawled back into bed and fell asleep to the sound of Shane's steady breathing.

* * *

Shane woke up with the worst hangover of his fucking life. His thoughts felt slippery, like he was wading through molasses trying to form a coherent sentence. For a moment, he had no idea where he was — all he knew was that his head hurt like hell, and his chest, and his shoulder, and his ribs, and his hip, and the room was dark, but a shaft of light peeked through the curtains and there was humming, beeping equipment somewhere to his left, and —

Fuck. I'm in the hospital.

Then it all came rushing back. The hit, being carried off the ice, having his collarbone set, his mom's pinched face, her small hand firm in his. The doctors telling him he couldn't get back on the ice for at least a month, bargaining with his favorite nurse to get ahold of his phone, promising he wouldn't look at the screen, he just needed to call —

Ilya. I called Ilya.

What had he said? He remembered… flashes.

"I need you."

"Can you still come see me tomorrow?"

And Ilya had said,

"I will, I promise."

"Hey, superstar." The nurse was back. Shit, he couldn't remember her name. Jenny? Ginny? Gina? "Time for your meds."

"Oh thank god," Shane breathed. She chuckled and handed him a little cup.

"I don't know if you remember, but you said you wanted to be weaned off the IV painkillers as soon as possible last night — you were pretty out of it, but your mom backed you up. So I'll give you these for now, but if the pain is really bad, let me know. Okay?"

"Okay," Shane said. He tried to nod, but that just made his head spin even worse. He took the pills and swallowed them dry, before she could even give him the waterbottle in her other hand.

"How are you feeling? Any dizziness?"

"Not too bad," Shane lied. "Could you — there's some light coming in through the curtains, it's kind of making my eyes hurt."

"Oh yeah, you got it." She rushed over to the window and fiddled with the curtains. "That better?"

Not really.

"Yeah, thanks."

"When you're ready to eat something, the room service menu is on your tray. And press the call button if you need anything."

"I will." He wouldn't.

Shane closed his eyes, which did make him feel a little better, and tried to nap. He didn't remember falling asleep, but time seemed to pass, because the next time he opened his eyes, his dad was sitting in the visitor chair next to him, working on a crossword puzzle.

"Dad?"

"Hey, bud." His dad smiled. "I ordered you breakfast. Just a couple eggs and some toast."

"I'm not really eating bread —"

"You could have died last night, Shane. You can eat a slice of toast."

He ate the toast. And the eggs. Then he drank some water, and some juice, and by the time he was done, his head felt a little less like a salad spinner. His dad supported him as he wobbled to the bathroom to pee, then helped him arrange himself back into the hospital bed. His quiet, steady presence calmed Shane more than any painkillers.

"Mom will be back this afternoon, when they discharge you. You don't have to decide now, but we can either take you straight to Ottawa, or we can all stay at your apartment for a bit, until you're ready to make the drive."

Shane was supposed to be at his apartment right now, waking up with Ilya, deliciously sore, giving each other shit about whoever had won the game, bullying him into eating something healthy, shooing him out the door so he didn't miss his flight. And now it was all ruined. They wouldn't see each other again until next season.

Unless…

Someone knocked on the door, and Shane's head whipped around so fast, he almost threw up. Then Hayden and JJ walked in, and Shane suddenly hated himself, because his first reaction was visceral disappointment.

"Hey guys," he said, trying to smile extra big to make up for it. Hayden looked happy to see him — JJ looked like hell.

"Shane, je suis vraiment désolé. Tout était de ma faute (Shane, I'm so sorry. It was all my fault)."

"Quoi? Ne sois pas ridicule, mec, c'est du hockey (What? Don't be ridiculous, dude, it's hockey)."

"Je suis ta défense. Marlow m'a dépassé. Cela n'aurait jamais dû arriver (I'm your defense. Marlow got past me. This should never have happened)."

"He barely slept," Hayden said with a concerned frown as they both sat down on the couch on the other side of Shane from his dad's chair. "When we heard you were out for playoffs, he literally cried. I mean, of course, we're all upset — we don't stand a fucking chance without you — but… he's taking it personally."

Guilt crashed over Shane, threatening to drown him. JJ had been up all night blaming himself, and the only person he'd wanted to talk to was Ilya.

"Je suis désolé, JJ. J'aurais dû t'envoyer un texto. Je ne te blâme pas du tout. C'était de ma faute — je ne regardais pas où j'allais (I'm sorry, JJ. I should have texted you. I don't blame you at all. It was my own fault — I wasn't looking where I was going)."

JJ nodded, but his face was still absolutely distraught. Shane had absolutely no idea what to say. His thoughts were running at quarter speed, and he had never been very good at comforting people even at his best. Thankfully, his dad stepped in.

"Respire, fils (Take a breath, son)," he said calmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The fact that Shane hasn't had a serious injury like this the entire time you've played together speaks for itself. It was bound to happen sooner or later. No one thinks you were responsible."

JJ just nodded again, but it seemed more sincere this time.

"Hey, I mean, we've been begging you to take some time off for years," Hayden said, trying to salvage the mood. "Guess now you don't have a choice."

Shane laughed, which hurt, but he didn't mind.

"You know what his first words were, after they patched him up?" David asked. Shane groaned.

"Did we win?" Hayden guessed. David laughed, high-fiving him over the end of the bed.

"Got it in one."

They chatted a little longer, until Shane's eyelids got too heavy and his words were slurring again. He took his next dose of the painkillers and slipped into another dreamless, time-warping sleep.

* * *

Ilya's heart was pounding out of his fucking chest as he walked up to Shane's hospital room. The nice lady at the front desk had waved him through with a flirtatious comment about his sportsmanship, so he knew this visit would be public knowledge within twenty minutes. It wasn't unheard of for a team captain to check in with an injured opposing captain, but this wasn't just any opposing captain — despite their best efforts, the world was still mostly convinced that the only reason Ilya Rozanov would visit Shane Hollander in the hospital would be to finish the job.

The door was open, just a crack. He knocked once and swung it open, and there he was, looking so fragile and human, propped up on pillows, his arm in a sling, his sweet face all bruised up. Shane beamed at him like he'd hung the moon and stars, and Ilya's chest cracked open. Their eyes met.

You're here you're really here I knew you'd come so pretty my pretty boy pretty baby come here wanna kiss you c'mere c'mere c'mere —

"Rozanov?"

Fuck.

David Hollander was sitting in the visitor's chair with a crossword puzzle in his lap and a pen tucked behind his ear, politely confused. Every English word Ilya had ever learned evacuated his brain.

"Mr. Hollander. I, uh. Wanted to… Marlow is… he feels bad. He was very… angry at himself. And I am mad at him as well."

"Good of you to come by, son." David set aside his crossword and stretched out one hand. Ilya stepped forward to shake it, fighting back hysterical laughter. So this is where he gets it from. Shane's father's grip was firm, but not performatively so. Ilya looked over at Shane, who was still smiling like crazy.

"How are you?" he asked, probably too gently — aloud, for the benefit of their audience. Shane cleared his throat and furrowed his brow, pitching his voice a little lower than usual.

"Okay. 'S just my collarbone, really. The concussion's not too bad." Sorry, just took my painkillers. Liiittle out of it.

I can tell. Ilya thought back with a helpless grin. "That's good."

David went back to his crossword, like absolutely nothing unusual was going on. Ilya went around to the other side of the bed and sat on the couch. His hands itched to grab Shane's, to get physical confirmation that he was here, he was real, he was alive. Cursing himself for his weakness, he gave in, brushing his fingertips against Shane's palm, briefly enough that he hoped David wouldn't notice. Shane let out a deep breath, like Ilya's touch had unlocked his ribcage.

"When's your flight?" I had a whole plan. For last night. 'M mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up.

"In like an hour. I'll go soon. Just wanted to… say hi. Make sure you were okay." For the thing you were going to ask me?

Yeah. Shane blinked down at him, a little bashful. I was gonna invite you to my cottage after playoffs.

Ilya's jaw dropped. He closed it, casting another frantic glance across the room. David hadn't looked up.

But your plan —

Fuck the plan. I don't wanna wait, I want you now. This summer. We'll have so much fun, it's so private, no one will know…

Shane…

We could have a week, or even two. We'd be completely alone… together.

I don't —

Shane's voice was confused, plaintive.

Haven't you ever wanted more time?

Of course. Милый (Sweetheart), I —

"You know, I didn't really know what to think, when people said you two were friendly," David said lightly. Ilya whipped his head around to see him watching them, again with that curious look. "But looking at you now… I can see it."

Пора идти (Time to go).

Ilya got to his feet. Walking away from Shane felt like wading against a riptide, but he forced his legs to move, his mouth forming a pained, polite grimace.

"Yes. Well. Anyway. Glad to see you are recovering, Hollander."

Their eyes met one last time, before Ilya turned to grab the door handle.

Please?

Maybe.

And Shane smiled again, like that one word was all he'd ever wanted to hear.

Ilya practically ran out of the hospital like he was fleeing the scene of a crime. He barely made it to the airport as his team was boarding, but no one gave him a hard time about it. In fact, they all seemed to realize what a pissy mood he was in, because he was left completely alone the entire flight. He figured that was for the best — he wasn't exactly up for conversation right now — but it meant he had way too much time to ruminate on Shane's offer.

The cottage.

This summer.

And god, Ilya wanted to say yes. More than fucking anything. He wanted to say yes so badly, the effort of keeping the words in had nearly killed him. But it was hard enough to leave Shane after one night. If he had him all to himself for days, weeks — a true taste of what it would be like, if they were together for real — and then they had to go back to pretending to be casual acquaintances, only seeing each other a couple times the whole season… that might truly break him.

He knew Shane hadn't meant to make him spiral. He'd brought it up as something to look forward to, a reason to treat the end of the season as a reward rather than a punishment. Ilya just needed to lock it down, focus on playoffs, and put off all thoughts of summer until he was on the other side. It should have been easy; he was a master at compartmentalization by now. He'd played through grief and rage and pain and fear and none of it had ever impacted his performance. But if last night was any indication, love wouldn't be nearly as easy to shut out.

May 2017 — Ottawa

Montreal had lasted a total of four games before getting taken out of the playoffs by Detroit of all teams, which was embarrassing as fuck and Rose had not let Shane forget it.

"We were terrible this year!" she'd gloated during one of his daily allotted 15-minute blocks of unsupervised phone time, from her trailer for some movie she was shooting in New York. "We barely scraped a playoff spot at all! If only your goalie hadn't been sick —"

"And if only I hadn't been mortally wounded, yes, I know, we've covered this." Shane groaned, but he was grinning.

"Sorry," she said, clearly not sorry at all. "How's it going, staying with your parents?"

Shane was in his bedroom with the door locked, but he dramatically looked around to make sure neither of them were within earshot, sparking peals of laughter from Rose.

"Good, I guess. They're driving me a little bit crazy — my mom keeps asking when we're getting back together."

"My bad." Rose giggled. "Other than that though?"

"Mostly it's been nice, since I'm not really up to cooking or cleaning or anything right now. My headaches are getting better, but I have, like, zero energy. So. Hopefully I'll be out of the sling next week, but I'm not sure when I'll be able to go home and fend for myself."

"You could always hire a nurse or something."

"Great idea. Maybe I'll ask them to hire me a hot male nurse. Is that a good way to come out?"

Rose collapsed back into the couch, shaking with laughter. Shane felt himself grinning widely as he watched her pull herself together. Finally, she leaned in, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"That reminds me — how's…?" Shane took the hint. Pitching his voice quieter, he answered,

"He's good. Still hasn't made up his mind about the cottage, but I can't really blame him. It's a big step. He usually spends the whole summer having the time of his life partying in Moscow — and now Boston, I guess."

"Any progress with phase one?"

Shane winced. "Not really. My parents are coming around after he visited me in the hospital, but… I don't know. It might be easier if we had more excuses to hang out without people getting suspicious, but obviously I'm fucking grounded right now, and he's… busy. I don't wanna psych him out when he's trying to focus on playoffs."

"Hm," Rose said thoughtfully.

"'Hm' what?" Shane demanded, immediately suspicious. Rose flapped her hand airily, dismissing his concern.

"Don't worry about it. Just… percolating. I'll let you know if anything comes of it."

"Honey!" his mother's voice echoed through the house. "It's starting!"

"I have to go," Shane said apologetically.

"Don't forget your sunglasses!" Rose teased, and hung up before he could insist he hadn't needed sunglasses to watch TV in days.

Shane took the stairs two at a time, not wanting to miss a minute of Ilya's game. His mom looked up from the couch, raising one eyebrow.

"Someone's in a good mood. Talking to Rose?"

"Yeah. She's a good friend," Shane said pointedly as he sat down next to her. Yuna chuckled knowingly, shaking her head.

"If you say so, honey."

The words bubbled up in his chest so abruptly, Shane had to slam his mouth shut just to hold them in. He could already picture how the conversation would go.

I'm not getting back together with Rose. "Why not, Shane?" Because I'm in love with someone else. "What's her name?" It's not a girl. It will never be a girl. I can't do it, Mom. I failed.

And the look on her face —confusion, heartbreak, disappointment — no. He knew his parents wouldn't understand. Maybe someday, after they had gotten used to the idea of Shane being friends with Ilya, when he wasn't playing for Montreal's biggest rival anymore, once they met him and knew how incredible he was, maybe, maybe, they would be okay with it. But not now. And probably not soon.

As if to illustrate his point, Yuna shook her head disapprovingly and muttered,

"That was a dirty trip."

It had been. Ilya was already heading to the penalty box, sputtering with righteous indignation that the refs were out to get him. Nevertheless, Shane felt a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Shane kept pretty quiet as the game unfolded on his parents' TV, the volume turned down low so he wouldn't get a headache. Ilya wasn't playing very well. Sure, he'd scored once and assisted a couple times, but his stride was uneven, and he was usually such a physical player, it was pretty obvious he was going out of his way to avoid too much contact. After one particularly brutal play where Scott Hunter drove him into the boards and Ilya just took it, somehow managing to skate it off, his mother observed,

"He's playing hurt. It's his ribs, I bet."

"Yeah," Shane said absently, fiddling with his sling as he tracked Ilya's too-slow return to the bench. "The medics thought it might be a fracture, but they still cleared him."

"Unbelievable," his father scoffed, popping his head in from the kitchen. "Someday this league is going to have a reckoning about player safety. I can't tell you how many buddies of mine ended up with permanent damage from playing through injuries."

"Same." Shane admitted, remembering a veteran defenseman whose Achilles tendon had just snapped one day during a routine practice.

"Well, hopefully the Admirals will put him out of his misery tonight and he can get some rest," Yuna declared.

"Mom!"

"What? We hate him!"

"That's — we're friends now, kind of." ("Kind of" doing the heavy lifting there.)

"Hm." She glared disapprovingly at the TV. "Well, he did visit you in the hospital, so I guess he's not that bad. I can't believe I missed that, by the way."

"He was very polite," David offered. Shane's stomach clenched reflexively, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it didn't come. Instead, his father went on, "And he didn't seem to mind that Shane wasn't in a very talkative mood. Good kid."

Yuna huffed out a disbelieving grunt. "I'll believe it when I see it."

New York

Ilya grinned and settled deeper into the pillows on his hotel bed, trying to find a position that didn't hurt. After a couple minutes, he gave up and decided there wasn't one. Shane was still typing. Ilya had almost fallen asleep when the message finally came through.

Ilya's thumbs fluttered aimlessly over the keyboard as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. Finally, he settled on,

Ilya's heart seized.

He thinks I don't want to go.

Before Ilya could think better of it, he was starting a FaceTime call. Shane picked up on the first ring. He looked soft and sleepy, snuggled up on the couch in his parents' dimly lit living room.

I'm not sure if my parents are asleep yet, so we have to be quiet.

Lucky us, then.

Shane smiled sweetly, which did something concerning to Ilya's breathing, and repeated,

Lucky us.

Милый (Sweetheart), do you think there is any world where I wouldn't want to spend two weeks with you at your remote sex mansion?

It's not a —

I have seen you doing yoga on the patio, Shane. That is absolutely not a cottage. Beside the point. Do you really think I don't want to go?

Shane's thoughts burst out of him all at once, colliding with each other like bumper cars.

I — you watched that? They made me — My parents' cottage is a few minutes away, so I just named it — It's a big step. I didn't — Two weeks is a long time, and I don't want to ruin your break if you have plans —

You want to know what I do every summer? Ilya's conviction solidified, determination coursing through his veins. He'd been agonizing over this for weeks, but suddenly it was all so simple. His mind filled with memories of his cold, lifeless apartment and the suffocating presence of his father's house, the neverending parties and meaningless hookups, the incessant workouts just to fill time. He started constructing a thought, figuring out a way to tell Shane how soulcrushing his summers had been for all these years, how desperately he had longed to be with him, but before he could translate it, the world was warping around him, his hotel room blurring, liquefying, and in its place…

Ilya's first thought was that his ribs didn't hurt anymore. Then he realized he was standing in the kitchen of his father's house. The air was dry and stale, choked with dust, the walls yellow from years of cigarette buildup. Polina had fired the last housekeeper, claiming she'd stolen some jewelry, although Ilya was pretty sure Alexei had pawned it. He could feel pounding bass through the wall that should have bordered the living room. Shane was standing next to him, looking around curiously.

"Ilyushaaaaa!" The front door slammed, and Alexei's taunting voice rang out through the house. "Где ты, пидор (Where are you, faggot)?"

"Is that your brother?" Shane whispered. Ilya nodded, fighting back the panic clawing up his throat.

"This is my father's house. I remember this day. He is… very drunk."

"Did you mean to bring us here?"

"No," Ilya said shortly. "And I don't know how to get back."

"Okay." Shane took Ilya's hand, his touch steady and grounding. "Well, they say the only way out is through."

As one, they turned to the living room door, which was nearly bulging against the frame from the force of the music behind it. Ilya hesitated, afraid of what lay beyond it, but Alexei was closing in.

"Я знаю, что ты сделал, маленький говнюк! Ты думал, что я не узнаю (I know what you did, you little shit! Did you think I wouldn't find out)?"

"We should go. Now."

Ilya turned the door handle with his right hand, still holding Shane's with the other. The door swung out, revealing a club, completely packed with gyrating bodies, illuminated by black light tiles under the dance floor and prismatic spotlights hidden inside spinning disco balls. They stepped through, and Shane pressed close to Ilya, immediately overwhelmed. The door slammed shut behind them.

"I know, I'm sorry," Ilya yelled, hoping Shane could read his lips since there was no way either of them could hear over the deafening music. The bass reverberated in his rib cage, making his heartbeat feel unsteady and insubstantial in its wake. He could see the emergency exit sign all the way on the other side of the space, the outline of a door just behind it. He pointed it out to Shane, who nodded grimly. Gripping each other's hands like sailors tossed overboard into a violent squall, they stepped onto the dance floor.

The music shifted, becoming more frantic. The crowd compressed around them, unfamiliar hands grabbing at Ilya as he passed. It was all he could do to keep hold of Shane as they ripped at his clothes, his hair, every body they passed a dead-eyed, mindless obstacle. He clutched Shane's arm tighter, and felt his warm hand squeeze like a vice around his waist, the only solid thing amidst the chaos. Ilya had often joked to Svetlana at parties like this that everyone wanted a piece of him, but he'd never felt the literal truth of those words before. They were only halfway through the crush of bodies when he started losing buttons, and then his favorite clubbing shirt was being torn to shreds by hundreds of desperate fingers.

They were running for their lives now, carving a path through the frenzied mob without any regard for politeness or care. Suddenly Ilya could see the light shining around the edges of the swinging door in front of them. He ran faster, pulling Shane with him, grateful for all those years of cardio, until finally they crashed through the swinging door, sprawling in a tangled heap of limbs.

The door vanished behind them, and it was just Ilya and Shane lying on the floor, their heaving breaths and groans of relief the only sounds to be heard. Ilya rolled off of Shane, onto his back, and stared blankly up at the ceiling. Which was… a surprisingly familiar view.

They were in his Moscow apartment.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Shane panted. "This is what your mindscape is like?"

"Believe me, I'm not enjoying it either," Ilya shot back, sitting up against the wall and taking stock of their surroundings. His clothes had changed — he was wearing one of his favorite white t-shirts and black Adidas track pants. The apartment looked about the same as always, stark and modern and just barely on the wrong side of too empty. The sky outside the windows was grey and cloudy. There were no clocks.

"This doesn't seem so bad," Shane said cautiously, having finally caught his breath. He sat up and looked around with interest. "Where are we?"

Ilya looked over at him, and horror struck like a bolt of lightning: the color had gone out of Shane's face. His rosy cheeks, his sparkling brown eyes, his plush pink lips, all washed in greyscale. Dread sinking in his stomach, Ilya took stock of the room again. He remembered the curtains being navy blue, but now they were dark grey. The cabinets, which should have been a caramel toned wood, were light grey. The richly patterned rug, the pile of shoes next to the door, the sofa, the coffee table, were all varying shades of grey.

"My apartment," he said, his lips oddly numb. He blinked, and it seemed to take longer than it should have. His heartbeat sped up, but his breathing slowed down. Shane's face wavered in his field of vision.

"Ilya, are you okay?"

It was a dark, cloudy day. Ilya needed a ray of sunshine.

"My phone," he choked out. "Find…" his voice trailed off. What had he been saying? He had a vague sense that it was important. Someone was shaking his shoulders, but the sensation felt very far away, like it was happening to someone else. The clouds thickened, darkened, the room shifting deeper into shadows. His eyelids were so heavy.

Ilya was distantly aware of his apartment being ransacked, furniture upended, cabinets and drawers thrown open, dishes shattering on the floor. Maybe he was being robbed. Too bad. He'd never really liked the apartment that much, but it would be a headache to find a new place. Someone was yelling, but the words didn't make sense.

"Ilya, I can't — fuck, I'm an idiot."

A very pretty man was rifling through Ilya's pockets. He was crying.

"Не плачь, детка (Don't cry, baby)."

He was pressing something into Ilya's hand. Something small, and metal, with sharp edges.

Ilya's fingers grasped it, and fresh air filled his lungs. His head cleared. A large, warm body was bracketing him against the wall, soft lips brushing his ear, whispering something over and over, like a prayer.

"It's okay, I'm here. I love you. I'm here, Ilya. It's going to be okay. I love you. You're okay."

Ilya looked out the window over Shane's shoulder. The clouds were clearing, revealing blue sky, color bleeding into everything the light touched. He took another deep breath. The door cracked open behind him, and they fell through, onto soft, green grass.

"Thank god," Shane breathed. He was crushing Ilya like a perfectly weighted blanket, calloused thumbs tracing his jawline. Ilya realized he was smiling helplessly up at him. Shane leaned down and pressed his lips to Ilya's. Fireworks danced in Ilya's blood as he kissed him back, his hands roaming over his waist, tangling in his soft black hair. His mouth opened, and Shane's tongue invaded it, licking along the back of his teeth, moaning wantonly, grinding against Ilya's hipbone. Ilya flipped them easily and raised himself up on his forearms to get a good look at Shane, pliant and gorgeous, grinning up at him like there was nowhere he'd rather be than here, in this…

Ilya looked up.

… graveyard.

Shane's head turned, following Ilya's gaze. "Oh, shit," he said softly, and scrambled out from under Ilya, awkwardly smoothing his hair.

Ilya sat back on his heels and gazed down at his mother's headstone.

"I never thought I'd get to come back here," he whispered. "When I left, this spring, I knew it was the last time. I made my peace with it."

Shane knelt down next to him and waited quietly, his dark eyes trained on the smooth marble. He reached out one hand and carefully brushed away a smear of dirt, his touch as gentle as it had been on Ilya's face. They sat there for a while. A light breeze ruffled Ilya's hair. Birds chirped in the tree branches.

Nothing happened.

"I don't get it," Ilya finally said. "What's the test?"

"Maybe there isn't one," Shane suggested. "Maybe… you made it through the gauntlet. Maybe this is the eye of the storm."

Ilya scoffed.

"That doesn't sound like my brain. No, I'm sure we're missing something. Grigori is clawing his way out of his grave as we speak, and we'll have to kill him again."

Shane hummed thoughtfully, his gaze still locked on the headstone, poring over the Cyrillic letters.

"What was her name?"

"Irina."

"Is it okay if… I talk to her?"

Ilya didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded.

Shane cleared his throat and scooted forwards, resting his hands in his lap.

"Hi, Irina. I'm Shane. I don't know much about you, and I'm not sure how much you know about me. But… I wanted to tell you that your son… has grown into a wonderful man."

Ilya started to cry. Shane didn't seem to notice. His eyes were closed, a small smile playing on his lips as he spoke.

"He's beautiful, like you, and strong, and he's really fucking good at hockey. He's the life of every party, and his team would gladly follow him to hell and back. And…" His throat bobbed, and his voice trembled as he went on, determinedly, "and I love him. More than anything. I know you do too. So, I wanted to introduce myself and…" he took a deep breath, "and promise you, that I'll look after him too." He met Ilya's eyes, addressing him directly for the first time, with a tremulous smile, echoing his own words back at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

A choked sob fell from Ilya's lips. Shane settled into his lap, tucking his chin over Ilya's shoulder, arms tight around him. Ilya hugged him back.

"I swear to god, I've cried more in the past few months than I have the previous twenty years of my life," Shane mumbled against his neck, making Ilya laugh, and then cry even harder. They held each other for a long time, rocking back and forth, whispering nonsense into each other's hair. Gradually, the pain in Ilya's ribs returned, growing sharper as the solid weight of Shane's body lightened.

When Ilya opened his eyes, he was alone in a dark hotel room, gazing at Shane's watery smile through a phone screen.

"Yes," he whispered. "I'll come to the cottage."

June 2017 — Ottawa

"I'll probably head up to the cottage tomorrow," Shane said lightly, one Thursday morning at breakfast. He'd finally gotten the sling off the day before, and the doctor had said everything was looking good. His headaches were better too — he didn't have to avoid sunlight anymore, just make sure he was getting plenty of sleep and try to avoid straining his eyes. It had been over a week since Ilya had agreed to come with him, and Shane was so anxious to just buy him a plane ticket, hop in the car, and go, that he felt like he was crawling out of his skin with anticipation.

His parents exchanged a knowing look.

"Are you sure, honey?" his mom asked, setting down her coffee mug. "That's a lot of driving to do alone. We were thinking we'd probably all go up together, and just drop you off at your place."

"I'll be fine," he promised. "It's only a couple hours — I've done it a hundred times." (And I won't be alone.)

"The doctor said —"

"The doctor said I'm healing well ahead of schedule. I really appreciate you guys letting me stay with you and taking care of me and everything, but… I just need some time by myself. To… reflect." Yeah, that sounded good. Inspiration struck. "Actually, I was thinking of doing kind of a silent meditation retreat."

They shared another look. God, he hated when they did that. His dad spoke this time.

"For how long?"

"I don't know, a week? Maybe two?"

Yuna tsk'ed, softly enough that she probably didn't even realize she was doing it. Shane felt his shoulders crawling up towards his ears, and forced them to relax.

"I just don't know if it's a good idea."

Alright, that was enough. Shane needed to put his foot down.

"Well, I'm a fully grown adult. So."

It sounded whinier than he had hoped, but when his mother met his eyes, he didn't back down. She sighed heavily and went into logistics mode.

"Game seven is tomorrow night, and anyway, everyone drives out to the lake for the weekend. Why don't you go on Monday? Traffic will be lighter, and I'll feel better knowing you waited a full eight weeks."

Eight fucking weeks. Shane wanted to scream. He was so behind on his usual training schedule, he'd have to work twice as hard this summer to catch up — honestly, he shouldn't be taking a break at all, but he never seemed to have any self control when it came to Ilya.

"Monday, then."

Boston

Ilya was holed up at home, practicing his sacred ritual for healing any injury: Waiting It Out. The pain in his ribs was a lot better these days — really, it was almost fine, as long as he didn't move — so he had high hopes for continuing his successful streak. The medics had given him some pain meds, which Ilya had taken home at their insistence and promptly flushed down the toilet. Maybe it was a slight overreaction, but he chose not to examine it too closely. He was fine. He could handle it.

Ottawa

"I knew it!" Yuna crowed as the buzzer blared. Shane sat back on the couch with a groan, his father elbowing him as he laughed,

"She'll never let us forget this one, eh?"

"Not a chance," his mother gloated. "I told you it was Scott Hunter's year!"

"Your witchy magic is undefeated," David admitted, shaking his head. Yuna punched him.

"Stop it with that!"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll cast a spell on you!"

Shane chuckled, but his eyes were glued to his phone.

"Who are you texting?"

"Rozanov." Fuck, why did I say that?

"Really?" Yuna finally took her eyes off the screen to pin Shane with an interrogatory glare. "Why?"

"Well, New York knocked them out of the playoffs," Shane said, keeping his voice light and even. "It was nothing serious, just a chirp."

"Hm."

Seemingly satisfied, his mother turned back to watch the celebration. The pressure was off.

Shane smiled, a little wistful, remembering how it had felt when it was his team out there, bloodied and bruised, holding themselves together with hopes and prayers. They were bringing out the cup, the commissioner shaking Scott Hunter's hand. Shane fancied he could spot his own nameplate on the side as the camera zoomed in on Hunter's victory lap. His parents chatted quietly amongst themselves. Onscreen, the Admirals' family members joined them. Shane couldn't help but notice that Hunter was standing by himself. His parents had passed away when he was young, Shane remembered, and he supposed most of his friends were already on the ice. Still, for a man experiencing the best day of his life, Hunter seemed a little… sad. Something he couldn't name twinged in Shane's chest, small but achingly familiar. He swallowed hard.

Hunter was skating away from the clump of people, scanning the crowd until he seemed to spot whoever he was looking for, gesturing them onto the ice.

Who —

It was a man.

No.

The man was picking his way through the crowd, taking his sweet fucking time. Shane couldn't breathe.

Because it couldn't be — could it? — no, it couldn't be. Of course not.

And yet, Shane felt himself leaning forward in his seat. His heart was in his throat.

Scott Hunter was holding a man's hand and practically dragging him towards center ice.

No way.

Scott Hunter was standing in the center of Madison Square Garden with the Stanley Cup behind him, holding a man's face like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Shane's thumbs moved of their own accord.

Until the last fucking second, Shane was telling himself he wasn't seeing what he thought he was seeing. And then Scott Hunter leaned in and kissed a man on the lips on national television.

Shane's jaw dropped. Tears burned the corners of his eyes. His hearing went fuzzy, the way it sometimes did on planes.

That's an option?

He heard an audible gasp somewhere to his left, but he couldn't bring himself to look. He wasn't sure if he could handle seeing the looks on his parents' faces. Were they confused? Disgusted?

What if they didn't care?

What if they were happy?

Shane turned his head. His parents didn't seem to notice. Yuna's gaze was locked on the TV like she was still trying to make sense of it. Her eyes were wide, a little misty. David's mouth was open, the barest hint of an incredulous smile forming.

They didn't look disgusted.

If Scott Hunter could be brave, maybe he could too.

"Mom, Dad." His voice cracked. This is a terrible idea what are you doing shut the fuck up — "I'm gay."

Chapter End Notes

ummm ngl folks, this one got away from me a bit. i had like 3 versions of the "i'm coming to the cottage" moment outlined but none of them felt right, and then i blinked and it was 1am and i was writing a 1500 word dream sequence. so. i'm sorry and also you're welcome maybe? lol

next up is the cottage! it might be ridiculously long, but i promise it will be the last chapter because i am out of lyrics unless i start using up the second verse, which i was saving for if i decide to write a sequel

as always, pls let me know if any of the translations aren't working or if i've written an egregiously inaccurate hockey error! <3

Chapter 11: like rebel diamonds

Chapter Summary

the cottage (pt 1)

Chapter Notes

yeah, there was no way i could fit everything into one chapter lol i promise i did try

June 2017 — Ottawa

Ilya made his way through the airport at his usual pace, which was to say, just short of a run. He'd pulled his ball cap low over his sunglasses, but hadn't been able to resist wearing one of his sluttiest tank tops. He enjoyed the way Shane's eyes would linger on the muscles of his shoulders, and he was hoping they'd be distracting enough to make him forget to nag him about his ribs. And if his world-renowned arms got him recognized at this random airport in bumfuck Ottawa, well, that was a risk he was willing to take.

Ilya squinted up at the signs hanging overhead, in English and French. Parking lot C was all the way out past departures. With a melodramatic groan to his audience of absolutely no one, he set off.

Parking lot C was completely deserted, which was good, because as soon as Ilya approached the extremely practical, deeply ugly black SUV, Shane was launching himself out of it, slamming the door behind himself, and backing him against the trunk in order to shove his tongue down his throat.

"Fucking — asshole," he panted between hot, open-mouthed kisses. "Hate — you — so — much."

Ilya rolled his hips forward, making Shane whimper and push back to meet him because yes, he was indeed achingly hard.

"Knew it," Ilya murmured into the soft skin behind his ear, licking and nipping at the freckle he found there. Shane moaned, indulging in one more frantic grind before grabbing Ilya's shoulders and straightening his arms to create some distance.

"We can't. Not here."

"But I am all warmed up," Ilya pouted. Shane groaned wholeheartedly and shoved him away so he could open the trunk and throw Ilya's suitcase in.

"Get in the car," he ordered, the bite of his words softened by the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off Ilya's lips. Ilya let a slow, predatory smile unfurl across them. Shane swallowed hard. Ilya got in the car. All thoughts of seduction were temporarily overridden by sheer distaste. He'd been too distracted to realize how bad the car was before, but now that he was sitting in the passenger seat as Shane peeled out of the parking lot at a cool 15 miles per hour, he felt his own lip curl involuntarily.

"What the fuck are you driving, Hollander? A Jeep? You're a millionaire."

Shane's grip tightened on the wheel.

"It's a Land Rover. And it's practical. Good in the snow."

"Is good if you are a dad in the suburbs."

Ilya had meant it as a chirp. But suddenly he was thinking about Shane at 40, still a fucking knockout of course but… softened a little, with age. Two kids and a white picket fence and maybe a dog. Mowing his own lawn, picking on Ilya about loading the dishwasher wrong, never missing a game or recital. Quietly observant, empathetic Shane putting band-aids on skinned knees and helping with math homework, the thoughtful little furrow between his eyebrows…

Something sharp twisted in Ilya's stomach. Shane noticed — of course he fucking noticed, he always noticed — and met his gaze in the rearview mirror.

Hey, where'd you go?

Ilya jerked his eyes back to the road.

"Just… tired. Long flight."

Shane's lips tightened, but he let it go and turned on the radio. Something French. They pulled out of the airport complex and onto the highway. Ilya turned his head away, telling himself he was just admiring the scenery.

"Are you hungry?" Shane finally asked. "It's about a two-hour drive, but we can stop for something if you want."

Ilya saw the offer for what it was — I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. — and his chest tightened. He blamed it on the bruised ribs.

"No, I'm okay."

"I think you're gonna like the cottage. It's relaxing."

"Ah, is that what we are going to do? Relax?" Ilya grinned, playing along, glad to be back in familiar territory. But Shane didn't smile back. Instead, heartbreakingly earnest, he replied,

"I hope so. I would like to… relax with you. For once."

Oh.

Ilya couldn't even pretend to believe it was his ribs this time. He reached over, placed his hand on top of Shane's where it rested on the center console, and squeezed. Shane let out a shaky little breath. Not sure if he'd made his point, Ilya added,

"Thank you for inviting me."

Shane squeezed back.

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me too. But…" Ilya met his eyes again, a peace offering. Also terrified, yes?

Yeah. Me too.

Ilya broke eye contact, lifted Shane's hand to his lips, and held it there for a moment, praying Shane could somehow understand everything he couldn't say out loud. He had never been any good at talking about his feelings. If he was being honest, he had never really been good at feeling his feelings. He didn't know how to tell Shane that he'd wanted this — just this, just them, alone, in the broad daylight — for so long, the yearning had festered into an open wound just behind his left lung, and he'd learned to live with it but he hadn't taken a full breath since Tampa. No, since Vegas. Since Sochi. Since…

Since Saskatchewan.

He didn't know how to tell him that the wound never closed, but if he waited long enough it would scab over, and every time they saw each other the scab burst open and hot, thick blood oozed out, choking his throat, filling his lungs, until the only breaths he could gasp out were stolen from Shane Hollander's soft lips, until a yawning, desperate hunger gurgled in his stomach, only sated by the taste of him, his mouth, his skin, his cock, and when it was over, it was like dying. Every time. The way a rabbit dies, when a hawk gets its claws in it. Quick and easy. Fair and square. The circle of life.

One night was enough to rip off the scab, enough blood to drown his sorrows in. But it would clot, eventually. Two weeks… two weeks was devastating. Irreversible. If he had any self preservation at all, Ilya would have admitted he couldn't handle it. That going back to being enemies — or worse, careful neutrality — would hurt too much. But if Ilya had ever been able to keep a clear head about Shane Hollander, they wouldn't be in this situation to begin with.

"Did anyone recognize you? At the airport or anything?"

"No, no," Ilya assured him, resting their intertwined hands in his own lap. "Not that I noticed."

"Cool." Shane's fingers were drumming on the wheel, like he was trying to control his nerves. Ilya smiled fondly as he went on, "The cottage is super private, so we don't need to worry about anything."

"Not even your parents?"

"No. I told them I was doing a silent retreat, like a meditation thing."

Giddy laughter spilled out of Ilya's mouth before he could stop it.

"What? Does that sound fake?"

"Yes," Ilya snorted, his eyes roving over Shane's serious face. It would if it was anyone but you.

Shane grinned shyly, looking away like he wasn't sure if that was a compliment. It had been.

* * *

Shane felt like he was vibrating with anxious energy as they finally pulled up to the cottage. He couldn't stop looking over at Ilya, trying to gauge his reaction — did he like it? Did he think it was ugly? — but his face was completely impassive, and he couldn't catch his eye. Trying to be useful, Shane grabbed his suitcase out of the trunk and started carrying it into the house.

"I can carry my own bag."

"How are your ribs?"

"Fine. I can take my bag."

Ilya reached for it, but Shane just walked faster, pulling his keys out of his pocket.

"I can't believe you played with those bruised ribs."

"Oh, you can't?"

Shane unlocked the door, turning his face away to hide his grin as he remembered the state of his own ribs the Voyageurs' last playoff run.

"Okay, maybe I can."

And then they were inside and he put Ilya's bag down in the front hall and it suddenly sank in: Holy shit he's here. He's really here. Does he know how much this means to me? Did I tell him I've never brought anyone here before? Oh god what if he hates it?

Ilya walked slowly into the kitchen, his eyes roving over every detail, taking in the view. Shane lingered by the door, still struck by how bizarre it was to see him here, in his space.

"Wow. Your real estate fetish really paid off, huh?"

Shane opened his mouth and nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"I didn't buy this. I had it built."

Ilya turned to face him. God, he looked so unfairly good. His arms were practically glistening in the late-afternoon sun, his hair washed gold, the look on his face somewhere between patronizing and fond.

I remember.

Shane looked away, trying to get ahold of himself. He cut through the kitchen, putting some space between himself and Ilya, hating how shaky and uncertain his voice sounded but unable to stop it.

"I can give you a tour if you'd like, or… I could make us some lunch. There's plenty of food. Also, I bought you Cokes, though the water here is really good. I have my own well. You can see it." He pointed out the window, ending in a weak, "In case you're thirsty."

Ilya stepped closer, Shane's body turning to face him without giving his brain a say in the matter. His eyes fixed themselves on Ilya's lips, and it occurred to him that he might actually die if he didn't kiss him, like, right now. Ilya's hand stroked his cheek, gentle but possessive in the way that always made Shane's knees go wobbly, and then he finally, finally, closed the gap and pressed their lips together. Compared to the kiss in the parking lot, it wasn't quite as desperate — that had been Shane just losing it, too pent up to resist his own animal instincts. This was slower, deeper, more intentional, like they had all the time in the world. For once, they kind of did.

Shane moved backwards, pulling Ilya with him down the step towards the couch. When their lips met again, it felt a little weird, and he realized it was just that neither of them could stop smiling. Ilya's hands slipped under the hem of Shane's shirt, wandering over his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Shane tried to push Ilya down onto the couch without aggravating his ribs, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process, and settled over him, bracing most of his weight on his own arm. The kiss turned more urgent, and then Ilya was pulling back to fumble with Shane's zipper.

"Wait," Shane said quickly, grabbing his wrist. "It's been a while, so I might not last long."

"Yes, same, but we have two weeks." Ilya returned to extricating Shane's dick with even more urgency than before. The friction felt so good, Shane barely absorbed the meaning of his words at first.

"Wait, wait. Same?"

Ilya's hand stilled and he finally looked up at him, exasperated.

What?

You haven't been with anyone else? Since —

No, not since. Have you?

Of course not. But you — you really like sex. And it's been —

Months, yes, I know, so can we fuck now, please?

Shane felt a wild grin take over his own face.

Really?

Shane, did you seriously expect me to go back to fucking random strangers after you told me you loved me and locked me in an orgasm death spiral for an hour?

It wasn't an hour.

We will set stopwatch next time, Ilya promised, starting to push Shane's shorts down his hips. I will do anything if it will make you touch my dick right now. Shane kissed him, grinding down against him, making them both groan.

"Should I show you to your room?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Ilya agreed. Shane grabbed his hand, walking him back through the kitchen, towards the left wing of the house.

"There's two guest rooms downstairs, so plenty to choose from."

"I will need a king-size bed."

Shane turned, meeting his eyes.

They all have a king-size bed.

And a view.

They all have a view.

Hm. And I will need the… what do you call it? An en-suite bathroom.

Well, that might be a problem, Shane thought, trying to keep a straight face.

Oh, why's that?

There's only one with an en-suite, and it's mine.

He took off towards his room, practically dragging Ilya behind him, then paused in the entryway, clasping his hands behind his back.

This is awkward. This room isn't available to the guests.

Ilya mirrored him, so close their chests were nearly touching.

Disappointing.

I'm sorry, sir, we'd really like to accommodate you, but…

Ilya broke character first, sending Shane flying backwards onto the bed with one easy shove, then clambered on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. Shane giggled, struggling uselessly, not really making an effort to fight back.

"Sir, I'm just a bellboy, you can't treat the staff like this!"

Ilya settled on top of him, holding his wrists firmly in place, caging him in. Oh, I think I know how the staff likes to be treated after all these years.

Shane let himself sink into the bed, weightless. Ilya kissed him again, but this time, his lips trailed over his cheek, down his neck. Shane turned his head, his eyes closing automatically, and felt himself starting to drift, but first —

"Wait."

"What?" Ilya sat back, letting Shane out from under him. Shane grabbed the remote for the shades and clicked them on, but as they started to slide down the windows, Ilya took it and turned them off.

"No."

Are you sure? Shane couldn't help but ask as Ilya backed him into the windows, tossing the remote casually onto the bed.

We are in middle of nowhere, yes? No neighbors?

Yeah.

Then I want to fuck you with windows open.

"Okay," Shane breathed out. His eyes closed. The glass was cool against his back, and Ilya's lips were hot and greedy, and he'd been painfully hard since that stupid fucking text at the airport and Ilya was here, at the cottage, pressed against him, kissing him like he needed it to survive, and it was all too much, and somehow still not quite enough. Shane's neck lolled back, and Ilya just grabbed his face and put him where he wanted him, which was so fucking hot it made Shane's knees go too. He dropped like a stone despite Ilya's best efforts to hold him up, yanked his pants down, and — thank fucking god — got his mouth around his cock, as deep as it would go. Ilya gasped, falling forward to prop himself up against the glass, and Shane lost himself to the warm weight on his tongue, the broken sounds coaxed out of Ilya's mouth as he licked and sucked, letting time go blurry and distant. Too soon, Ilya was pulling at his hair, panting,

"Shane, I'm — you have to —"

Shane hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head, taking Ilya deeper, humming to himself with satisfaction.

"Oh fuck Shane I can't — fuckfuckfuck —"

Ilya threw his head back and grabbed at Shane's hair like he couldn't hold himself up otherwise. The sharp, sudden pain made Shane moan, and Ilya came with a grunt, spilling down the back of his throat. When he looked up, Ilya was gazing down at him, awestruck, but he quickly glanced away before Shane caught more than,

You are —

Shane sat on the floor, against the window. Ilya stumbled back until he hit the bed, then laid down, still breathing hard.

"I hate it when you do that," Shane muttered, his voice a little hoarse.

"I'm sorry. Tried to — couldn't —"

"No, not — Ilya, I don't care how fast you come. I think it's hot."

"Then what?" Ilya was still staring at the ceiling.

"This. When you don't look at me on purpose. It feels like… you're shutting me out."

"You think I should look at you every hour of every day?"

"Obviously not. But when… like just now, you started to think 'you are' and then you immediately turned away, like you let something slip."

Ilya sighed heavily. After a minute, he patted the bed next to him.

"Come here."

Shane went, and laid down on his back, sparking flashbacks of their first night, lying in a hotel room bed just like this. He'd been terrified. Of Ilya, of himself, of what it all meant… And now, here they were, seven years later, in his own private sanctuary.

Ilya turned to face him.

Ilya I'm sorry I didn't mean to start a —

I will make you a deal.

What?

For the next two weeks, while we are here, I will… try. To be honest. To not shut you out. But if you hear something that… that you don't like, tell me. And we will talk about it.

Okay. Me too.

Ilya smiled cautiously. Then he scrambled down the bed, finished undoing Shane's zipper, and returned the favor with an enthusiasm bordering on fanatic.

* * *

It was a little later, and they were still just lying in the bed. Ilya had tucked his chin over Shane's shoulder, holding him tight enough that his cock was starting to firm up, but he ignored it. This moment felt too fragile, too precious to ruin. Cuddling, he realized with a start. Had they ever just… cuddled like this before? They were both still mostly clothed, but somehow this felt almost more intimate than sex. Ilya breathed in the clean, fresh smell of Shane's hair, one hand absentmindedly caressing his stomach. After a while, Shane murmured,

"I came out to my parents."

Ух ты (Wow).

"How… did that go?" Ilya asked, trying to be sensitive even though he didn't think Shane would have brought it up this casually if it had gone badly.

"Fine." He shifted in Ilya's arms, settling onto his back and turning his head to face him. I just saw Hunter kissing his boyfriend and I was like, 'fuck it.' You know? I'd been meaning to tell them for a while, anyway. If for no other reason, just to get my mom off my back about Rose.

Ah, yes. Rose Landry. Ilya attempted to suppress his seething jealousy, but judging by Shane's smirk, it wasn't working. The dream daughter-in-law, I'm sure.

Yeah, basically. And I was worried they'd be disappointed that they won't ever get a daughter-in-law. You know, my mom worked so hard to make sure I was accepted, she gave up so much for my career, my future… and I'm an only child. So. I just felt like I was letting them down. They were never pushy about grandkids, but a lot of hockey players start families young — I mean, look at Hayden and Jackie.

How many kids do they have now? Eight?

Four. Shane laughed, smacking him lightly in the chest. And Hayden said he's getting a vasectomy.

We'll see.

Anyway, Shane thought pointedly, although his eyes crinkled with amusement, they were really good about it actually. They asked if I was seeing anyone, and I said no, but —

Ilya's eyes started to drift automatically as he felt the thought forming, but he forced himself to hold Shane's gaze.

You said no?

I — I wanted to talk to you first. Because if I'd said yes, there was a chance they'd bring up your name, just as a joke — I had mentioned I had texted you a couple minutes before, so they might have — you know I don't have a poker face, especially with them.

I understand, Ilya assured him, because Shane looked like he was on the verge of tears. I did not want you to hear that. It was… childish. But I promised.

It's not childish. I would be upset too if I heard you say you were single. But we haven't really… talked about it. Like, definitively.

What is there to talk about it? I love you. I am not seeing other people. We cannot be together. Same page, no?

Yeah, I guess… but also… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.

You can think in private. I will not be offended.

No. We made a deal.

Милый (Sweetheart), I didn't mean —

You called me that before. On the phone. Shane's eyes flashed with sudden curiosity, completely derailed from whatever he'd been about to say. What does it mean?

Oh. Ilya really hoped he wasn't blushing. Is… not nickname, but…

Pet name?

Yes. Like, sweetheart. Honey.

Shane beamed at him. Helpless, Ilya smiled back. He didn't hear words so much as he experienced a wave of emotion — fondness, adoration, love. His mouth went dry, his eyes suspiciously damp. Shane wasn't done.

Your brother called you Ilyusha. In that memory. Is that, like, a Russian nickname too?

So many questions today. Yes, like… Ilya searched for the word and came up empty.

A diminutive?

I think so. He never really called me… he was trying to be cruel, that day. But my mother did. And Sveta.

Could I?

Ilya's stomach did a fucking loop-de-loop.

Yes, he barely managed. I… I would like that.

Good, Shane said. Then… I think I just… need a label. Or something. Like, what does that make us?

I… have not been a very good boyfriend. Historically.

Well, that makes two of us.

But I think I would like to try.

Me too. Shane's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. And I know it doesn't really matter because we can't tell anyone anyway but —

Ilya kissed him, messy and open-mouthed, then traced a path across his cheek, along his jawline, his neck, his ear.

"Of course it matters," he whispered; then, cheating a bit because he felt like he'd already ripped his own heart out through his throat today, "Это важно, потому что это ты (It matters because it's you)." Shane was too far gone to care, already throwing his head back to allow Ilya better access to the smooth column of his throat, yanking at the hem of his tank top, pushing it up until it stopped at his armpits, then whining until Ilya pulled back far enough to remove it the rest of the way. He tossed it onto the bed behind them and started unbuttoning Shane's shirt, then pulled his boxers down to his ankles, laving over each inch of newly exposed skin with his tongue. He'd gotten a little carried away by the time he reached his stomach, sucking at a spot just inside his hipbone almost hard enough to —

"Harder," Shane panted. Ilya looked up at him to see him gazing down, eyes dark and half-lidded. I want to see it later.

Ебать (Fuck).

Ilya turned his eyes back to his task, licking and sucking until the skin was red and irritated, ending with a delicate nip that made Shane gasp. Ilya pulled away and admired his handiwork, a quickly darkening bruise in the exact shape of his mouth. The sight made him a little dizzy. He ducked back down and licked it, whispering,

"Mine."

"Yours," Shane breathed. Ilya's eyes lifted of their own accord, caught in Shane's magnetic pull.

All of this. For two weeks. Is mine.

Forever, Shane thought back immediately. Forever if you ask.

The intensity of his gaze was too much, and Ilya buried his face in the hinge of his thigh. Shane's hands tangled in his hair demandingly.

"Fuck me. Please."

"Да, милая. Что угодно (Yes, sweetheart. Anything)."

* * *

Shane insisted on lighting the firepit to end their first night at the cottage.

"It's like a ritual. I do it every year," he told a deeply unimpressed Ilya as they sat on the patio towards the end of dusk.

"So we just sit here and look at it?"

"Yes, we just sit here and look at it."

Ilya gazed into the flames, but Shane caught the face he made out of the corner of his eye.

"Canada is fun."

"Shut up." He grinned fondly. His phone buzzed.

Rose Landry

Rose: what are you two doing next wednesday???

Shane: Nothing, why?

Rose: dw about it :)

Rose: percolating

Shane shook his head and put it away. Ilya's scowl deepened from exaggerated boredom to genuine displeasure. Shane turned to meet his eyes.

It was just Rose.

Just Rose?

Yeah, she was just checking in. You're not jealous, are you?

No. Maybe.

Ilya, I'm gay.

You're not so gay you can't fuck Rose Landry.

"Oh my god." Shane laughed, shaking his head as they both turned back to the fire. "We didn't even get that far. And the stuff we did do was… not worth writing home about. Trust me, you have zero competition."

Ilya huffed disbelievingly, but he was starting to smile when the sound of a nearby loon call made him nearly jump out of his own skin.

"What the fuck was that?"

"A loon?"

Ilya glared at Shane like he thought he was lying.

A what?

A loon. It's a bird. Shane tried to form an image of a loon in his mind, to show him. Ilya squinted, only somewhat mollified.

Sounds like a fucking wolf.

It's a bird. Trust me. Can you see it?

Looks like a weird duck.

Exactly. Nothing to be scared of.

Ilya looked around like he was worried one would swoop down at any moment.

"What kind of a duck makes a noise like that?"

"It's not a duck, Ilya, it's a loon." Shane snorted with laughter. "A fucking wolf?"

"Stupid Canadian wolf bird," Ilya muttered, crossing his arms.

Shane cupped his hands and tried out one of the loon calls his dad had taught him, wondering if he could scare it off.

"Oh, so now you speak bird too?" Ilya sounded a little impressed despite himself. Shane preened.

"Fluent."

"I hate you."

Shane met his eyes. No you don't.

No I don't.

* * *

They sat by the fire for a long time, well past dark. Somehow, Ilya found himself curling up on the bench with his head on Shane's muscled thighs, his capable fingers playing with his hair, scratching his scalp. Shane's other hand rested lightly on Ilya's waist, holding him in a way that felt grounding, but not possessive. His own arms were clasped against his chest, one hand over his own shoulder, almost embracing himself. Ilya gazed into the crackling flames, and instead of the warm, woodsy scent of the firepit, his nose was filled with the smell of the burning plastic of his mother's tapes.

They still hadn't talked about the FaceTime call where Ilya had accidentally briefly imprisoned them both inside his own brain. Ilya knew he needed to address it — and there would probably never be a better time than right now — but he just had no idea how to start. He didn't like talking about his family, or his past. Honestly, he didn't even like thinking about it. He'd spent years trying to distance himself from the scared, sad, weak little boy he had been, all the ways he had failed. He hadn't saved his mother. He hadn't stood up to his father. He'd never been able to find common ground with Alexei — the closest they'd ever gotten had been one conversation, with a signed lease sitting on the coffee table between them.

"Спасибо (Thank you)," Alexei had said, quietly, not making eye contact. "Это... Я не (This is... I do not)..." He had cleared his throat, shuffling uncomfortably on his feet. "Жизнь не всегда справедлива. Надеюсь... Надеюсь, Америка лучше для тебя. Может быть, это к лучшему (Life is not always fair. I hope... I hope America is better for you. Maybe it is for the best)."

Ilya had nodded, unsure how to even take that.

"Анастасия заслуживает лучшего отца, чем был у нас. (Anastasia deserves a better father than we had)," he'd said finally. "Я думаю, ты можешь быть таким (I think you have it in you to be that)."

It was a low bar, but Alexei had hugged him anyway.

They hadn't spoken since. Ilya wasn't sure if they ever would again. He also wasn't sure how he felt about that. Experimentally, he prodded at his own emotions until something twinged. Anger. No surprise there.

"I never apologized," he tried, his voice rough from smoke and disuse.

Shane's hand stilled, briefly, then resumed its slow movement over his scalp. "For what?"

"The other night. When we got… stuck."

"You didn't need to."

"I did though. I dragged you through… my own shit. And I never explained any of it."

"Do you… want to? Explain it?"

"I don't know," Ilya said honestly. "Maybe. But… I don't know where to start. If you have questions, I will answer."

Shane took a minute to think it over.

"Can I… ask about your mom?"

"What do you want to know?"

"How did she die?"

"By accident." Ilya felt the corner of his mouth twitch in a mocking smile as he repeated his father's words. The story he'd drilled into him over and over, through any means necessary. "She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," Ilya said after a moment. Then, quieter, "I found her."

Other than a soft inhale of breath, and the way his fingers curled around Ilya's on his shoulder, Shane didn't react. Shakily, Ilya went on,

"I don't want you to think she was weak."

"I don't."

"She wasn't. She was so funny and beautiful. But she was so sad. And my dad was so hard on her. And…" Ilya's voice cracked, and before he found the words to continue, another goddamn wolf bird call split the sky, making him startle. "Motherfucker."

Shane chuckled lightly as Ilya readjusted himself until he was lying mostly on his back, and they could look at each other properly.

Do you want to go inside? Shane asked gently.

No. Ilya took a deep breath. I need to tell you. About… what you saw… at my apartment. My mother… when it got bad, she was like that. Like the color went out of her life. I did not understand, then. Now… sometimes… I do. And it… if we are…

Ilya, close your eyes.

He did.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to tell me anything you're not ready to share."

"I don't," Ilya assured him. "It is… a relief. To not have to say it aloud." He opened his eyes again. I did not mean for you to see that. Any of it. I thought if you knew…

That I'd run?

Yes.

Shane looked away. His jaw worked, and his teeth sank into his bottom lip. When he met Ilya's eyes again, he thought,

You really think so little of me?

What?

Even after everything we went through to get here, you thought I would leave if things got hard? If you were… vulnerable? You thought I was the kind of person who would do that?

Shane was… mad. Ilya blinked. His entire world reoriented itself.

For as long as they'd known each other, Ilya had only been certain about two things: 1. He was irrevocably in love with Shane Hollander, and 2. He would absolutely never be worthy of him. He'd been willing to live with that, to do anything, anything to make it up to him, to keep all his fuckups under control, to not burden him with how broken he really was. But suddenly, he realized he had never given Shane the chance to prove him wrong.

It had never occurred to him before that maybe Shane had wanted to be given the chance to prove him wrong.

You did, his stupid, petty, childish brain said anyway. The first time you came to my house. You saw me. And you left.

Ilya, I didn't leave because of anything I saw in your head.

Then why —

Because I was terrified! I'd been telling myself for years that we weren't anything serious, and suddenly the entire basis of our relationship flipped on its head, and… and I — I was on the verge of a panic attack the whole afternoon, but having it confirmed that you — that we — I had a fucking breakdown when I got back to the hotel. Okay? I cried until I passed out. And then I tried as hard as I fucking could to convince myself that I could be normal, that I could love anyone who wasn't you, and I couldn't, and I came crawling back after like three horrible months. So if you want to hold that against me, I guess I can't blame you, but I swear to god Ilya, I meant everything I said in that graveyard. I don't care if it wasn't real, it was real to me and I wouldn't make a promise like that if I didn't intend to keep it.

Ilya didn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he surged out of Shane's lap and crashed their lips together. Shane's mouth opened on a surprised gasp, but he kissed him back just as eagerly, supporting Ilya's head so he didn't have to entirely hold himself up with his core. Ilya let himself relax into the familiar slide of their tongues against each other for one glorious moment before pulling away. Shane's eyes fluttered open, already hazy, pupils blown wide.

I am ready to go inside now.

A slow, cautious smile bloomed at the corners of Shane's lips as he asked,

Are we good?

The best.

* * *

For Shane, the first few days at the cottage usually felt a little bit like a dream. After a full season surrounded by people who exhausted him at their best and actively pissed him off at their worst, constantly on the road, sometimes barely seeing nature for days at a time, coming home to his own quiet, peaceful space, purpose-built for everything he needed, took some adjusting to. He didn't set an alarm, for one — he woke up with the sun streaming in through the windows. He took his morning jog around the hiking trails instead of the city blocks near his apartment. He didn't force himself to go out or "be social" if he didn't feel like it, so sometimes he'd spend a full day without saying a word.

Ilya, as he did with everything, threw all of that into chaos. Shane woke every morning to the solid weight of his body, or the silky heat of his mouth, if Ilya was already up. His morning exercise was sometimes a jog, but more frequently it was the ridiculously acrobatic sex Ilya somehow inspired — in the shower, the kitchen, over the pool table, and a failed attempt in the hot tub in which Shane had accidentally waterboarded himself and it had still, somehow, been kind of hot. Ilya didn't pressure him to speak aloud when he wasn't up to it, but they both got used to casually exchanging passing thoughts whenever their eyes met.

This blanket is kind of scratchy.

I think I'll make eggs later.

Am I dehydrated?

Damn, I forgot to unload the dishwasher before I left.

Every previous year, no matter how fresh and exciting the cottage was at first, he always settled in eventually. By day three, it was just the new normal. But this year, that moment never seemed to come. On Friday, he woke up to Ilya's morning erection digging into his hip and he still felt the same sense of joy and wonder he'd faced every morning, all week.

He's still here.

Feeling like a creep, but not caring enough to stop, Shane let himself drink in the exquisite, miraculous sight of Ilya Rozanov, fast asleep in his bed, completely naked. He was lying on his stomach, half on top of Shane, his left leg tangled with Shane's right. His other leg was sprawled carelessly in the opposite direction, toes nearly poking over the edge of the mattress. The usual mischievous quirk of his mouth was softened by sleep, his eyebrows twitching slightly when Shane traced the line of muscle down his arm with one gentle finger, but he didn't wake up. Shane's other arm snaked around his head so he could run his fingers through the light-brown curls strewn across the pillow. Finally, Ilya's pretty blue eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning," Shane murmured.

"Morning," Ilya mumbled back, "I love you."

"I love you too."

Ilya leaned in and Shane kissed him back, even though it was so fucking gross that neither of them had brushed their teeth yet, and they made out for a while and jerked each other off and fell back asleep and didn't get out of bed until well after 9.

By the time Shane padded into the kitchen in his sleep shorts and Ilya's t-shirt to portion out some overnight oats for breakfast, the sun was high in the sky and his phone had been buzzing uselessly on the counter on and off all morning. He winced, scrolling through the notifications.

Rose was calling again. Shane picked up this time.

"Jesus, what?"

"Asshole," she huffed, but the beaming smile on her face betrayed her. "How's the honeymoon? Christened every room of your sex mansion yet?"

Shane hung up.

Ilya drifted up behind him in a towel, pressing his damp chest to Shane's back.

"Maybe I have not been fair to Rose Landry," he mumbled. "Clearly she has very… ah, discerning mind."

"Shut up."

Rose called back. He picked up again. Ilya lingered over Shane's shoulder, wrapping himself possessively around him. If he was trying to scare her off, it didn't work.

"Ilya!" she said excitedly. "Perfect! I was hoping to catch both of you. Listen, I'm throwing a party. In Vegas. Next Wednesday. And you're invited."

"What? Why?" Shane asked suspiciously.

"Well, I'm in town for a film festival. Thought it might be fun."

"Wait." Ilya's eyes narrowed. "Next Wednesday… what date is that?"

Rose's smile was positively angelic.

"June 21st."

Familiarity wiggled vaguely in the back of Shane's brain, but Ilya got there first.

"The NHL awards are that night."

"Oh, are they? What a coincidence."

Shane's jaw dropped.

"Rose…"

"Shane…"

"We will be there."

"Ilya!"

Ilya shrugged, wandering over to the fridge like the matter was settled.

"Is good idea. I will fly to Boston on Tuesday, pick up Svetlana, we fly separately to Vegas, attend stupid award show, we are seen together at Rose Landry's afterparty, then come back to cottage. I was thinking about going anyway. Wanted to… show support. To Hunter."

Shane's head was spinning. "You hate him."

Ilya waved his hand airily, digging through the fruit drawer. "I can hate and respect him at the same time. You should know."

"Sweet!" Rose chirped. "I'll send you the address."

"Wait, I —"

"You don't have to stay long. But you told me you didn't have enough excuses to be seen together in public, casually. So… I thought of one."

"Rose, you… you didn't have to do this."

"What are friends for?" she said lightly. "Anyway, it's mostly a ploy to get Ilya to bring Svetlana. I am dying to meet her."

Before Shane had finished stuttering out his thanks, Rose hung up. He turned to Ilya, eyes wide with panic.

Are you sure this is a good idea?

Not entirely, Ilya thought back, casually chomping on an apple like a fucking horse, which was, incredibly, still hot. But is a little more elegant than lunch, no?

Fuck. You mean…?

Phase two. We have laid groundwork. Now… we walk. See if ground will hold us.

Shane swallowed hard.

My team will be pissed.

Why? No straight man could pass up chance to party with Rose Landry. I will bring Sveta, you bring Pike and Boiziau and take picture with Rose, no one thinks twice. If anyone asks… beef is squashed.

Shane stared down at his phone as Rose sent him the information.

"This could actually work."

"Of course it will work. I am genius." Ilya finished the apple and tossed the core into the trash.

"I think Rose is the genius, actually."

Ilya made a face. "Semantics."

"How the fuck do you know that word?" Shane laughed, pulling out a saucepan to warm up the oatmeal.

"I read!" Ilya shot back, and snapped him with the end of his towel.

* * *

That afternoon, to no one's surprise, they found themselves back in Shane's practice rink. (Because of fucking course Shane Hollander had his own private practice rink.)

Какой это, к чёрту, коттедж? ("Cottage" my ass.)

"It's not real ice, obviously," Shane had said the first time he'd shown it to Ilya, "but it's good enough to practice shooting on. I have a couple old pairs of skates I keep up here so I don't ruin my nice ones."

Ilya had opened his mouth to make a comment about how his feet wouldn't fit in Shane's skates. Then Shane had opened a large cabinet to reveal three pairs, one of which looked exactly Ilya's size, and the chirp had died in his throat. Since then, they'd spent at least an hour a day passing the puck back and forth, relying on muscle memory while they chatted idly.

"Svetlana's excited about the party," Ilya said casually. "Although I think mostly she just wants to meet Rose Landry."

Shane let out a deeply insincere huff of laughter.

"I am too," he said, after a minute. "Just… not sure how my team is gonna take it, once it gets out that we were hanging out in public without kicking each other's asses."

"You're the captain. What you say goes."

Shane snorted at that. His next pass had a bit of a spin — Ilya had to lunge to catch it.

"Sure."

"You know your rookies worship the ground you walk on, right?" he tried.

"They're good kids."

Fuck. Okay. Here goes nothing.

"They were devastated when you… got hurt. The only reason I was able to play that game instead of getting myself ejected on the spot was because they told me you were awake, and they'd heard you talking to the medics."

Shane's entire frame stiffened, his posture snapping into a shape Ilya had only seen before on department store mannequins and military recruitment posters. The thought came out quiet, carefully restrained, his eyes pinning Ilya to the spot.

What did I say?

Just… that you were fine. And, uh, my name.

Rozanov?

The other one.

Fuck.

But they were okay with it! They said they knew we were friends, and they didn't mind. And they promised they wouldn't tell anyone. I only bring it up because you deserve to know, and… they also said some of the guys were… giving you a hard time.

Shane turned away, starting to hyperventilate, and fumbled for the boards.

"No no no детка (baby) is okay, everything's okay, I didn't —" Ilya dropped his stick and launched himself across the slippery plastic, crushing Shane against the boards, holding him tightly with his left arm and stroking the back of his neck with his right. The pressure was hell on his ribs, but he could feel how badly Shane needed it when his face dropped limply into Ilya's shoulder, nuzzling against his neck. "Shhhh it's okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I should not have brought it up. Don't panic."

"Too late," Shane mumbled. His heart was still pounding against Ilya's chest, but his breathing was gradually evening out.

Ilya carefully eased Shane's stick free from his deathly tight grip and propped it up against the boards, then shuffled them towards the gate, murmuring comforting nonsense under his breath. By the time they made it to the bench, Shane had recovered enough to wheeze out,

"Sorry. I'm fine."

"Maybe it was bad timing. But I thought you would want to know."

"No, Ilya, thank you. I — I did need to know, before I see them again. Better to freak out about it now than in front of the whole team."

"I really don't think they… were suspicious, or anything. Probably it will not come up."

Finally pulling away, Shane nodded dully, leaned back against the wall, and scrubbed his hands over his face.

"They told you the old guard was giving me a hard time? About us being friends?"

"Nothing specific. But I didn't realize Comeau was not the only one."

"No." Shane sighed, gazing off into the middle distance. "He's not. He's the ringleader, though. Drapeau's his right hand fucking lackey, and a lot of the others will just fall in line, on some bullshit about tradition."

"How many?"

Shane bit his lip.

"JJ and Hayden are solid. I'm not worried about the rookies, but… if it comes down to it, they'll go along with the crowd. And the rest… I don't know." He met Ilya's eyes. What about your room?

They don't give a shit, Ilya replied honestly. I could walk into the rink tomorrow and tell them we're getting matching tattoos and half of them would get the same one as a bit.

That's good. And… the other part of it?

I… Ilya felt his molars sink into the meat of the inside of his cheeks as he considered, constructing the thought carefully. That would be… harder to accept. I think… I think most of them would not mind, if they knew I am… not straight. But I'm not sure. I — I can't say for sure.

Shane nodded grimly, like he'd expected worse.

"I've thought about coming out to them," he whispered, staring at his own hands in his lap, picking at his cuticles. "So many times. They're my brothers, y'know? And — and we've been through so much together. We've won two cups together, spilled blood, sweat, and tears together. But I just…" He shook his head, suddenly looking much older than his 26 years. "I just don't know."

"We don't have to go to the party if you don't want to," Ilya said quietly. "If you're not ready —"

"I'll never be ready." Shane's eyes snapped up, his face settling into captain mode — a kind of calm certainty that took Ilya's breath away every time. But it won't get any easier. I can't keep pretending to hate you, Ilyusha.

Ilya's brain went completely haywire. He blinked dumbly for a long second, trying to get his higher cognitive function back online, but the only thing his mind seemed interested in doing was repeating the way his name had sounded in Shane's voice beamed directly into his head, over and over on a loop.

Ilya? Shane's hands were warm on his left shoulder and right cheek. Ilya, come back. Did I say it wrong?

No, Ilya managed, his internal voice sounding like it was being projected from a very deep well. You said it perfectly.

Shane rewarded him with a shyly pleased smile that Ilya couldn't resist kissing, and they tabled the discussion for a while.

* * *

It rained on Saturday, so instead of going out on the jet-skis, which Ilya had been enthusiastically campaigning for all week, they curled up on the couch to play NHL 16. After a spirited debate about whether or not they were allowed to play as themselves (Shane thought it only made sense; Ilya thought it was boring), they decided to just choose each other, and were finally starting their first actual game when Shane's phone buzzed. He grabbed it to check the caller ID, making Ilya groan.

"It's Hayden," he explained, "He just had a baby, and I've been dodging his calls all week."

"Fine," Ilya said with a dramatic pout. Shane accepted the call.

"Hey buddy, how's it going?"

Hayden had just launched into a lengthy rent about Shane avoiding him when Ilya's chin settled on Shane's knee. He looked down.

What are you doing?

Ilya's hand massaged Shane's inner thigh, tracing a clear path towards his crotch.

I think you know.

Hayden had paused. Shane needed to say something.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. You know the service is terrible out here."

Ilya's hand was still moving.

Stop that!

Ilya's eyebrows raised as he deliberately glanced over at Shane's dick, unmistakably firming up with interest, then back up.

I don't think is what you want.

I'm literally on the phone. Don't — you can't touch me like that while I'm on the phone, Ilya! That's gross!

Fine. Ilya settled back on his heels, a smug smile spreading over his face, and arranged himself on the other end of the couch. Shane watched him suspiciously, making appropriately sympathetic noises as Hayden complained about how the hospital had been so noisy, Jackie hadn't slept for two days. Then, suddenly, a memory surrounded him — Shane, on his knees, gazing up at Ilya, pupils blown black with desire. Ilya's fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back to feed his cock through wet, pink lips. Shane groaned around the intrusion, sending vibrations rocketing through Ilya's nervous system.

"So we finally get the baby home, and of course my mother's on our asses about coming to stay, and I told her Jackie needed to rest, but she —"

Fuck. Shane was fully hard. He glared at Ilya, who was lounging innocently on the couch, his hands politely in his own lap.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Just look away.

Shane couldn't. Because that would be admitting defeat. The moments washed over him, memories and fantasies swirling together until they were indistinguishable from reality, overwhelming his senses.

"Actually, that reminds me, my cousin Mark — do you remember my cousin?" Ilya's hand, rough and sure on Shane's dick under a restaurant table, playing with him while he laughed effortlessly along with something being said across the booth. "The one whose wife had twins last year?" Shane squirmed helplessly in his shorts, breathing hard. Shane's face, dripping with Ilya's cum. "He got a job in Montreal, so I told him we'd show him around a bit." Ilya's smile was slow, almost predatory, as he watched Shane struggle. He wouldn't touch himself — he wouldn't —

"That should be fun," he heard himself say, distantly. Oh god, if he ground back against the couch, maybe he could — Ilya stretching him open with three fingers, scissoring, finding the perfect spot with unerring precision. Shane whined, pushing back against him, always so desperate, so greedy — "Oh fuck."

"You good, man?"

"Yeah, sorry, just, uh — got a text from my mom."

"Another brand deal?" Hayden asked sympathetically. "I know you hate those fucking photoshoots."

Shane's laugh came out a little breathy. The tip of his dick caught on the growing wet patch in his underwear with every slight movement, tantalizing but not quite enough —

Could you come, just from this? Ilya's voice sounded wrecked even in Shane's mind. He shook his head, unable to form words. I think you can. Do you need a little more?

"Anyway, my cousin —"

Ilya, burying himself in the tight heat of Shane's ass, bottoming out, filling him up so perfectly, just the right side of too much. Shane groaned, fucking himself back on Ilya's cock like a good little slut —

"SorryHaydsIgottagothere'ssomeoneatthedoorgivemybesttoJackieandthekids —"

Shane hung up and practically flung the phone away as he came with a moan, his hips bucking helplessly against nothing. Ilya was on him in an instant, his mouth hot and greedy on Shane's, his tongue licking into him. Shane ground against him, deliriously grateful for the friction, working himself through it with a stuttered gasp. When the last of the aftershocks finally petered out, he slumped against the couch, the muscles in his stomach too exhausted to hold himself up.

"Fuck you, you asshole," he gasped, shoving Ilya out of his lap. Ilya let himself fall back onto the couch with a delighted laugh, breathing hard like he'd run a mile, with a matching wet spot on the crotch of his own shorts. "Why was that so hot?"

"Because you like to be bad," Ilya teased.

Shane looked over at him with a helplessly fond smile.

Only with you.

Chapter 12: cut out of the sun

Chapter Summary

the cottage (pt 2)

Chapter Notes

June 2017 — Lanaudiére

Sunday dawned bright and clear, so they spent the morning out on the lake, fucking around on the jet-skis until Ilya nearly drowned them both and Shane revoked his water vehicle privileges, then racing each other back and forth from the dock to a nearby buoy marking the property boundary. When they finally tired themselves out, they stretched out on loungers on the dock, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. Shane had insisted Ilya put on sunscreen first; he hadn't put up too much of a fight, and had been rewarded by Shane's careful hands spreading the cool substance all over his arms and legs, then his back and shoulders, and lastly, lingeringly, his chest.

"You missed a spot," Ilya had said cheekily, pushing his swim shorts down his hips. "I always sunbathe naked, so my tan is even."

Shane had rolled his eyes, but diligently massaged sunscreen into his ass, kneading the firm muscle with a professional interest, then taken his cock in one slick hand, teasing him mercilessly until Ilya was nearly in tears, threatening to apply his own sunscreen next time.

After all that, Ilya was grateful to just doze off in his lounger, under the bright blue sky, with Shane drowsy and complacent right next to him. The gentle lapping of the water, the rustle of the wind in the trees, the periodic chirping of the birds, all functioned like instruments in a lullaby, pulling him under the surface. For a moment, as he felt consciousness starting to slip away, he thought he heard something else — a low buzzing coming from the table next to the grill, where Shane had left his phone so it wouldn't get wet.

It was probably nothing.

* * *

Shane woke up to see Ilya leaning over him, fiddling with the strings of his swim shorts.

"You're blocking my sun," he complained. Ilya startled, then pouted when Shane knocked his hand away. What time is it?

I have no idea. Ilya stretched out on the too-small chair, mostly on top of Shane, pressing his lips to his shoulder.

"Ew, you're all sticky."

"And whose fault is that?" Ilya teased. Shane tried to shove him away, prompting Ilya to put him in a headlock, so of course Shane had to fight back, and before he knew it they were fully roughhousing on the dock, giggling like nine-year-olds as they tried to shove each other into the water. Shane got him pretty well pinned, his knees planted on either side of his back with one arm twisted behind it, before Ilya finally wheezed,

"Fuck! Okay, you win."

He backed off, ready to gloat, and Ilya flipped them easily, suppressing Shane's protests about unsportsmanlike conduct by shoving his tongue in his mouth. For a little while, Shane enjoyed making out with Ilya more than he was bothered by the tackiness of his skin. But when Ilya started grinding against him with intent, he had to call it.

"I'm serious, you have to go rinse off first. It's so gross."

Ilya rolled away with a put-upon groan, but Shane caught his eye to sweeten the deal.

I'll blow you in the shower.

Immediately, Ilya was ripping his shorts off and booking it back towards the house, Shane following in his wake, laughing loudly. By the time he made it to the doorway of his bedroom, the en-suite bathroom door was open, and Ilya was already under the running water, playing with the shower head to adjust the pressure. Shane was crossing the room to join him when he heard the quiet, unmistakable click of his front door opening. Ilya shut off the water as Shane rushed back to the doorway and stuck his head out to see David Hollander standing in the front hall.

Shane watched, frozen with horror, as his father's shrewd gaze swept over the damning evidence. Two pairs of shoes by the door. Two water bottles on the counter. Two towels thrown over the barstools. Two plates in the sink. He barely recognized his own voice, tight with panic.

"Dad, what are you doing here?"

"I…" David seemed as lost for words as Shane was. "I tried to text — My phone… charger. Broke. I — your mother remembered you have a spare."

"Oh." Shane's head turned instinctively to Ilya, fully naked, soaking wet, standing like a (breathtakingly gorgeous) statue in the doorway to the bathroom. Help?

I don't know how, Ilya thought back frantically.

"Shane, is there… do you have company?"

It was phrased as a question only for the sake of plausible deniability. Shane knew that if he said 'no,' his dad would choose to believe it, would go home with the spare charger and blandly inform his mom that Shane was doing fine if she asked, and never mention it again. He glanced back at Ilya.

What do I say?

Up to you.

Shane's throat worked as he made direct eye contact with his father.

"Yes."

David seemed almost as surprised to have it confirmed as he had been when he'd made the realization himself. For a long moment, father and son just blinked at each other, each struggling to come up with something — anything — else to say. Shane looked back at Ilya, who he was pretty sure wasn't even breathing.

"You've never… brought anyone to your cottage before," David said suddenly. Shane's head whipped back around, and he managed to squeak out,

"Yeah."

His dad nodded. Then, haltingly, he went on,

"Whoever he is, if he means enough to you to be here, he must be important."

The words came easily this time.

"He is."

David nodded again.

"Then… you're welcome to have dinner with us tonight. Both of you. If he's not ready yet, I understand, but your mother and I would love to meet him."

"Thank you," Shane breathed. "Your charger's in the junk drawer."

He didn't move a muscle as his dad rifled through the drawer in question, emerged victorious with a charging cable, and left without any further ado, the front door shutting with a click behind him. It wasn't until Shane heard the rumble of his car pulling out of the driveway that he realized he was shaking.

"Holy fuck. I can't believe I did that."

Ilya approached, hesitantly, like he was trying not to spook him. Sometime in the past few minutes he had mostly toweled off and pulled his shorts back on.

"Shane."

Shane leaned against the doorframe, scrubbing his hands over his face. His legs gave out, and he slid down against the door, pulling his knees up to his chest. His heart was pounding, his head swimming in time with the unsteady rhythm.

"Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck, what was I thinking? Oh my god what the fuck are we gonna do —"

"He does not know anything," Ilya said quietly, stepping closer, "Just tell them we are not ready for dinner. He will understand."

Shane looked up at him, his vision pulling in at the edges, framing Ilya like a portrait.

No, Ilya, I — I want you to meet them. Really. I think about it all the fucking time, like — just having all three of you in the same room, confirming that you all… exist, in the same world. I'm ready. I am. But I don't think they are.

Ilya's eyes were shadowed with concern. He was close enough to touch now — Shane couldn't resist reaching out, wrapping his arms around Ilya's strong legs, grounded by the familiar position. His chin tucked, eyes falling closed as Ilya's hand stroked his hair. Words spilled from his lips, spurred on by panic.

"They don't know you. Not really. They don't — they don't know Ilya. They only know Rozanov, and my mom fucking hates that guy. And I — I want them to love you. I always knew they would, someday, but not yet, and — I just thought we'd have more time."

"Okay." Ilya's voice was still quiet, but with a thread of steel. Shane clung to it like a life raft. "It was open invitation, not formal summons. We do not have to go. Even if we do go, we can tell them we are friends. Good friends, but nothing more. And even if they do find out the truth, even if they are… disappointed, they love you. Yes? They were good about it when you came out?"

"Yeah," Shane whispered. "It's just… this is kind of my actual fucking nightmare."

Ilya's fingers settled under his chin, gently guiding his face up until their eyes met.

Then maybe it's time to wake up, yes?

I'm scared.

Yes, it's scary. But you're brave.

Shane pushed himself up on shaky legs, letting Ilya support his weight as he wrapped his arms around him. The feeling of Ilya's bare skin, still a little damp, against his own, was like a balm, stabilizing his nervous system.

"I love you," he murmured against Ilya's neck. "I'm so glad you're here, Ilyusha."

Ilya made a choked sound and held him tighter. After a long moment, he said,

"Is your decision. There is no wrong choice. What do you want?"

Shane thought about it for a while. Eventually, Ilya let him go, and went back to his shower. Shane rinsed himself off after and got dressed on autopilot. When he returned to the front room, Ilya was lying on the couch, lazily scrolling on his phone.

"I want my parents to get to know you. I want to stop having to lie to them about everything. I want my family to be your family too."

Ilya looked up at him.

Then let's go to dinner.

* * *

Shane got dressed for dinner with all the gravitas of a man about to be shipped off to war. Despite Ilya's best efforts to relax him over the course of the afternoon, he was pacing around the house like a caged lion by 5:30, insisting his parents always ate at 6:00 so they couldn't leave until 5:45, because the drive usually took 10 minutes (sometimes 12) and it would be rude to be more than 5 minutes early, but it would be even ruder to be late, so they had to leave right at 5:45, not a moment before and god fucking forbid a moment after.

"We don't have to do this," Ilya reminded him. Shane's pacing didn't slow, but his jaw set in a determined line.

"Do you want to?"

Я хочу (Do I)?

This whole week (and if he was honest, months further back than that) had been uncharted territory for Ilya, but tonight was by far the most terrifying obstacle. "Meeting the parents." Jesus fuck. He loved Svetlana, and sometimes he'd thought maybe he loved Sasha, when they were young, but he'd grown up knowing Sveta's parents and Sasha's had never found out (thank fucking god). And with all the others… well, he had never been In Love, for one, but also, he just… hadn't been the type. He smoked, and drank, and fucked strangers, and had generally behaved badly enough that it had never occurred to anyone to take him home to their family — and if someone had been stupid enough to offer, Ilya would have bolted.

But Shane had seen the deepest, ugliest, most embarrassing parts of him. Shane had sat with him at his mother's grave and promised her he wasn't going anywhere. Shane pushed him, in every possible way, made him want to skate faster, work harder, be better. And Shane wanted his family to be Ilya's too.

"Yes," Ilya said, "I want to."

"Okay." Shane nodded jerkily, and kept pacing.

They stepped out onto the porch at exactly 5:44. Shane was wearing a nice blue linen button down. Ilya had thrown on one of his favorite Bears t-shirts, figuring that, worst case scenario, at least he could draw most of the fire. Shane eyed the shirt disapprovingly.

"That is not gonna help."

"Oh, they don't know I play for Boston?"

Shane cast his eyes skyward like he was praying for patience and got in the car without further comment.

"I can drive," Ilya offered, opening the passenger door. Shane scoffed.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"I'm a good driver!"

"How many speeding tickets do you have?"

"No comment."

"That's what I thought." Shane glanced at the clock. "5:46. Get in the fucking car or I'm leaving without you."

Ilya got in the car. Shane drove the whole way exactly the speed limit, with white knuckles and so much tension in his arms that Ilya was surprised the wheel didn't snap in half. They made it to his parents' cottage in eleven minutes. Shane parked in the driveway and stared blankly into the middle distance for a moment. Ilya started to get out of the car, but Shane stopped him.

Maybe you should wait in the car. Let me… I dunno, break the news.

You don't want me there? For emotional support?

No, I — I do, I'm just not sure how they'll react.

Whatever happens, we face it together.

Shane turned away and nodded, mostly to himself. His head kept moving, up and down, like a broken bobblehead, until he visibly forced himself to still, opening his own door.

"Last chance to back out," he mumbled, the ghost of a humorless smirk on his lips.

Ilya leaned over and kissed him, just until he could feel Shane start to melt, then whispered against his lips,

"Я тебя люблю (I love you)."

Shane let out a breathy sigh. When Ilya sat back in his seat to look at him properly, some of the color was back in his cheeks, and his eyes were less vacant. He managed a real smile this time.

"Together."

They both got out of the car and Shane headed straight for the front door without even bothering to lock it. He paused on the welcome mat, bouncing lightly on his toes as he waited for Ilya, barely two seconds behind him. The door was unlocked. He knocked once and pushed it open.

"It's me." (Then, apparently worried they wouldn't recognize his voice,) "Shane."

Ilya hesitated in the front hall under the guise of closing the door as Shane walked into the living room. All afternoon, he'd been completely calm, too focused on holding Shane together to actually worry about his own nerves. Now, suddenly, it hit him all at once. The house smelled nice, like all-natural cleaning products and unfamiliar spices, and holy fuck he was here, he was actually here, in Shane Hollander's parents' house and they were here too and holy shit holy shit —

Не блевать. Это было бы очень плохое первое впечатление. Ради бога, не блевай (Don't throw up. That would be a very bad first impression. For the love of god don't throw up), he told himself sternly, but he couldn't seem to swallow around the lump in his throat. Shane was saying something to his parents in the other room. Ilya couldn't make out any of the words over the blood rushing in his ears, until he heard his own name.

"Ilya?"

Shoulders back. Chest straight. Chin down. Smile.

With a heart rate not unsuited to a man walking into a firing squad, Ilya entered the living room.

Yuna and David Hollander were in the kitchen, finishing up a batch of what looked like pasta. David was wearing an apron with "Kiss the Cook" on it. Yuna had been sipping a glass of wine, which slipped free from her lax grip and shattered on the floor as soon as she saw him.

"Um, this is Ilya… Rozanov," Shane was saying weakly. "But you already know that."

Ilya felt like he should say something. He also felt like he should flee the scene and enter witness protection.

"Hi."

David's eyebrows raised in an expression that was significantly less surprised than Ilya had expected. Yuna sat down hard on the floor, heedless of the glass shards, which was more like it. Shane finished his prepared statement as if he hadn't noticed.

"And Dad invited us both to dinner. So. Here we are."

"You invited Ilya Rozanov to dinner?" Yuna turned her shellshocked gaze to David, who raised his hands in surrender.

"Not… on purpose."

"I can go," Ilya offered, already backing towards the hallway, but Shane grabbed his hand and held it fast and David said,

"No, son, we're glad you're here."

"We are??" Yuna demanded. It occurred to everyone at once that she was still sitting on the floor, perilously close to the remnants of her wine glass. David quickly pulled her to her feet, and Shane ran to fetch a dustpan. Ilya just stood there, in the middle of the Hollanders' living room, wanting to die.

"Ilya, can you grab paper towels?" Shane asked quickly, rushing past him with the dust pan. "They're in the linen closet, just behind you."

Eager to be useful, Ilya opened the closet, yanked a roll of paper towels free from the plastic, and stepped into the crowded kitchen. Yuna stood back against the window as David calmly checked the pasta sauce, Shane swept the glass shards, and Ilya wiped up the liquid.

"What — what is this? How long — how did it —"

"He's my boyfriend, Mom," Shane said easily, still absorbed in his task.

"But you… you hate each other. Not so much these days, but… wait, is that when it happened? When he came to the hospital?"

"I think it was All-Stars," David remarked. "You two had so much chemistry."

Shane didn't take his eyes off his work, now meticulously sweeping up crumbs and a single dust bunny.

"It was… before then."

David seemed truly surprised this time, his mouth opening on a silent "wow" as he leaned against the counter.

Ilya tossed the dirty paper towels into the trash, then tugged gently at Shane's elbow to get his attention.

Моя любовь (My love), I think you got it all.

Shane blinked like he was seeing the full dustpan for the first time. Ilya took it, dumping it into the trash and wiping it out with another paper towel for good measure. Shane resumed Yuna's position on the floor, sitting against the counter. Ilya stayed where he was, next to the trashcan.

"So, when?" Yuna prodded. Shane looked up at her.

"Since our rookie season."

"Your rookie season?" she repeated.

"Technically the summer before," Ilya pointed out. Shane shot him a look.

Not helpful.

Sorry.

"So you've been in love since…"

"No, no no," they chorused immediately. Ilya went on,

"Just…"

He looked at Shane for guidance.

Please do not finish that sentence.

"Just what?" his mother pressed, crossing her arms. Ilya winced, keeping his mouth firmly shut. Yuna seemed to get the picture anyway, pressing her hands to her face like she was getting a sinus headache.

"Just what?" David asked, still out of the loop.

"Lovers," Yuna explained with a grimace.

"No, Mom, ew, please don't — don't say that."

Tension built in the room as a long, uncomfortable silence stretched out, broken only by Yuna grabbing the wine bottle off the counter.

"I think we're going to need something stronger."

They reconvened around the kitchen table, David cheerfully announcing the pasta would be ready as soon as it was done simmering. He seemed to be the only one in the room not actively homicidal or suicidal, and Ilya wondered idly what kind of life he'd lived to be taking all of this so well. He caught Shane's eye just long enough to ask,

How do you think this is going so far?

Not too bad, right?

Yeah, not too bad.

David poured them all a generous helping of his "good vodka" (and Ilya was even more impressed with him when he took a sip and it actually was decent) while Yuna glared daggers at Ilya across the table and Shane sank deeper and deeper into his chair like he wanted to disappear.

"Since rookie year," she repeated contemplatively. "And — does anyone know? Your teammates?"

"Rose," Shane said quietly, not making eye contact with anyone. "Not on purpose. Long story. And Ilya's best friend Svetlana. Other than that… no one."

Yuna tilted her head like a dog hearing a whistle.

"Svetlana. Isn't that your ex-girlfriend?"

"No. We have always been friends."

Yuna was not mollified.

"You have quite the reputation as a ladies' man. Was all of that… a performance?"

Ilya's nails bit into his palm. He took another sip of vodka, trying to buy himself time.

"Ilya likes both," Shane said. Yuna didn't seem satisfied by that either. Ilya took a deep breath.

"It's true, I have been with many women. That was not… fake. But… I have only been in love with one person."

Shane's smile lit up his whole face, and suddenly this entire interrogation was worth it.

"Me too." His hand found Ilya's under the table, large and strong and warm. "Just one."

Yuna's eyes softened, just a fraction, and she paused long enough for David to interject,

"You didn't see it, Yuna, in that hospital room. The way they looked at each other… I've never seen Shane look at someone like that before. Hayden and JJ were there that same day, and he was happy to see them, but Rozanov…"

"Ilya."

"Ilya. Sorry. When Ilya walked into that room, it was like nobody else in the world existed. I didn't know what to make of it. Now, I guess, I do."

Yuna ingested that information with a slow nod. Ilya could practically see the gears whirring. Her piercing gaze swung back to her son.

"You didn't ever let him win, did you, Shane?"

Shane was so flabbergasted, he just stared at her for a second.

"Do you let Dad win at cards?" he shot back.

"I'd rather die."

"Same here."

Their eyes locked, and whatever Yuna saw there made her bite her lip and lean back in her chair, relaxing another inch.

"I don't like this," she said frankly. "But you're an adult, and I trust you to make your own decisions. Just… tell me you have a plan."

"We do," Shane said quickly. "Right now we're laying the groundwork, turning down the temperature on the whole 'rivalry' situation, getting people used to us being friendly in public. Next week, at the NHL awards —"

"I thought you weren't going."

"Well, I changed my mind. Rose is throwing a party so we can be seen together, in public, casually. If the world doesn't end, then we can start straight up telling people we're friends now, so we can hang out more often without anyone getting suspicious. And when Ilya's contract is up at the end of next season, he's transferring to Ottawa, and we're going to start doing charity summer camps together —"

"Ottawa?" Yuna's back was up again. Her glare was just as intimidating as it had been the last time. Ilya fought to keep his shoulders from slumping.

"Yes," he replied simply. "We would be closer, and with the charity…"

"And you have no loyalty to Boston?"

Shane rolled his eyes, briefly pulling focus.

"Jesus, Mom."

"What? They drafted him!" Yuna's ire settled back on Ilya. "You would leave Boston for Shane?"

"Yes."

Yuna huffed disapprovingly.

"Mom…"

"Loyalty is important."

"He's trying to be loyal to me, not Boston!" Shane insisted, the closest to yelling he'd been all evening. Something warm and fuzzy blossomed in Ilya's chest. That's for me, he marveled, he's standing up for me.

Yuna was less impressed. She tsk'ed and muttered,

"Well…"

"Dinner should be ready by now," David interrupted, pushing his chair back. "Yuna, can you give me a hand?"

Sorry, Shane thought as his parents bustled around in the kitchen. My mom cares a little too much about hockey.

Now I see where you get it from, Ilya thought back, grinning despite himself. All things considered, this conversation was going a hell of a lot better than he'd imagined. No one was screaming, or throwing things, or even threatening violence. The fact that he hadn't been kicked out of the house yet meant Shane's parents were handling everything with admirable grace.

"I'm sorry, I cut you off," Yuna said through gritted teeth as she reentered the room and set the table, David right behind her with a massive pot of pasta. "You were telling me about the plan. What kind of charity?"

"We… haven't really decided yet," Shane admitted with a sidelong glance at Ilya. Any ideas? Maybe… mental health?

I like that, Ilya thought, deeply inadequately, trying not to cry.

"We still have time to figure out the details," Shane continued, turning back to his mother. "We're not planning to announce it until next year at the very earliest. But once we do, we'll run hockey camps during the summers to fund it."

Yuna seemed reluctantly invested despite herself.

"So you'll just… keep doing this? Keeping your relationship a secret? Until you retire?"

"I mean, yeah, basically."

For the first time, she looked over at Ilya with something other than hatred.

"Are you okay with that?"

Ilya shrugged.

"What else are we supposed to do?"

Everyone was quiet for a minute. Ilya took the opportunity to shovel pasta into his mouth as quickly as possible, before the tentative ceasefire could come crashing down.

"Have you talked to Scott Hunter?" David asked.

"I emailed him," Shane said. "I just, y'know, said I appreciated his bravery, or whatever. I didn't tell him about me. Or about Ilya."

"If I see him in Vegas, I will congratulate him," Ilya added. "Cradle robbing aside, they seem happy."

Shane snorted with almost imperceptible laughter, but Yuna's mouth set into a thin, disapproving line. They lapsed into another uncomfortable silence.

"Were there really no nice men in Montreal?" Yuna finally muttered, clearly attempting to lighten the mood. Ilya chuckled accommodatingly, but Shane didn't even crack a smile.

"I don't know. It wouldn't matter either way."

Fuck, Ilya wanted to lick him.

"Before rookie year," David said wonderingly, with a soft huff of amusement. "None of them would have stood a chance."

* * *

Shane left his parents' cottage with their tacit, if not enthusiastic, approval. More of a peace treaty than anything else, but he'd take it. His dad had actually hugged Ilya goodbye, which had been really sweet (and kind of hilarious to watch), and his mom had shaken his hand politely and thanked him for coming. So. Baby steps.

Still, the whole drive home, Shane could barely restrain himself from looking over at Ilya and grinning. He felt like they'd just pulled off a crazy heist or something. Judging by the wide smile on Ilya's face, he felt the same way. When Shane finally pulled into the driveway of his own cottage, it took a solid thirty seconds before he was able to unclench his hands from the wheel. He slumped back in the driver's seat, nearly speechless with relief.

"It's over," he breathed, because he needed to hear it aloud. "We did it."

Without a moment's hesitation, Ilya unbuckled his own seat belt, leaned over, unbuckled Shane's, and started unbuttoning his shorts.

"What are you —"

"Shhhh. I have been dreaming about this all evening."

Before Shane could protest further, or even really get a handle on what was going on, Ilya had shoved his shorts and boxers out of the way and wrapped his plush lips around his cock. A truly embarrassing whine slipped free from the back of Shane's throat, and his head thunked back against the headrest. Reflexively, his hips tried to buck, but Ilya growled and held him firmly in place. His tongue swirled expertly around the head of his cock, teasing the slit.

"Holy fuck," Shane gasped, "Ilyusha —"

Ilya groaned and hollowed his cheeks, taking him deeper, hot and wet and sloppy and urgent, and Shane had a vague sense that he should be the responsible one here, that they were technically in public and anyone could drive past and catch a glimpse of Boston Bears captain Ilya Rozanov swallowing down Montreal Voyageurs captain Shane Hollander's cock like it was his last meal, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was,

"Please —"

Ilya was relentless, inescapable, his long, agile fingers playing with Shane's balls, teasing the delicate skin behind them, barely restrained by the physical limitations of the car seat from slipping a finger inside him. He bobbed his head, sinking further down until Shane felt himself hit the back of his throat and just keep going. Shane had no control over the sounds coming out of his mouth by this point, breathy moans and whimpers and "please" and "oh fuck" and "oh god" and "Ilya I can't —" and Ilya moaned the way he had the first time they'd ever kissed and Shane was gone. The tension building in his gut snapped, and his vision whited out, and Ilya didn't stop, his throat working frantically, drawing out Shane's release until his limbs were so shaky and weak, it took all his strength to push him away.

"— taste so good," Ilya was mumbling as he started to straighten up, finally letting Shane get a good look at his face, and if he had been physically capable of it, his spent cock would have twitched again at the sight. Ilya's pupils were blown wide, inky black swallowing the blue, his cheeks flushed with satisfaction. He licked his lips like he didn't want to waste a drop, and when he crashed them into Shane's, he could taste himself on his tongue. Shane kissed him back just as desperately, on the verge of tears.

You're perfect. How are you so perfect?

"I am proud of you," Ilya mumbled against his neck when they finally broke apart for air. "I know today was… a lot."

"Light work," Shane replied, with more bravado than he felt. "The real test is on Wednesday."

Ilya nodded, his lips brushing against Shane's shoulder.

"We will be so fucking casual, they will not know what hit them."

Shane's laugh came out a little breathier than he would have liked.

* * *

The plan was simple. Come Tuesday morning, Shane would drive Ilya back to the airport, drop him off in time to catch his flight to Boston, then head back to his parents' house to pack his own bag. His flight to Las Vegas was later in the afternoon, so he had plenty of time to put his car into long term storage ("Three fucking days is not long term, Hollander,") at the airport and confirm for the thousandth time the address of the villa Rose was renting for the week. He would go straight there and spend the day with her, while Ilya picked up Svetlana and his nice clothes and hopped on yet another flight to Vegas Wednesday morning. They would not interact before or during the show ("And that step is non-negotiable, Ilya. It should be a little easier since I'm not staying at the hotel"), and they would head over to Rose's party separately — Shane would leave with JJ and Hayden immediately, while Ilya and Svetlana hung around the bar for a bit. Then, at the party, they would "run into each other" and make sure someone got photo evidence of them being normal. Any questions, Ilya?

Ilya blinked. It was Monday night — they had barely twelve hours to get some rest before they needed to head out to the airport — and Shane had been circling the living room ever since they'd finished washing up after dinner.

"No. No questions."

Shane kept pacing. Ilya wondered offhandedly how many steps he'd gotten in this weekend.

"And Svetlana's on board?"

"She said, and I quote," Ilya picked up his phone to read the messages in an exaggerated monotone, "Holy shit this is diabolical I am obsessed Yuna Hollander would be so proud I am unbelievably down."

"Because this whole thing falls apart if anyone questions how you got the invite, so we're counting on her to cover you with her mysterious rich people connections."

"I know."

"And JJ and Hayden are already suspicious about why I randomly changed my mind when I specifically told them I wasn't going this year."

"I know."

"Did you confirm your hotel reservation is still active?"

"Yes, любовь моя (my love), they told me I never remembered to cancel it in the first place."

"And —"

"Shane!" Ilya grabbed him as he passed by on his next circuit, hauling him bodily onto the couch. Shane's head landed in his lap with a thump, blinking up at Ilya like he had no idea how he'd gotten there. Ilya stroked the firm line of his jaw with the side of his thumb. It will be fine.

Do you ever think about how much easier it would be? If I really was interested in Rose, and you really were dating Svetlana, and we were nothing more than casual acquaintances with a grudging mutual respect for one another?

Sometimes, Ilya admitted, letting his fingers explore the familiar planes of Shane's flushed cheeks, his chin, ruffling his hair. But we have covered this, yes? I do not do things because they are easy. And even if I did… His hand curled around Shane's neck, not applying pressure, but just the suggestion was enough to make his pulse race under Ilya's fingertips. Where would I ever find anyone as easy as you?

I'm not — Shane's eyes were losing focus already, hazy with want. His thoughts ran slow and syrupy. I'm not easy.

Oh yes you are, Ilya practically cooed, holding him steady with one hand under his chin while the other pressed down hard on his dick, my greedy little slut. So desperate for it. You want me to fuck you, детка (baby)? Get you out of your head for a while?

Shane's eyes dropped closed as he whimpered, squirming against the pressure. Ilya curled his fingers in his short black hair and tugged his head back, keeping his voice light.

"Use your words, Shane."

His eyes opened, fixed on Ilya's lips.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Fuck me."

Ilya tilted his head to the side like he was considering it. Shane groaned and took matters into his own hands, untying the drawstring of Ilya's sweatpants and pulling out his quickly hardening cock.

"See, this is what I mean," Ilya went on, doing his best to ignore Shane wriggling onto his stomach to get a better angle. "I barely touched you, and you're fucking starving for it. Who else —" Words escaped him for a moment as he was enveloped in the silky heat of Shane's mouth, but he persevered. "Who else would spend a full week getting fucked in every position we could think of, and still be so desperate" (He punctuated the word with another sharp yank, making Shane moan wantonly) "for more?"

Shane pulled off just enough to mumble indistinctly,

"Yes, Ilyusha, more, please —"

and Ilya lost it. Before he'd even made a conscious decision to move, he was on his feet, pulling Shane up with him, yanking his pants down, bending him over the arm of the couch, and pressing his face into the cushions with one hand on his well-muscled upper back. Shane just let himself be manhandled, already far enough under that it didn't even seem to occur to him to protest. Ilya rummaged around in the side table drawer for the lube packet he'd stashed there earlier, drizzled it liberally onto his fingers, and squirted the rest straight onto his asshole. Shane twitched and gasped at the sensation, but when Ilya started to massage it into the tight ring of muscle, he quickly relaxed, pushing back against Ilya's fingers. Part of Ilya wanted to really take his time, to work Shane open with his tongue until he was shivering and whimpering and begging for it, but his patience was already waning. He didn't want to wait, didn't want to tease him — he needed to be inside him, like, yesterday. So instead, he pushed in with two fingertips, and Shane took them beautifully, letting Ilya's fingers sink in deeper and deeper, twisting and curling to find his prostate. Shane keened, arching his back and shoving his own face further into the couch. Satisfied, Ilya scissored his fingers for one more moment before pulling them out. Shane whined in protest, and Ilya shushed him as he lined himself up and slowly, slowly, thrust in.

Between Shane babbling, "Oh god Ilya just like that, need you deeper please please need you —" and the tight, perfect heat of him, Ilya found himself close to the edge already. They hadn't really been using condoms all week, since cleanup wasn't an issue, but the sensation of being inside Shane without any barrier between them was still novel enough that he had to pause, only a couple inches in, and take some deep breaths. Luckily, he had no plans to drag this out. He folded himself over Shane, pressing as much of their skin together as possible, and got one hand around his cock, stroking him roughly as he finally bottomed out. Shane whimpered, trapped between the dual sensations, his body instinctively pushing and pulling back and forth against Ilya and into his hand.

Ilya pistoned into him, hitting his prostate with every thrust from this angle, hearing his own harsh breaths and grunts echo in the large space, mingling with Shane's moans. Ilya pressed his lips to Shane's shoulderblade, the back of his neck, his ear, anything he could reach. Shane's pleas went from understandable to incoherent to mindless panting and whining, rocking his hips back with enthusiasm, and Ilya was so close, his vision was starting to sparkle and waver as his balls pulled tight.

"Иди за мной, милый (Come for me, sweetheart)," he whispered into Shane's ear, only realizing after the words were out that he hadn't said it in English, but it didn't seem to matter. Shane's rhythm stuttered, and his ass squeezed so tight that Ilya's own orgasm was ripped from him as Shane came with a cry. Together, they slumped over the arm of the couch as Ilya waited for his vision to return.

"Mmm," Shane purred, turning and stretching his neck. "So good. Thank you."

Strength was slowly returning to Ilya's limbs, and he gradually straightened up, his soft cock slipping out. He watched, awestruck, as cum spilled down Shane's muscled thighs. On impulse, he slowed the stream with his fingers, pushing it back up and in.

"Should have brought a plug." His voice sounded hoarse. Shane groaned and somehow went even more boneless, his feet sliding until his knees hit the floor. Ilya followed him down, lapping up the mess. Shane breathed out a long sigh that hitched every time Ilya's tongue touched his smooth skin. When he was done, Ilya grabbed tissues from the coffee table and helped Shane off the armrest so they could wipe up the cum splattered on his stomach and the cushion. Then, finally, they collapsed back onto the clean (enough) couch, which was just barely wide enough for Ilya to lay on his back with Shane on his side against the backrest cushions, running his fingers through Ilya's hair.

Neither of them spoke. There was no need to. They were in perfect sync.

* * *

They left for the airport at 8:17. Shane had been aiming for 8:10, but compromises he blushed to recall had been made in the shower. Ilya chose the music — something pop-y and Spanish that Shane couldn't understand and didn't really "get," but it had a good beat. The drive had never felt shorter. Shane had a sinking sense that one week with Ilya had ruined him forever — the knowledge that he wouldn't see him again until Wednesday night was almost too painful to bear. He had no idea how he was going to survive the regular season.

But that was a problem for later. Shane forced it out of his mind as they pulled up to the "departures" dropoff point, focused on constructing a kiss to send him off with. By the time Ilya met his eyes, his hand on the door handle, he had one ready.

Saskatchewan, 2008. Ilya turned to meet Shane's eyes, his cigarette falling to the ground, and Shane surged forwards, his hands fisting Ilya's jacket, crushing him against the wall. Ilya's mouth fell open in surprise, and Shane's tongue invaded like it belonged there, their lips crashing together, his hands tangling in Ilya's soft curls, Ilya's arms coming up to embrace him.

Ilya's jaw had dropped and his eyes were suspiciously shiny when the car reasserted itself around them.

"I'll see you tomorrow night," Shane said, suddenly shy, and tore his gaze away to focus on the horizon. Ilya cleared his throat, squeezed Shane's hand, and whispered,

"I love you."

Shane was afraid if he opened his mouth or turned his head, he'd do something stupid like beg Ilya not to go, or kiss him for real, passersby be damned. His throat bobbed with the effort of holding back tears, and he kept his eyes firmly fixed straight ahead as he heard the passenger door open and shut, then the trunk. Once the rattle of suitcase wheels on cement had faded, he finally looked, just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of Ilya stepping through the sliding doors.

Ilya was looking back.

I love you too, Shane thought helplessly, and stepped on the gas.

Chapter End Notes

gonna blame the gratuitous back to back sex scenes on being possessed by ilya rozanov himself last night lol i woke up to do final edits and was genuinely surprised with myself

Chapter 13: can you read my mind?

Chapter Summary

vegas again: third time's the charm?

Chapter Notes

June 2017 — Boston

After a week of the peace and quiet at the "cottage," suburban Boston felt like Times Square. There were so many people, Ilya marveled from the back of his limo, so much noise. Dogs barking and children screaming with laughter, a man on a bike obnoxiously blaring music through his shitty Bluetooth speaker. An unfamiliar feeling swelled in Ilya's gut, something he couldn't really put into words — something about all the people around him having their own lives, their own struggles, going home to their own great loves at the end of their ordinary, miraculous days. He wanted to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way home. He wanted to open the skylight and stand straight upright, letting the wind rush in his ears and fuck up his hair. He wanted, he wanted…

He wanted to call Shane and tell him about it.

And, with a jolt, he realized he could.

"Miss me already?" Shane teased, as if he hadn't picked up on the first ring.

The taste of honesty on Ilya's tongue was like honey, or fresh fruit, sweet and natural, and he couldn't get enough of it.

"Always."

"I can't talk long, we're about to board. Are you home yet?"

"Almost. Flight was good. Landed a little early."

"How many people did you have to take pictures with in the airport?"

"Eight. You?"

"Only five, but there's still time."

Ilya couldn't stop smiling.

"I miss you."

"You already said that."

But he could hear the matching smile in Shane's voice.

"Is still true."

"Me too."

"I love you."

"Love you more."

"Impossible." Ilya's smile had stretched so wide, it was actually starting to hurt. He felt giddy, almost drunk. This was the stupidest conversation they'd ever had, and he never wanted it to end.

"Fuck. We're boarding. I have to go," Shane said, with real disappointment. Then, like he couldn't resist, "Don't think I'm letting you win just because I'm hanging up. We'll settle this later."

Ilya made a sound somewhere between a giggle and a sob. "Yes. Later."

Svetlana was waiting in the kitchen when he got home, helping herself to some chips from the pantry.

"Sveta!" Ilya left his suitcase spinning in the front hall as he rushed to embrace her, picking her up and whirling around. She squealed delightedly, hugging him back. When he finally put her down, she squished his cheeks between her hands, evaluating him with a critical eye.

"Расскажи мне все (Tell me everything)."

Ilya didn't even know where to start.

"Я расскажу. Но у нас завтра утром рейс в Las Vegas. Ты готов? Ты собрал вещи (I will. But first, we have a flight to Las Vegas tomorrow morning. Are you ready? Did you pack)?"

"Кто я по-твоему (Who do you take me for)?" she huffed, gesturing expansively to the rhinestone-covered suitcase next to the kitchen island, with two garment bags hanging from the extended handle. "Я был готова через час после того, как вы написали, что получили приглашение на самую горячую вечеринку года, которая, кстати, устраивается в вашу честь, в стиле Great Gatsby (I have been ready since an hour after you texted that you got us an invite to the hottest party of the year — which, by the way, is being thrown in your honor, Great Gatsby style)."

Ilya hadn't read that book in a long time, but his eyes still narrowed thoughtfully.

"Я не думаю, что это правильно (I don't think that's right)."

She scoffed, letting go of his face.

"Я думал, что Shane Hollander наконец-то вразумил тебя (I thought Shane Hollander had finally fucked some whimsy into you)."

Ilya realized he was grinning again. Sveta noticed too.

"Ты краснеешь. Илья Розанов, ты влюблен (You're blushing. Ilya Rozanov, you are in love)!"

"Очень сильно (Extremely)."

Las Vegas

Shane got recognized by four more people in the airport just outside Vegas, but luckily, one of them was Rose's driver, Marcus. On their way to Rose's rental, he learned Marcus had been working for her ever since she'd gotten famous enough that she couldn't take cabs anymore — he was from LA, but seemed happy enough to travel with her entourage wherever she happened to be filming (or, in this case, partying).

"It's a good gig, and of course I signed an iron-clad NDA," he added with a wink, "so I won't go around telling everyone I had The Shane Hollander in my car, even though it's an honor."

"Oh." Shane chuckled uncomfortably. "Don't worry, it's not really a secret. We're just friends."

"No sweat." Marcus winked again, like he and Shane were in on a joke. "So, how do you feel about your chances for MVP tomorrow?"

"It won't be me," Shane said confidently. "I played alright this season, but I got taken out before playoffs. It should be Scott Hunter. Or maybe Rozanov."

Marcus hummed thoughtfully.

"I hope it's Hunter. Balls of steel on that one."

Shane felt his shoulders starting to rise towards his ears, and forced them back down. "For sure."

"How's the league taking it?"

"Guess we'll find out tomorrow."

Marcus took the realization that he wasn't going to get any juicy details out of Shane with grace, effortlessly pivoting into the backstory behind the house Rose was renting. It had belonged to some iconic Hollywood star Shane hadn't heard of, but she'd had to offload it for tax reasons, and then it had gotten purchased by some silicone valley exec, who happened to be the father of an on-the-rise pop star Rose had befriended at a music festival last summer, and Shane lost the thread pretty quickly but kept making politely interested noises, more than happy to let Marcus fill the silence.

Pretty soon, they were pulling up to the house, and Shane's mouth went dry. It was fucking huge, more of a manor than a villa, built into the side of the mountain. He counted four stories, arranged like steps, and there was no telling how much bigger the place was underground.

"Jesus Christ."

"Yeah." Marcus laughed, coasting up the long, winding driveway. "That was my first reaction too."

Rose came running out to greet him, throwing her arms around him before he'd taken more than two steps out of the car.

"Shane, you made it!"

"When you told me you were renting a house, I figured it was more of an AirBnB situation. This is… what the fuck?"

"I know, I know, it's a little ridiculous, but I had basically my entire cast and half the crew staying here over the weekend."

"How was the festival?"

"Sooo much fun!" she gushed, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him inside. "Marcus will get your bag. Come on, let me show you around!"

The house had eight (eight!) bedrooms and six (six!) full baths, plus three half baths. It also had its own movie theater, two kitchens, a five-car underground garage, and about a dozen other rooms Shane completely lost track of as Rose gleefully dragged him through them, encountering several of her fellow cast members, all in varying stages of hungover.

"And here's your room!" She threw open a door at the end of a long hallway on the third floor, safely removed from the more public-facing areas of the house. "It's got a Jack and Jill bathroom, but there's nobody staying in the room next door, so you'll have it to yourself."

The room was well-appointed, with lots of neutrals and clay tones and a massive California King bed. Shane's suitcase was already waiting on a low table under the windows.

"Rose, I can't thank you enough. For all of this."

"Please, you're doing me a favor. I've had this house booked for months, and I needed a good excuse to throw a proper rager." Her eyes sparkled with glee. "Come out to dinner with us? We have so much to catch up on!"

"I'd love to."

* * *

Ilya always got a little nostalgic about the NHL awards. Every time he found himself back in Las Vegas, the memories felt too close to the surface, reminders of Shane around every corner. That first year, when he'd fled to the rooftop after losing the Calder and Shane had tracked him down, tried to cheer him up, until Ilya had scared him off. His first MVP award, the night they'd presented the Lady Byng, the night he'd lured Shane up to his penthouse and conducted psychosexual experiments on him for his own amusement. He'd cried himself to sleep that night, after Shane had left. If he really thought back on it, he was pretty sure he'd cried himself to sleep almost every year. Even after winning the Art Ross, the Hart, the Rocket, the Conn Smythe, even with Svetlana by his side, even surrounded by his team, every year, he'd fallen asleep heartbroken and alone.

This year, on the other hand, seemed on track to go off without a hitch. He got the Art Ross again, although it was a hollow victory — everyone knew Shane was pulling ahead in points before his injury. Shane won another Lady Byng, which Ilya planned to give him shit for later, and Scott Hunter won both the Hart and the Conn Smythe (reluctantly, even Ilya could admit both were well-deserved). Afterwards, he pretended not to notice Shane slipping out with Pike and Boiziau on his heels, lingering at a high-top table with Svetlana and trying to keep himself calm and occupied.

"Ты все еще хотел что-то сказать (Did you still want to say something to Hunter)?" Svetlana murmured, directing Ilya's eyes with a subtle tilt of her head. Hunter was at the bar with Carter Vaughn. He seemed perfectly at ease, chatting with the bartender, but Vaughn's head was on a swivel, like he was waiting for someone to start trouble. When Ilya walked towards them, Vaughn's eyes narrowed, then softened as he seemed to decide he wasn't a threat.

"Congratulations," Ilya said, stretching out his hand. Hunter shook it, with the expression of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"You're not gonna tell me it's nice I get to retire to the nursing home on a high note?"

Ilya shrugged.

"Maybe I am taking night off."

"Hm."

"Where is your boyfriend?"

Vaughn circled closer, back on edge.

"In New York." Scott crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Was just curious. Is good. What you did." Ilya went on, before he lost his nerve. Hunter's eyes flickered across his face like he was trying to decide if Ilya was making fun of him. "It will be good for… others."

"Thanks," Hunter said cautiously. "I hope so."

Ilya nodded and started to walk away. Then he had a better idea.

"We were just about to head out to after party," he said, inclining his head to Svetlana, who walked up and slipped her hand into his. "You should come. Will be a lot more fun than…" He gestured to the dark, stuffy bar, overcrowded with drunk hockey players.

Hunter seemed hesitant, but Vaughn grinned widely.

"Absolutely."

"Vaughny…"

"Scotty…"

They glared at each other. Vaughn widened his eyes ("C'monnnnn") while Hunter narrowed his own ("No way"), making Vaughn pout ("Pleeeeease") until Hunter rolled his eyes ("Don't make me regret this") and asked Ilya,

"Where is it?"

* * *

Hayden and JJ had been surprised when Shane told them about the party, but they seemed to be under the impression that if they didn't jump on it immediately, he might change his mind, so neither of them had asked too many follow up questions — at least, until their Uber paused at the entrance to the meandering driveway and the driver asked,

"Is… this it?"

"Yup."

"Holy shit." Hayden elbowed JJ as the full extent of the manor came into view. "Dude, are you seeing this?"

"I'm seeing it," JJ said slowly. "Hollzy, dans quelle putain de merde tu nous as foutus (Hollzy, what the fuck have you gotten us into)?"

The mansion was completely transformed in the last dregs of sunset, with A-list, B-list, C-list, and (in their case) D-list celebrities spilling out of every entrance, and the pounding bass audible from halfway down the street. Shane could already smell the heady concoction of too many people crammed into too little space with too much alcohol as they piled out of the car.

"Rose Landry knows how to throw a fucking party," Hayden huffed, shaking his head admiringly. "Let's get in before Shane tries to bail."

"I'm not —" Shane spluttered in his own defense, "Why would I bail? I'm literally staying here!"

The head of Rose's security detail, a true giant of a man, was manning the door — Jerry, Shane remembered distantly. He'd spoken to him that morning, making sure Svetlana was on the list, with an unlimited guest allowance just in case.

"Hollander!" Jerry crowed, greeting all three of them with a fist bump. "Rosie was beginning to worry you wouldn't show."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Shane grinned, ignoring Hayden hissing "Who are you?" in his ear.

Jerry clicked something on his iPad and let them pass. "Give 'em hell, boys."

Inside, the chaos was even more intense than Shane had feared. He gritted his teeth, JJ and Hayden pressing close as they shouldered through the crowd to the open-concept kitchen, where someone had set up a makeshift bar (there was an actual bar on the second floor, but apparently that had been insufficient to meet the demand). JJ pulled three beers from the fridge, popped them open, and distributed them. Shane wasn't a huge fan of beer in general (he didn't love the taste, and the gluten made him bloaty), but he chugged it anyway, then a second, grateful for the way it softened some of the sharp edges of discomfort. The noise of the party wasn't quite as overwhelming, the flashing lights a little less headache-inducing, and it was suddenly easier to laugh off JJ's suggestion that he go chat up a model across the room. He was finally starting to settle in when the air shifted, charged with electricity, and Shane found his eyes drawn, involuntarily, inevitably, to the front door.

Ilya Rozanov had arrived.

His suit jacket was casually draped over one arm, his shirt unbuttoned at the top to expose his collarbones. On his other arm was Svetlana, in a tight-fitting dress contrasting her bouncing curls. They looked good together, Shane noted with a sick lurch in his gut. Like she belonged there, leaning against him, whispering something in his ear that made them both laugh. Out of self preservation, his eyes shifted to Carter Vaughn and Scott Hunter, standing directly behind them and looking hilariously out of place.

"Well well well, look what the cat dragged in!" Hayden grinned widely as they approached. "Good to see you, Vaughny! Hunter! … Rozanov."

Ilya's lip curled.

"Pike. I am surprised you are partying in Vegas with fresh baby at home. Do you really have so few opportunities to celebrate that you can't afford to miss one?"

"Roz, I thought you were taking a night off," Hunter groaned.

"Who even invited you?" Hayden demanded.

Svetlana gave a little wave, which somehow managed to be deeply patronizing and incredibly classy.

"That would be me."

Hayden deflated enough for JJ and Vaughn to take control of the conversation, bantering lightheartedly about how New York hadn't faced Montreal in the playoffs ("We would have kicked your asses." "Without Hollzy? Fat chance") while Ilya and Shane's eyes finally met.

What room are you in?

Ilya…

What? Is tradition!

Third floor, last door on the right.

"I'm getting a drink," Svetlana announced, breaking the spell.

"I think Rose is at the bar upstairs, if you want to go say hi," Shane offered. Svetlana beamed at him, squeezed his arm, and promised,

"We'll catch up later."

Shane nodded, trying as hard as he could to control the jealousy he could feel oozing out of every pore. Svetlana had never been anything but lovely to him, and he was glad Ilya had someone in his corner, someone who could talk to him in his native language, someone he could be seen with in public without the entire world losing its shit — she's his best friend, he reminded himself for what felt like the thousandth time, don't be an idiot. But then Svetlana kissed Ilya on the cheek as she left and no one blinked an eye, and suddenly Shane really needed another drink too.

By the time he rejoined his friends, Vaughn and Hayden were in the process of clearing off the oversized dining room table while JJ scavenged for solo cups and filled them up with whatever liquids his hand touched first.

"What did I miss?"

"Beer pong." JJ's grin was borderline manic. "Voyageurs vs. Admirals. Winner takes on Rozanov."

Ilya, leaning casually against the wall, raised his eyebrows and his drink.

"Who's his teammate?"

"You volunteering, Hollywood?" Vaughn asked, clapping him on the back.

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's only fair, right?"

"Right," JJ agreed, but his tone was thoughtful. Before Shane could decide what to do about that, his eye was drawn to Hunter, cutting a path through the crowd.

"I found a ping pong ball!" he declared when he reached them, holding it victoriously over his head.

"Really? Where?" Shane asked, impressed.

"There's a ping pong table in the basement."

"Then… why… shouldn't we just… play in the basement?"

"What? No, we've got the dining table all set up. C'mon, dude, use your head." Hayden smacked him lightly as he passed by, then slammed his hands on the table. "You're goin' down, motherfuckers!"

Shane joined Ilya against the wall, close enough to hold his hand but keeping himself carefully distant. He couldn't even look at him, too afraid of giving something away. Hayden and JJ took an early lead after Vaughn's first shot went wide, but Hunter was playing surprisingly well, even though, according to Ilya, "when he was in university, they taught him the sun revolved around the earth."

Shane coughed to cover his laugh, and Vaughn snorted and grabbed Hunter's shoulder, but Hayden's face soured.

"Shut the fuck up, Rozanov. You don't have half the guts Hunter does."

"Ah, yes. What is word for… body parts no longer needed as time passes, evolution…"

"Vestigial," Shane supplied under his breath.

"It's fine, Pike," Hunter spoke up, sinking another perfect shot. "Roz is all bark."

Hayden scoffed and missed his next attempt. JJ groaned.

Rose and Svetlana came down the stairs together just in time to watch Vaughn win the game with a straight shot into the Voyageurs' last cup. Hayden knocked it back, ping pong ball included, then spat the ball back into the empty cup.

"That's fucking disgusting, dude," Shane grumbled, wiping it off with a napkin.

"Avenge us, Hollywood!" JJ begged, shaking his shoulders in mock desperation. "Ne nous laissez pas tomber devant les dames (Don't let us down in front of the ladies)!"

Rose bounded up to Shane, wrapping her arms around his chest like she was trying to crack his ribs, but directed her words to Ilya.

"Are you having fun?"

"Of course. Is good party," Ilya said blandly, and Shane was pretty sure no one else caught the way his eyes shone with true gratitude behind his lazy smirk. "Happy to be here."

"Sveta told me —" (Shane and Ilya exchanged a glance just long enough to think, Sveta?) "— you guys have an early flight tomorrow, so you can stay over if you want. There's plenty of room, and we're not far from the airport."

"Our bags are still at hotel," Ilya pointed out. Svetlana elbowed him hard in the stomach and hissed,

"Не смущай меня (Don't embarrass me)."

Ilya pivoted abruptly, "… But I think Marly's on our flight. He went to bed early — I'll text him and ask if he can bring them tomorrow."

"Marlow went to bed early?" JJ repeated doubtfully as he refilled the cups.

"New girlfriend," Ilya explained. "He is trying to… turn over new leaf."

"To love," Hayden said blearily, raising his drink. Ilya cheers'ed him.

Hunter and Vaughn resumed their places at their end of the table, and Shane stepped up to the other side, with Ilya right beside him, so close he could feel the heat radiating off his arm when their sleeves brushed. Svetlana and Rose appointed themselves as referees, but didn't seem that interested in actually watching the game — they chatted idly amongst themselves as Shane spun the ping pong ball between his fingers, getting a feeling for its weight, calculating his first shot.

"Oh my god Hollander, just go," Ilya groaned dramatically, nudging him with his shoulder.

"Shut up. I'm going," Shane bit back, and tossed the ball into the far left corner cup.

Vaughn drank, tossed the cup aside, then bounced the ball into Shane and Ilya's center cup. Ilya was up next. His full lips twisted thoughtfully, and Shane noticed him start to chew on the inside of his cheek, before he landed his toss into the far right corner cup. The game continued — Hunter only missed once, while Vaughn missed twice, and neither Shane nor Ilya missed at all. Unfortunately, Shane was forced to admit that even when it was a dumb, trashy party game Ilya was excelling at, he was still hopelessly turned on by his skill. They started getting a little cocky by the middle of the game, trying to top each other's trick shots. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the late hour, or the beers he was quickly losing count of, but even though their opponents were right across the table, Shane couldn't shake the feeling that his only real competition was standing right next to him. At some point, Ilya had flung his arm around Shane's shoulder, and when he landed his last shot, Shane couldn't resist cheering.

That was the picture Rose showed him later — Hunter and Vaughn throwing their arms up in disbelief as the ball bounced across the table, the abject glee on Ilya's face, Shane's look of triumph, pride, held close against Ilya's side like it was the most natural thing in the world, all of them ridiculously fucking wasted. She would post it early that morning as the fourth slide of her Vegas photodump (fittingly captioned "what happens in vegas…"), sandwiched between a picture of Rose and Shane at dinner the night before and a shot of her film's cast and crew at the festival the previous weekend. The internet would lose its collective mind. Shane would receive a very displeased voicemail from his mother.

But he wasn't worried about any of that yet.

"Let's go!" Shane hollered, the spirits of all the drunk frat bros who came before briefly possessing him as he and Ilya chest-bumped obnoxiously. Hayden and JJ leapt into the fray too, JJ attempting some kind of complicated fistbump/handshake Shane was way too out of it to decode, all four of them jumping around like they were the real victors here (Svetlana posted a video to her story), and not the guys with the actual 2017 Stanley Cup.

"You are lightweight, Hollander," Ilya chided when Shane nearly tripped over the table.

"We're the same fucking size!" he shot back, laughing despite himself.

The weird look on JJ's face didn't really register until he pulled Shane aside and said,

"Je dois faire pipi. Rose a dit que vous avez votre propre salle de bain (I have to pee. Rose said you have your own bathroom)?"

"Oh oui, c'est à l'étage. Je vais te montrer (Oh, yeah, it's upstairs. I'll show you)."

They headed up the stairs. JJ was oddly quiet considering this had been the best night of Shane's year — actually, maybe his whole life? No, he'd had better nights. But not better parties. Who knew, parties could be fun? Did everybody else already know that? Was that why they kept telling him to go to parties? He'd never really "gotten it" before, but now he thought maybe he was addicted. Could you get addicted to parties? He'd never been addicted to anything before. Well, unless he counted Ilya. The noise wasn't so overwhelming now, just exhilarating, barely even noticeable over the blood pounding in his ears and oh shit, the room was spinning. Or was that him? No, it was for sure the room. He heard a giggle — damn, that actually was probably him — and grabbed onto JJ for support. Someone pressed a glass into his hand, and he drank it without hesitating, but it was just water. Boring.

"Ilya dit que je suis ennuyeux. Cependant, il ne le pense pas (Ilya says I'm boring. He doesn't mean it though."

"Quoi (What)?"

"Merde, est-ce que j'ai dit ça à voix haute (Shit, did I say that aloud)?"

He looked up and realized they had somehow made it to the correct hallway and were only a few steps away from the bathroom, which was good, because he was definitely about to throw up. He cut through the bedroom next to his and fell to his knees.

Shane barely made it to the toilet in time, expelling the contents of his stomach, which was mostly alcohol, for several unpleasant minutes. JJ locked the door behind them and sat with him, patting his back, muttering reassuring nonsense until he was finally done, and slouched back against the tub, defeated. He could still hear the pounding bass from across the house, but the bathroom felt like a sanctuary in comparison to the sweaty press of bodies they'd left behind. JJ handed him a water bottle and asked,

"Shane, qu'est-ce qui se passe avec toi ce soir (Shane, what is going on with you tonight)?"

Shane took a big gulp of the water, trying to breathe through the sick, shaky, weak feeling that was quickly sliding into "killer hangover" territory.

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire (What do you mean)?"

"Tu ne... fais pas ça. Tu ne fais pas la fête. Tu ne te saoules pas comme ça — tu te saoules à peine du tout. Et tu ne laisses certainement pas Ilya Rozanov mettre son bras autour de toi comme (You don't… do this. You don't party. You don't get this drunk — you barely get drunk at all. And you certainly don't let Ilya Rozanov put his arm around you like)…"

"Comme quoi (Like what)?"

"Tu sais à quoi ça ressemble (You know what it looked like)."

"Deux joueurs de hockey professionnels deviennent amis après avoir finalement découvert un terrain d'entente (Two professional hockey players becoming friends after finally discovering common ground)?"

"Peut-être aux gens qui ne vous connaissent pas. Mais Shane... tu ne laisses personne te toucher comme ça. Pas moi, pas Hayden — je t'ai vu reculer quand ta propre mère t'a fait un câlin (Maybe to people who don't know you. But Shane… you don't let anyone touch you like that. Not me, not Hayden — I've seen you flinch when your own mother gave you a hug)."

"C'était une fois. Elle m'a pris par surprise (That was one time. She took me by surprise)."

"N'essayez pas de changer de sujet. Quel est le problème avec vous et Rozanov (Don't try to change the subject. What's the deal with you and Rozanov)?"

"Tu ressembles à Comeau (You sound like Comeau)," Shane muttered.

"C'est des conneries et tu le sais. Comeau est un connard. Je suis ton ami (That's bullshit and you know it. Comeau's an asshole. I'm your friend)."

"Êtes-vous (Are you)?" To his horror, Shane realized his eyes had filled with tears. "Parce que vous dites tous la même merde (Because you all say the same shit)."

JJ looked genuinely taken aback.

"Quoi — je ne l'ai pas fait (What — I didn't )—"

"Vous pensez que je ne vous entends pas gazouiller avec tous les autres, appeler tout le monde (You think I don't hear you chirping with all the rest of them, calling everyone )pussies and cocksuckers and faggots?"

"Est-ce de cela qu'il s'agit? Shane, je ne suis pas homophobe. C'est juste de la merde que les gens disent (Is that what this is about? Shane, I'm not homophobic. That's just shit people say)."

"Ouais, et tu ne vois pas à quel point c'est foutu? Je ne peux pas - comment suis-je censé faire la différence entre les gars qui disent juste de la merde et les gars qui y croient vraiment? Comment suis-je censé me sentir en sécurité dans ce vestiaire quand (Yeah, and don't you see how fucked up that is? I can't — how am I supposed to know the difference between the guys just saying shit, and the guys who actually believe it? How am I ever supposed to feel safe in that locker room when )—"

"Mec, ralentis. Qu'est-ce que tu dis? Qu'est-ce que cela a à voir avec Rozanov? Est-il...? Êtes-vous... (Dude, slow down. What are you saying? What does this have to do with Rozanov? Is he…? Are you)…?"

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Shane opened his mouth, too exhausted and heartsick to keep up the pretense, and at the exact moment the words left his lips, the second bathroom door creaked open.

"I'm gay."

Hayden was standing in the doorway, jaw agape, with Ilya directly behind him.

JJ stared at Shane. Shane stared at Hayden. Hayden turned around and stared at Ilya. No one spoke for a full ten seconds.

"Okay…?" JJ said finally, "Good for you, man. We support you."

"Yeah, you're our best friend," Hayden assured him, stepping closer. "This doesn't change anything."

And maybe it all would have been fine, if it had stopped there. Maybe JJ would have been satisfied, maybe Hayden would have provided enough distraction, maybe none of them would have even remembered his weird behavior with Ilya the next morning. But Ilya was standing right there in the doorway and Shane was weak and defenseless and their eyes found each other like heat-seeking missiles.

What happened? You look like shit.

I threw up. Drank too much.

Do you want me to bring anything? Some food?

I don't think I can —

"Pourquoi le regardes-tu comme ça (Why are you looking at him like that)?"

Shane's head snapped back around.

"Je ne le suis pas. Comme quoi? Je ne le suis pas (I'm not. Like what? I'm not)."

JJ put his head in his hands.

"Oh non. Shane, s'il te plaît, dis-moi que ce n'est pas ce que je pense (Oh no. Shane, please tell me it's not what I think)."

"Je ne — je ne peux pas (I don't — I can't )—"

"S'il te plaît, dis-moi que tu ne l'as pas baisé (Please tell me you have not been fucking him)."

"I know that one. What's going on?" Hayden asked.

"What did he say?"

"Something about fucking."

Ilya's face drained of color, and he slammed the bathroom door shut.

"Boiziau, you need to lower your voice."

"Alors c'est vrai? Depuis combien de temps cela dure-t-il? Depuis All-Stars (So it's true? How long has this been going on? Since All-Stars)?"

"Nous n'avons pas cette conversation en ce moment (We are not having this conversation right now)," Shane said, trying to reassert some semblance of control. "Il est tard, et nous sommes tous martelés - laissez-le partir et nous en parlerons demain (It's late, and we're all hammered — just let it go and we'll talk about it tomorrow)."

"Laisse-le partir ? Es-tu fou, putain? À quoi pensais-tu, Shane? Comment pourriez-vous nous garder cela (Let it go? Are you fucking insane? What were you thinking, Shane? How could you keep this from us)?"

"Parce que je savais que tu réagirais comme ça (Because I knew you'd react like this)!" Shane snapped. "Je savais que tu ne comprendrais pas (I knew you wouldn't understand) —"

"Comment pourrais-je comprendre? C'est un connard! Et un homme-pute! Il est - il est Rozanov (How could I possibly understand? He's an asshole! And a manwhore! He's — he's Rozanov)!"

"Je sais (I know)," Shane said miserably, "Et je l'aime (and I love him)."

"Pike, what are they saying?" Ilya demanded.

"I don't know, I quit French in middle school. They're talking about you, I think."

"Yeah no shit, even I got that much."

"Non, tu ne le fais pas (No you don't)," JJ breathed, like he hadn't even heard them.

"Je le fais. J'ai depuis des années (I do. I have for years)."

"Des anées (Years)??"

"Years?" Hayden's eyes narrowed. The three words he'd understood were forming a picture he did not like. "Shane, you've been fucking someone for years, and Rozanov is involved? Does this have anything to do with Boston Lily?"

JJ nearly choked.

"Putain de merde. Nous avons été tellement stupides. Tout ce temps (Holy shit. We've been so fucking stupid. All this time )—"

"JJ —"

"Et c'était juste sous notre nez. Combien de temps, Shane (And it was right under our noses. How long, Shane)?"

"Okay, someone needs to start speaking English right the fuck now," Hayden interrupted. "First of all, Shane, are you alright? I lost track of you at the party, and Rozanov wouldn't tell me where your room was unless I brought him with me. I hope that's okay. We thought you might be sick or something, and then we heard yelling. What the hell's going on?"

"I was sick," Shane said glumly, glaring accusingly at the toilet. "Then JJ started fucking interrogating me —"

"Dude, what the fuck? This is clearly not the time!" Hayden gestured at Shane, who was still slumped against the cool porcelain, feeling and probably looking like death.

"Believe me, you would have too. Tell him, Shane."

"Should… Rozanov be in the room for this?" Hayden stage-whispered, casting a look back at Ilya, who was leaning against the door like a self-appointed bouncer, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Shane could see by the set of his shoulders how hard he was working to keep himself together, but he was sure that to them, Ilya just looked bored. JJ laughed darkly.

"He already knows."

"About the gay thing? Really, buddy, it's fine — I'm sorry if you felt like you couldn't tell me, or if I've ever —"

"Pike, how many fucking concussions have you had? The gay thing is not the issue. It's not," JJ emphasized, his eyes momentarily softening as he turned back to Shane. Then he glanced up at Ilya and his expression hardened again. "Tell him, or I will."

"It's none of your business," Shane said weakly. JJ scoffed.

"We're your fucking alternates. We've been your best friends for years. And you've been lying to us basically the entire time. How is that not our business?"

"JJ, you're freaking everyone out." Hayden sighed, and sat down on the floor to be on Shane's level, the way he had when Ruby had skinned her knee the previous summer. "Dude, listen, it's just you and me, okay? I love you. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. We're brothers."

Shane looked him dead in the eye and said, "Ilya and I have been seeing each other on and off for years and now he's my boyfriend."

Hayden blinked. Once, twice, then a third time. He looked over at JJ, whose mouth was set in a grim line. He looked up at Ilya, who was staring straight ahead like none of them were even in the room. Finally, he looked back at Shane.

"Sorry, I must be drunker than I thought. Say that again?"

"You heard it right the first time." Shane was preoccupied by the awful, blank look on Ilya's face. He hadn't seen it in a while, but he recognized it instantly. "Discuss amongst yourselves."

Before either of his friends could react, Shane lurched to his feet, grabbed Ilya's hand, and pulled him through the door into his bedroom. Ilya didn't resist, which was almost worse than the alternative — he was mostly dead weight as Shane maneuvered him into a sitting position on the end of the bed and locked the door to the hallway.

"When you're ready to talk about this like adults, we'll be here," he said, and closed the bathroom door.

* * *

One instant, Ilya was standing in the doorway and Shane was on the floor, looking so young and so scared, his eyes fever-bright and his skin sickly pale. The next, the light had dimmed, and he was sitting on a bed with a warm, solid weight in his lap. Instinctively, his arms came up to pull Shane closer, and he felt more than heard his shuddering sob in response.

"Sorry," Ilya croaked.

"Oh god sweetheart don't apologize, it's all my fault anyway." Shane's voice was teary, muffled in Ilya's neck. "They won't tell anyone, I swear. Even if they're pissed. I'll make sure of it."

"You will blackmail them?" Ilya joked, but it was apparently too soon because Shane just sniffled and muttered,

"If I have to."

They held each other for another minute, until Ilya felt like his consciousness was pretty thoroughly settled back into his body.

"I am starting to think Las Vegas is cursed."

Shane did laugh at that, but it was wet and choked with tears. He pulled back, his strong fingers framing Ilya's face as he looked down at him. Ilya looked back. They were both a mess, hair and clothes rumpled, tear tracks shimmering on Shane's clammy cheeks.

So much for phase 2.

Not necessarily, Ilya thought back. This is not about them, yes? Is about changing narrative.

You remembered. Shane's eyes shone with pride.

Of course. And we can still do that. Let Rose post her photo. The rest of the world does not know you like Pike and Boiziau do — they will think we were just being drunk idiots.

We were being drunk idiots.

Even better. Like… method acting.

Shane chuckled for real this time, scrubbed his hands over his face, and stood up, turning to the closed bathroom door.

"Okay," he said, mostly to himself. "Time to face the music."

Ilya watched, heart in his throat, as Shane crossed the room and opened the bathroom door. Pike and Boiziau were on their feet, engaging in a hushed argument, and they froze the way Ilya had once seen a bug freeze, when he'd lifted the rock it was hiding under.

"Well?"

Pike and Boiziau looked at each other and Boiziau made a gesture that seemed to imply, "You go. I don't have anything to say to this motherfucker."

"How… did this start?" Pike asked. He was making his stupid empathetic face again, like Shane was a fucking child. Like he was going to have to explain some hard truths about how the world worked. Ilya barely managed to keep his mouth shut. Shane turned back to ask,

Can I tell them?

Ilya shrugged.

I don't think anything we say at this point could possibly make things worse.

"God, how did we not see it?" Pike asked Boiziau in a low murmur. "Look at them. It's like… fucking… heart-eyes."

Shane's jaw set determinedly and he crossed his arms like he was bracing for a hit. "Summer before rookie year."

"But that's —"

"Before you even met," Ilya couldn't resist adding smugly. He wasn't proud of the thought that came after it. I had him first.

"So you've been, what, like, secretly dating this whole time?" Pike asked, ignoring Ilya completely.

"It wasn't… serious, at first," Shane admitted. "There were… complications."

"No shit," Boiziau snapped. "That's what happens when you start sneaking around with your fucking rival. The entire time we've known you, you've been lying about this? Fucking hell, Hollander. Who are you?"

Ilya forced himself not to react. He knew Shane could fight this battle himself — it wasn't his place to get involved, no matter how badly he wanted to tell them to just fuck off and die.

"I'm your friend!" Shane insisted. "And your teammate. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you, really, but — it wasn't personal, okay? It wasn't — it wasn't about you. We didn't tell anyone. We couldn't. For most of that time, we didn't even fully understand it. How could we have explained it to anyone else?"

Boiziau shook his head.

"Dude, you could fuck anyone you want — why does it have to be him?"

"What? No I absolutely fucking can't! I tried dating girls, and I was miserable. What do you want me to do, patrol gay clubs with a stack of NDAs? There is one out NHL player right now, JJ. One. The fallout has barely started, and Vaughn's been sticking to his side like someone might hate crime him at any minute. Even if I wanted to come out, I —" He scoffed and tried again, softer, "You know firsthand how much pressure there is on us. So many kids are looking up to me. I can't let them down."

Boiziau had the decency to look a little ashamed.

"But why Rozanov?" he asked, his voice less angry, more pleading.

"Well, in the beginning, mostly because he was convenient. And safe, because he had as much to lose as I did. And because he's really fucking hot."

Ilya tried not to preen. Pike fake gagged. Boiziau just shrugged.

"But as it went on… it became more. We realized…" He looked back at Ilya, who suddenly understood the "heart-eyes" thing, "we're in love."

Pike sputtered, but Shane cut him off.

"I'm not asking you to like it, and I never wanted to put you in this position. But you can't tell anyone. Obviously."

Pike raised one hand. Anticipating his objection, Shane rolled his eyes and said,

"Fine, you can tell Jackie. But that's it. I'm fucking serious, Hayds, if this gets out it could ruin both of our careers. Ilya could get sent back to Russia. Our entire lives would go up in flames."

"If the price is that high, maybe that's a sign to just… end it?" Boiziau suggested.

"No," Ilya heard himself say, before he'd even made the conscious decision to speak. "It is worth it. All of it. You could both go to tabloids in the morning and it would still be worth it."

Pike's gaze was more assessing than hostile, and then he turned back to Shane.

"He's an asshole."

"Yeah."

"Is he… good to you?"

Ilya suppressed a wince, but Shane didn't even hesitate.

"Yes," he said firmly.

"Okay." Hayden nodded. "Then… fuck, I can't believe I'm saying this… we should get to know him. Properly. If he's gonna be in your life, I'll…" His face soured, but he went on, "… have to find a way to get used to it."

"I still think… this… will blow up in your faces sooner or later," Boiziau said. "But I get why you kept it a secret. If there's one thing we can all agree on, it's that no one else needs to know."

"Thank you," Shane breathed. All the tension drained out of his shoulders, and he wobbled on his feet. Reflexively, Ilya leapt up and steadied him with an arm around his waist. Shane sagged into him like he'd been keeping himself vertical through sheer force of will.

"I think that is enough for tonight," Ilya said, trying to keep his voice even.

Boiziau nodded his agreement and headed for the door, but Pike stopped him.

"Wait… what about Lily?"

They all just stared at him.

"Pike, are you serious?" Ilya asked, genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, have you been, like cheating on her? Did she know? Was it a threesome situation?"

Boiziau smacked him gently on the back of the head.

"Rozanov is Lily, dumbass."

"Oh." Hayden's eyes widened with horror. "Oh fuck, that text —"

Shane put his head in his hands.

"What text?" Boiziau asked.

"She said — you said — oh god I need to go bleach my brain." Pike groaned, and fled the room with Boiziau chasing after him, laughing,

"What text?"

Ilya closed and locked the door behind them with relief.

What text?

"The only cup you'll have next year is the one I'll take off with my mouth," Shane quoted sleepily. I'm going to bed.

Ilya cackled, enjoying picturing the look of dawning realization on Pike's face again with the full context. Shane's only reaction was a soft huff of amusement as he headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"By the way, I texted Marly. He'll bring our bags to the airport tomorrow, so I can stay. If you want."

Shane smiled brightly at him in the mirror.

Of course I want. You can borrow my spare toothbrush.

Ilya stalked towards him slowly, holding eye contact in the mirror.

You brought a spare toothbrush?

You never know, Shane thought, a little shyly. I like to be prepared.

Ilya unbuttoned his own shirt, watching Shane's eyes drop to his bare chest, the movement of his toothbrush slowing.

"Anything else you want?"

"Shut up." Shane blushed, and spat toothpaste into the sink. Ilya grabbed his arm when he tried to push past him, backing him into the doorframe and capturing his lips in a kiss that was almost chaste, by their standards. Shane's hands came up to his waist, the back of his neck, pulling him closer as his mouth dropped open on a moan. They lazily made out against the wall for a few moments, until Shane pulled back.

"You taste like alcohol. The spare toothbrush is in my toiletries bag, next to the sink."

By the time Ilya had finished brushing his teeth, peeing, and drinking the rest of the waterbottle abandoned on the edge of the tub and reentered the bedroom, Shane was passed out in the bed in his boxers. Only one lamp had been left on, illuminating the muscled lines of his back, his long limbs, his gorgeous face, the slight crease between his dark eyebrows, the freckles dotting his cheeks. With a jolt of fondness, Ilya realized his shirt and pants had been carefully folded over the back of the chair in the corner, and he had even remembered to plug his phone in. Ilya let himself look until his eyelids were so heavy, he worried he might actually fall asleep on his feet. Then he flicked off the light, pulled off his own clothes, and crawled into the bed next to him. Shane didn't wake, but when Ilya slotted their bodies together, he let out a pleased little grumble and nuzzled into his collarbone.

Finally, Ilya let himself relax, his eyes falling closed. Distantly, he was aware of the muffled thrum of the slowly dying party, the steady rhythm of Shane's breathing, the now-familiar heat of his body next to Ilya's in the cool, dark room. He barely had time to congratulate himself on breaking the Las Vegas curse before sleep was pulling him under.

* * *

Shane woke up to a brutal hangover, his phone buzzing with hundreds of missed notifications, and Ilya sprawled on top of him like a weighted blanket, drooling onto his neck. He groaned and stretched out one hand, grabbing weakly at his phone, then hissing at the bright light flooding his bleary eyes. He blinked to clear his vision enough to read the time.

"Fuck. Ilya." His voice came out hoarse and cracked, but adrenaline flooded his veins, and he managed to push Ilya off of him, onto his back. Ilya just sighed and threw one arm up to cover his face. Shane shook him again. "Ilya, wake up. You're gonna miss your flight."

"Don't care," Ilya slurred.

"Shit. What happened last night? Did we —" He squeezed his eyes shut, jumbled moments surfacing. Beer pong. Throwing up. JJ's furious eyes. Hayden… shit, why were they mad? Oh god, did I — fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He flung himself out of the bed and stumbled to the bathroom to throw up again, and the visceral experience unlocked the rest of his memory. By the time he was done, and made it back to the bedroom on shaky legs, Ilya had found his own phone, and was casually scrolling through it like he was in no rush at all.

"Oh good, you are back. Sveta said she left something in front of your door for us. Will you go check?"

"Cover yourself with the blanket," Shane ordered, and waited until Ilya was fully concealed before unlocking the door and cracking it open. To his relief, he found a coconut water, a little packet of Tylenol, a couple protein bars, and a Red Bull. He brought it all inside and locked the door again.

"I assume this is for you?"

"Yesssssss." Ilya sat up and stretched out grabby hands until Shane tossed him the Red Bull. He popped it open and chugged it enthusiastically while Shane watched, disgusted.

“Gross.” Shane muttered, crawling onto the bed, and started on his coconut water. Ilya refused a Tylenol when he offered it, but did grab the second protein bar. Shane glanced through his notifications — nothing unusual, mostly just the guys being assholes in the team chat, some mentions from the post Rose had tagged him in, and a couple missed calls from his mom. They sat there in companionable silence for a minute, before Shane finally broke.

“I can’t believe you’re being so calm about this.”

“Is just hangover, Hollander.”

“No, I mean Hayden and JJ knowing.”

Ilya shrugged.

“They promised not to tell anyone. Do you trust them?”

“Yeah, but… they were still pissed. And I’m supposed to train with them next month. How am I even gonna look them in the eyes now?”

“We still have time," Ilya said evenly. “Let them cool off. We will burn that bridge when we get to it.”

“It’s cross, Ilya.”

“Fine, we will burn that bridge when we cross it. Happy?”

Shane laughed despite himself.

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“Maybe.” Ilya finished his drink, dropped a kiss on Shane’s forehead, and crawled off the bed. “I need to leave for airport, like, fifteen minutes ago. Can I borrow some clothes?”

“Yeah, of course. There’s some sweats and a t-shirt in there that should fit you.”

Ilya picked through the suitcase, careful not to disturb Shane’s system, and pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. Shane’s mouth watered at the sight of his own clothes pulled just barely too tight over Ilya’s muscled frame, and he experienced a pang of regret that he didn’t have time to show his appreciation properly, but Ilya was already moving, pecking him gently on the lips on his way to the bathroom, then heading out into the hall through the other adjoining bedroom.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Rationally, Shane knew it was stupid to be upset. They’d already arranged Ilya’s flights to Boston, then Ottawa — Shane was picking him up at the airport in less than 12 hours. Still, an old scar twinged at the thought of Ilya running out in a hurry, before he’d even had the chance to —

He shook himself out of it and opened the door. Ilya had only made it halfway down the hallway.

“Rozanov!” he called. Ilya turned immediately, effortlessly walking backwards.

Я тебя люблю (I love you).

Я люблю тебя больше (I love you more).

Does that mean I love you more? Shane asked suspiciously.

I’ll tell you tonight.

You are infuriating.

You love it. And with one last mischievous grin, Ilya spun on his heel and jogged down the stairs, leaving Shane blushing in the doorway.

* * *

Ilya made it all the way to the Uber before collapsing into the back seat like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His stomach churned, and he shivered in the A/C, his limbs weak and trembly. His usual guaranteed hangover cure was slipping. Maybe he was getting old. Svetlana, usually terrifyingly perceptive, was so caught up in her recollection of everything Ilya had missed the previous night, she didn't notice until he accidentally slumped sideways and his head hit her shoulder.

"Что случилось (What's wrong)?"

Ilya opened his mouth to tell her Red Bull must have changed their recipe, but what came out was,

"Pike и Boiziau узнали вчера вечером (Pike and Boiziau found out last night)."

"Черт. Мне было интересно, почему они ушли в такой спешке. Как они отреагировали (Shit. I was wondering why they left in such a rush. How did they handle it)?"

"Не очень хорошо (Not well)," Ilya scoffed. "Но они сохранят наш секрет. Это единственное, что действительно имеет значение (But they'll keep our secret. That's really all that matters)."

Svetlana was unconvinced.

"Hm."

"Я беспокоюсь о том, как его команда относится к нему (I'm worried about the way his team treats him)," Ilya finally admitted. "Мои парни никогда бы не разговаривали со мной так, как эти двое, и он сказал мне, что они больше всего поддерживают. Его телефон взорвался сегодня утром от уведомлений из группового чата Voyageurs, и я... Я не хотел подглядывать, но дерьмо, которое я видел, было... Я не знаю. Я волнуюсь... Я не знаю. У меня плохое предчувствие (My boys would never talk to me like those two did — and he told me they were the most supportive. His phone was blowing up this morning with notifications from the Voyageurs groupchat, and I… I didn't mean to snoop, but the shit I saw was... I don't know. I'm worried… I don't know. I have a bad feeling.)."