Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, Rose Landry & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Miles (Game Changers), Jiya (Game Changers), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

POV Shane Hollander, POV Rose Landry, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, POV Outsider on Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry Friendship, Rose Landry and Ilya Rozanov Meet, Rose Landry Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, LGBTQ Ally Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Scene: The Club in Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), But it’s different, Post-Scene: The Club in Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), but again it’s different!! and from marlow’s pov, also cannon used from both the book and show bc i want to

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-10 Completed: 2026-06-11 Words: 12,244 Chapters: 3/3

the root cause of sleeplessness

Summary

After Rose and Shane’s first time together, Shane can’t sleep.

Or: The breakup, sooner. The club scene, entirely different. Marlow, very confused.

Notes

any em-dashes are because i wanted them. no AI use EVER
enjoyyyy :)

Chapter 1: The break-up, sooner

Chapter Notes

The first time Shane and Rose try to fuck, Shane feels like such a failure that he can’t sleep after. He blames it on stress, hopes this is a reasonable excuse for not being able to stay hard with his movie-star girlfriend, and is relieved when she doesn’t push it. 

She does seem disappointed, though, after. She’s quieter than before, subdued. It feeds Shane’s terrible shame, and the pit of anxiety in his stomach swells. With her next to him in bed, even once she’s asleep, his nervous system seems to perceive every twitch and shift as an attack. His failures amplified in her sleep habits, preventing his own rest. Hence, unable to sleep. After two hours of this, he thinks that if he stays in bed any longer, he might actually have a panic attack, which would wake her up, and then that would make him have a super-powered panic attack. That’s a thing, probably. 

He slips out of bed, pads down to the guest bedroom, and opens the spare dresser where he keeps some of his extra clothes. Tucked deep in the back, he finds the black sweatshirt. He shouldn’t. He can’t. Shane stares at the sweatshirt. He thinks about smelling it, but even entertaining the idea fills him with profound guilt. What is wrong with him? His girlfriend is sleeping peacefully just down the hall, and here Shane is, holding a Boston Raiders sweatshirt and thinking about someone else. And that someone else is a man. It’s like Shane’s not even trying. That’s the whole point, right? He has to try, because he can’t have Ilya. 

Rozanov. He can’t be with Rozanov, and Rozanov doesn’t even want him anyway. Not like that. Not in a way that could ever be real. 

Shane needs a glass of water. And a cold shower. And a new brain. Fuck. He tucks the sweatshirt back into its secure hiding place. Tomorrow he would get rid of it, he tells himself. Not like he hasn’t told himself that before. Always tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes. 

In the kitchen, he pours filtered water into a glass, chugs it, refills it, and downs a second glass. He doesn’t feel any better, just more bloated, nauseatingly full of liquid.

So he tries a cold shower. He uses the bathroom attached to the guest room because he doesn’t want to wake Rose. But it must not work, because when he emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist, Rose is sitting on the guest bedroom bed. She’s cross-legged, looking up from her phone at Shane. 

“Oh,” is all he can say. He hopes he doesn’t look as horrified as he feels at finding her there, how embarrassed and exposed he feels just in his towel, hair wet and sticking to his forehead. But it’s written all over Rose: she clocks his discomfort. She sees everything.

“Hey,” she smiles at him, her eyes kind. “Shane, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” says Shane quickly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know, maybe because you’re showering at 3:30 in the morning.”

“Sorry,” he says, avoiding eye contact. He grips the towel tightly just in case it spontaneously falls off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I couldn’t sleep, I think I’m–”

“Stressed,” she finishes his sentence with a pointed look. Shane blinks hard, panic starting to swell. 

“Hey, hey,” she says, putting out an arm as if to say slow down. “Shane, take a breath, it’s okay. I’m okay, you’re okay. Get dressed, okay? Maybe let’s talk downstairs? Unless you want to go to sleep.”

Shane doesn’t want to do either of those things, but the idea of climbing back into bed with Rose makes him feel gross and guilty and wrong. Fuck, he is an awful boyfriend. World’s worst boyfriend, probably, and she’s literally Rose fucking Landry. She could be with anyone. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?” Rose rises from the bed, cutting off Shane’s internal monologue. 

“Sorry, yeah, okay,” Shane mutters. Rose gives him a soft smile and nods, leaving him to change. 

Alone again, Shane pulls a pair of sweats and a Metros t-shirt from the guest bedroom dresser and puts them on. He glances at the sweatshirt in the drawer. He doesn’t put it on, obviously. But the person it reminds him of stays at the front of his mind. Fuck.

Downstairs, Rose has poured herself a glass of sparkling water from the fridge and perched herself on one of the kitchen barstools. As he approaches, she pulls out the chair next to her and indicates for him to sit. 

“No need to look like you’re facing the firing squad,” she teases.

Shane feels his cheeks heat with shame. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“It’s fine, I’m kidding,” Rose says, frowning. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Really, Shane, it’s okay. I just want to talk.”

She really does seem genuine, which helps a little. She’s so nice, it makes this kind of harder. The fact that he can’t fuck her right or sleep next to her or be normal, it feels somehow worse because she’s so cool and funny and kind, and he should like her. He does like her. And yet he is failing spectacularly in every possibly way to be a good boyfriend.

“Shane, you know I like you.”

“I like you too,” he chews his lip anxiously. 

She tilts her head, frowns, but not unkindly. “Why did you get up to shower?”

“I mean, I guess I just…” Shane struggles to find his words.

“Sorry, no, you don’t have to answer that,” Rose tells him gentley, shaking her head. “Sorry, I don’t think I’m handling this well.”

“What do you mean?” Shane asks. His knee is bobbing rapidly, completely unconsciously. Rose looks down at his leg; Shane uses all his might to force it to still. Rose’s eyes move to his. 

“You are a really great guy,” she says. “I like you, I like spending time with you. And it seems like you like spending time with me, too.”

“I do,” he says, the words coming out defensively. Rose gives him a tight smile, her eyes sympathetic. 

“I know. But when we tried to have sex, it seemed like that wasn’t the case. I know you said the season is stressing you out. I get that. I just think… I wonder if maybe you like me, but not… not in that way.”

“What way?”

“Sexually,” her voice is gentle. Shane is blinking rapidly, trying to figure out how he can fix this. He can salvage it. He can be a better boyfriend; he can make sure she enjoys it, the sex, even if he can’t. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she’s reaching out, taking his hand. 

“It’s not,” he’s biting back the tears welling up in his eyes. Fuck. He cannot cry about this right now.

“It really is,” she continues softly. “I just don’t think I can…I… I don’t think we can be together if you don’t want it.”

“I do. I do want to be with you.”

“Shane,” she gives a disbelieving look, something sharp. “Were you just lying awake in bed after that?”

Reluctantly, he nods. Avoids eye contact. She nods in understanding, squeezes his hand. “Listen, it’s none of my business. But have you dated other girls? Has this happened before?”

Shane doesn’t know how to answer that. The last girl he dated was Jessica, back in high school, but they were teenagers. They only shared a couple of chaste kisses, barely any tongue, even. After that, he’d hooked up with a couple of girls before his first MLH season, because he felt like he had to; and sure, the girls seemed to be decently pleased, but it wasn’t all the way, and they hadn’t seemed to notice that he wasn’t very enthusiastic. Anyway, that was years and years ago. Before Ilya. Or, well, not before he’d met Ilya. But before they’d done anything together. 

Rozanov, he corrects himself. He realizes Rose has asked him about girls, and he’s here thinking about Rozanov. 

“I know the sex stuff is a problem,” Shane starts, intending to say more, to explain himself somehow, but Rose cuts him off. 

“It’s not a problem,” she asserts. “A problem is something you can fix.”

“I can fix it,” Shane promises, his voice almost a whine. Rose shakes her head. “Shane, you don’t have to do this to yourself. It’s okay. I like you, you like me, but it doesn’t mean we have to be together, not like that. We can be friends.”

Fighting to keep the tears welling in his eyes from spilling out onto his cheeks, Shane rubs his temple. Rose squeezes his hand, releases it, and reaches over to take a sip of her water. 

Turning back to him, she starts, “Can I ask you– and you don’t have to tell me, but… have you ever been with someone that’s not a girl?”

Shane closes his eyes because he cannot possibly look at Rose right now. He can’t even look at himself, at his own internal thoughts. Because, fuck, the answer to Rose’s question is yes. Yes, he’s been with Ilya. 

In his mind, all he sees is Ilya. Ilya, in the showers after the CCM shoot, eyeing Shane.

Shane nods in response to her question, his head unbelievably heavy. 

“A guy?” Rose asks. Shane forces his head to nod again.

“Have you ever told anyone that before?” 

Shane shakes his head. 

“Was it different, with a guy?” 

He thinks of his first time with Ilya, how Ilya leaned down to kiss him in the stairwell before he left. “Of course.”

“Was it better?” Rose asks, and Shane’s thinking of kissing Ilya, of pulling on his face, how hungry he is for Ilya whenever they’re close. 

“Yeah. Uh, it was better.” 

Rose smiles at him in a way that makes Shane genuinely smile back. He actually can’t believe this is happening. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. He should feel scared, right? Panicked? But really, he thinks he just feels… relief. 

Rose lets him sit in the moment; gives him time to process the revelation before she speaks again.

“Should we go to bed? And sleep, and not anything more than that, ever again? Just actual friends. Best friends, really. I do really like you.”

“Yeah,” Shane laughs a little. “Yeah, I’m fucking tired. And yes. Friends. I–” he takes a deep breath and takes her hand. “Thanks, Rose. And you… You won’t tell anyone?”

Squeezing his hand lightly, Rose smiles. “I won’t tell a soul, Shane. Promise.”

“Okay,” Shane smiles back at her. The anxiety he had earlier feels miles away now; the reality of it being almost four in the morning is settling into his body, calling him to sleep. 

“Bed?” Rose prompts. 

“Bed,” Shane agrees easily, his eyelids already drooping. 

Right before he falls asleep, Shane thinks of Ilya again. Ilya’s curls, Ilya’s laugh, the moles on Ilya’s face, Ilya’s sweatshirt in the drawer in the guest room, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. He thinks of Ilya, Ilya asking him to stay over, making him a tuna melt, giving him a ginger ale, saying Shane, and how Shane felt when he said Ilya, and Shane thinks of how he left; the hurt on Ilya’s face as he fled. That is something Shane can fix. He will fix it.

— 

Jane: Hey. Can we talk?

Ilya stares at the words on his phone screen. He’s sitting in the airport, waiting to board the team flight to Montreal for their game tonight – the first game he’ll be playing against Hollander since he ran away from Ilya’s Boston penthouse in November. It’s been two months since then, during which Hollander’s started dating the gorgeous, stunning (and famous) Rose Landry. Because, of course, Hollander leaves Ilya and runs straight into the arms of the perfect woman. 

And now Hollander is texting him before the game. They usually text before games each other, to plan their hook-ups. But they aren’t going to fuck this time; Hollander made that clear when he balked at how Ilya said Shane. Now, he’s messaging and asking to “talk.” Ilya doesn’t want to talk; he doesn’t want to hear Hollander gush about how great his girlfriend is. What else is there to say? Maybe in a very nice, Canadian fashion, Hollander wants to try to be friends or some shit. Ilya cannot just be friends with Shane Hollander, that much he knows for sure.

Obviously, Ilya really fucking wants to see Hollander; he’s wanted to since November. Ilya has missed Hollander in a way that he refuses to admit to himself, but in a very real way where that sits right in the front of his chest and pinches whenever he finds a photo of Hollander online, smiling and happy and totally unaware of how he makes Ilya feel just by existing. It fucking sucks because Hollander doesn’t want anything to do with him. 

Frustrated, Ilya scowls at their text chain. Next to him, Marlow bumps his shoulder. 

“Hey man, you good?” 

“Mm, yes. Fine.” Ilya clicks his phone off, his own reflection in the darkened screen replacing the strange message from Hollander.

On the plane, Ilya finds that the only thing he can think about is Shane Hollander’s text message. He cycles through emotions; confusion (why is he texting Ilya?), frustration (why the fuck is he texting Ilya before the game?), fear (does Hollander want to tell him how happy he is with Rose Landry now? How they’re going to get married and have beautiful freckled children and never think about Ilya again?), hurt (Hollander doesn’t even know how this affects Ilya, he doesn’t care and Ilya has to process all of this by himself and it’s not fair), and lastly, very strangely, hope (Ilya has an opportunity to see Hollander again, in private. He might never have that opportunity again). The hope turns to sadness quickly, something in his chest deflating. He can’t have any of this, and he shouldn’t have even asked Hollander to stay in the first place; it’s Ilya’s mistake for saying Shane, and Hollander has actually done both of them a favor by running away and finding a girlfriend and leaving Ilya to get over his weird fucking obsession with Hollander. He needs to get over it, and talking with Hollander is not going to help. It will make it harder for Ilya to be okay. It will make him feel weak and sad and scared, and he might say something embarrassing that he can’t take back. 

Ilya sighs and closes his eyes. Fucking Shane Hollander. 

During the pre-game warm-ups, Ilya notices Hollander in his periphery, trying to catch Ilya’s eye. Ilya ignores it, pretends like Hollander doesn’t exist. He can’t deal with that right now, especially not before the game. 

At the first face-off, Hollander tries again to get Ilya to look at him. Ilya is all business, his focus almost aggressively on the game itself, the puck, the plays, like he’s trying to prove a point by being completely unbothered by Hollander. But, of course, Ilya’s fucking bothered. He’s bothered by how unfairly pretty Hollander looks, doe-eyed and desperate for Ilya’s attention, and yet still so sharp on the ice, snapping the puck and tearing down the rink because he’s made for hockey, made for this. Ilya’s bothered that one of the rookies murmurs something to him while they’re on the bench, about how he doesn’t understand how a guy as weird as Shane Hollander pulls a chick like Rose Landry. Ilya has to bite back a defense, covering up his bitterness with a cold, empty laugh and a deflection. And Ilya’s bothered that, as much as he wants to tell Hollander, yes, let’s talk, he can’t do it. He cannot face Hollander, knowing that he will only be rejected once again. He’s a coward, he thinks, and he can’t even give Hollander the decency of closure. 

The Metros win, 3-2, and by the end, Ilya is tired as fuck. 

The locker room is somewhat somber; no one likes to lose, especially not with such a close game against their biggest rivals. As captain, Ilya should do something to lift the mood, especially encourage the rookies. But he feels callous and raw, and he can’t make himself do it today, so he settles for acting neutral, which is an impressive compromise given the reality of his emotions. 

Luckily, Marlow seems to sense the need for leadership, and as Ilya’s alternate captain, he makes some constructive remarks to the team, which Ilya cosigns with supportive nods and tight-lipped smiles. 

Ilya walks back to the bus with his head down, body language staving off social interaction, but Marlow runs up beside him anyways. “Hey, Rozy, you good man? Still bothered about your Montreal girl?”

Ilya gives him a death glare, which Marlow promptly ignores. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Jane, but if you're not going to see her, maybe we should go out, man. Get your mind off of it.”

It’s actually a really good idea, and Ilya is grateful for his friend. “Yes, okay,” he agrees, trying not to give away anything. Marlow just smiles and nods. 

“I’ll tell Connors. Maybe just us tonight, huh?”

Ilya nods gratefully. “Yes, good.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. 

Jane: Please.

Please. It cuts through Ilya like a knife. He doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling, but it’s a lot. Hollander is pleading now to talk to Ilya. It softens Ilya’s heart a little, because fuck, Hollander wants to see him so badly that he’s willing to reduce himself to begging. 

But alongside this gooey feeling comes sharp hurt. Of course, Ilya wants to see Shane. Obviously, he wants nothing more. But it will hurt so much, it will be so bad. And Ilya is a coward. And, again, he’s angry. He’s angry that Hollander left how he did and immediately got a gorgeous girlfriend, and Ilya has had to see all the news articles and photos of them being beautiful and happy, and fuck that. Fuck that.

It’s so many feelings, and he’s cycling through them again, and it’s so fucking exhausting. This time, his irritation remains high because he’s additionally frustrated by the fact that this rollercoaster of emotions keeps happening every time Hollander texts him. Why the fuck does Hollander keep texting him?

Lily: Leave me alone, or I will block you.

Scowling at the screen, Ilya turns his phone off. That should shut Hollander up.  

—

It’s DEFCON 1 for Shane. He’s sitting in his stall, having just sent his needy, last-ditch effort text, which apparently was very much the wrong thing to say, because now Ilya has threatened to block him. Fuck, this is all so messed up, and it’s Shane’s fault, and he is so scared of doing the wrong thing and losing Ilya altogether. He needs to explain everything, but he’s afraid to put it all in a text, since it's easily screenshotted, or someone might read it over Ilya’s shoulder, or he could get hacked or anything. He could call Ilya – it’s actually not a bad option, but he’s worried Ilya won’t pick up, or worse, he’ll see the call and immediately block Shane. Besides, he can’t call Ilya now; Ilya’s probably still with his team. Shane can feel anxiety bubbling and building in his body; the lack of a solution heightens it. The panic starts to take hold of his throat, one of those indicators that he’s about to tip into a level of stress that will be impossible to hide, especially in the Metros locker room, surrounded by his teammates.

He’s ready to leave, having only stayed this long to send the text to Ilya, so he grabs his bag and makes for the door, ignoring his teammates altogether. It’s fine, really, he’d said some nice captain-ly things earlier, before they all showered off. 

Weaving his way to the exit seems to ward off a full-blown panic attack, but all the anxiety is still there, right under the surface of his skin. 

When he’s almost to his car, Shane’s phone starts buzzing, spiking his already sky-high heart rate. 

Incoming call: Rose Landry

Shane blinks through the insane squeeze he feels in his chest, takes a deep breath. Not Ilya. Rose. He clicks accept. “Shaaaane,” Rose’s voice calls through the phone. “I’m in the car, and you’re on speaker. Miles and Jiya are here.”

“Hi Shane,” comes Miles’s voice, rich and syrupy. 

“Hi,” is all Shane can muster. He is making a very valiant attempt to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. He probably could talk to Rose, but with her co-stars as witnesses? It’s a real challenge given how close he’s teetering to a meltdown.

“Are you going to come out with us tonight? Please say yes, I won’t make you dance, I promise.”

“I–” Shane’s voice gets caught in his throat. Fuck, he’s so overwhelmed. He fumbles to unlock his car, gets in quickly, and locks himself in.

“Shane? Are you there?”

Shane swallows, trying to wash the lump out of his throat. It doesn’t work. “I’m here,” he croaks, his voice very wrong. 

“Hang on,” Rose says, and hears the audio change, and when Rose speaks again, her voice is clearer, closer. “Okay, you’re not on speaker anymore. What’s going on? Are you okay, Shane?”

“Mm,” Shane leans his head against the headrest, closing his eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. 

“Keep breathing like that, that’s good,” Rose’s voice is softer, soothing. “I’ll do it with you.” He hears her intake of breath, a steady release. In. Out. 

Shane starts to even out, his chest relaxing a bit. “You’re doing great,” Rose encourages. “Okay?”

“Better,” Shane manages. “Thank you. Sorry.” He opens his eyes again, blinking the world back into focus. It’s fucking cold, he realizes, and clicks his key into the ignition so he can turn the heat on. 

“It’s fine, Shane, don’t apologize,” Rose says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now,” Shane says, because he thinks if he does, he will actually have a panic attack. “I just need to rest, I think. Game was tough. I’ll let you go.”

“Listen,” Rose keeps talking. “Go home and take care of yourself, Shane. Let me know if you need anything. My ringer is always on. I will literally drop everything, okay?”

Shane huffs a laugh. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Rose laughs. “But that’s what friends are for. Call me. Text me. Whatever you need.”

“I will,” Shane promises. “Thank you, Rose.”

“Of course. I’ll talk to you later.”

Chapter End Notes

i’m sorry guys i know DEFCON 1 is an american thing and shane’s canadian. pls forgive me

Chapter 2: The club scene, entirely different

Rose has had a long week. She’s been filming almost every day, non-stop, at an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It has been great, really, despite all the hours, because she particularly loves her costars. The director, while somewhat goofy, is generally kindhearted and quite earnest. All in all, she’s enjoying herself, but the last week has been particularly tiring; Rose is beyond ready to go out and dance and drink and do the opposite of work. 

She is caught off guard, obviously, when she calls Shane, and he’s teetering on the edge of full-blown panic. 

Rose has the suspicion that there are a lot of things Shane has never told anyone. She has quickly become a confidant, seeing as she is the only person to know his sexuality (well, she’s the only one he’s told, but Rose has suspicions that whoever it is Shane has slept with before probably has some inkling of his sexual preferences). So she doesn’t try to make him spill all the details leading to his anxiety-riddled state, especially since Miles and Jiya are in the car with her. Instead, she helps him breathe through it. 

Rose really does care about Shane, and she hopes he feels comfortable calling her later if he needs to. But she is also eager to find someone who actually does like-like her, like that. She seems to attract closeted men, which is fine, really, because she’s made a lot of great friends that way, but also it would be nice for her next boyfriend to actually want every part of her. Not that she’ll meet that next person in a crowded Montreal club, but hey, she might as well go out and have a good time. 

She wears a new dress, black, tight, and very short, with her pink kitten heels that have fluffy feathers on the toes. Jiya has a matching pair in black, which prompts Miles to jokingly complain that he’s left out of their matching set because he doesn’t have anything with fluffy feathers he could wear. Jiya changes the subject by demanding they all take a shot before they order a car to the club. They end up doing two, adding the extra for good luck.

It’s one of Rose’s favorite clubs in Montreal, which she’s immediately reminded of when they step inside. The music is pumping, already making her sway, and the club is full in a way that makes it feel active and alive.

The trio weave their way through the crowd to the bar. “Do you want to go to our table?” Jiya leans in to yell into Rose’s ear over the music. She shakes her head. She always reserves a table if she can, but right now she wants another drink, and then she wants to dance. There’s no reason to sit down right now. 

“Drink and dance,” she tells Jiya’s ear, and Jiya nods enthusiastically. Miles is one step ahead, leaning over the bar to get the bartender’s attention. He orders three drinks and then turns to the girls. Rose is itching to move, and it must be written all over her face because Miles grins and tells them, “Go, I’ll catch up.”

Beaming, Rose squeezes Miles’s arm in thanks and then grabs Jiya’s hand so they can maneuver through people without being separated. 

God, she’s been craving this. Jiya is just as down to dance as Rose is, and they jump and sway to the beat with enthusiasm. After a couple of minutes, Miles finds them, drinks in hand. He passes one to Jiya and another to Rose, and then leans in so he can speak directly into Rose’s ear. “Do you know Ilya Rozanov?”

“The Raiders captain?” Rose knows of him, of course, as someone who follows hockey, but not personally. She shakes her head no. 

“Does Shane? Because Rozanov is here. He saw you, and he’s asking where Shane is.”

Rose isn’t sure why exactly, but this triggers an alarm bell in her brain. Because Shane has never once mentioned Ilya Rozanov. Sure, Rose knows about the rivalry, but since Shane has never brought it up, she always assumed it was a marketing ploy, something akin to two leading actors flirting in their promotional interviews to drum up public interest in whatever project they were working on. But now they were in a packed club, and Ilya Rozanov is here too, supposedly, and he’s asking Miles about Shane. Maybe Ilya Rozanov has something to do with Shane’s panic earlier. Maybe. Rose will have to ask Shane what the scoop is on Rozanov.

“He’s hot as hell,” Miles smirks wryly. “Maybe you should try him next.”

Rose wrinkles her nose. “Gross, Miles.”

He laughs and sips his drink. “Whatever. Let’s dance.”

And they do. They dance and dance, and Rose forgets all about trying to find a new man because she’s having so much fun with her friends. 

After a bit, the music slows, and Miles taps her arm. “You have a text,” he says, handing her phone to her. He had it in his back pocket, since Rose didn’t want to bring a purse. Thank you, she mouths, because she doesn’t want to yell.

Shane: Hey, thanks for earlier. Have fun tonight. Maybe we can do dinner soon?

“Okay?” Jiya leans into Rose somewhat drunkenly. 

“Yeah!” Rose assures brightly. “Gonna get water,” she tells Jiya over the sound of the music.

Pushing through people, Rose escapes the dancefloor to take refuge at the bar. She leans over and asks the girl for a bottle of Perrier, typing out a response to Shane while she waits.

Rose: Literally, of course. I’ll text you tomorrow, and we can schedule dinner ❤️

She suddenly realizes someone is watching her; not an uncommon sensation for her, but she reflexively looks up anyway. And there, a few paces down the bar, is Ilya Rozanov. He’s wearing a silky shirt with some sort of skinned cat printed on it, a gold crucifix shining around his neck, slicked back curls, and a mischievous glint in his eye. He takes a swig of his beer and moves towards Rose.

“Ilya Rozanov,” Rozanov says and smirks at her like he’s going to win her over. He’s not. 

“Hi, I’m Rose,” she pretends like it’s not fucking weird. “Miles said you were asking about Shane?”

“I must congratulate him on his win,” Rozanov purrs, his voice is thick with sarcasm. “Hollander is here?” 

“No,” Rose says simply, and Rozanov’s brow furrows in confusion, waiting for her explanation. When one doesn’t come, he asks, “Why not? He does not like to dance with his girlfriend? He is so boring.” Rozanov spits out the word girlfriend with a slight sneer, also something that might go unnoticed by someone else. But not Rose.

“Not his girlfriend,” Rose corrects. She sets her phone down on the bar, crossing her arms. “So I guess you’re not friends, or he would have mentioned that.”

Rozanov’s mask drops, replaced by pure shock. “You broke up?”

“It was mutual. We’re better as friends.”

“Friends,” Rozanov repeats the word like he doesn’t quite believe it, eyes wandering away like he’s lost in thought. He glances at her again, concern wrinkling on his face ever so slightly.

“I didn’t know you and Shane were friends,” Rose says, hoping this will make Rozanov offer some sort of insight into his dynamic with Shane. 

“Ah,” Rozanov winces. “Best players since we were seventeen, always doing rivalry interviews and photo shoots. Is inevitable.” Inevitable, Rose finds the word choice notable.

“Yeah,” Rose lets herself laugh a little. “Yeah, I guess there’s no way anyone can think of Shane Hollander as a rival.”

Rozanov brightens, suddenly looking much younger and incredibly earnest. “Yes, he is so boring.”

“Do you know if something happened at the game today?” Rose says, knowing she probably shouldn’t, because it’s personal, but Rozanov only seems to be pretending not to care about Shane, so she asks anyway.

“What? No, I don’t think so. Why? Something happened to Hollander?”

Rose waves him off, regretting her decision to bring it up. “Ah, never mind then. I called him after the game to invite him out, and he was upset about something. Didn’t say what. So I just wondered. But it’s probably fine.”

Rozanov’s brow furrows in obvious concern. He taps his beer bottle absentmindedly, staring off in thought before he finds his words again. “Is he okay now? Do you know?”

“Yeah,” Rose feels real guilt now, like she’s betraying Shane’s trust, so she tries to be sparing with details. “Yeah, he just texted me a bit ago and seems okay. Don’t worry about it, really. Sorry, I brought it up, I thought you might know something.”

“Mm,” Rozanov hums, distracted by his own thoughts again. “He is still awake then.”

“I guess,” Rose says, confused. Rozanov barely registers this confirmation; he’s whipping out his phone. “Thank you, Rose Landry,” he tells her, and promptly disappears into the crowd. 

Well, that was fucking strange.

—

Shane is quite confident that he’s going to go stir-crazy. There’s no way he can sleep right now. His mind is being pulled like taffy into a million different catastrophic possibilities of his own future: a future without Ilya, a future where Ilya is angry with him and they never have a conversation about any of it, a future where Ilya meets a woman and falls in love and marries her and forgets about Shane altogether. 

He tries to watch a movie, but it’s like background noise; it does nothing to permeate his spiraling thoughts. Fuck, Shane needs a bigger distraction; he needs to get out of his apartment. And that’s how, despite how much he doesn’t usually like to go out, he finds himself driving to Ciel. He texts Rose first, but doesn’t say anything about trying to meet up with her, because he’s not even sure he’s going to the club; he just gets in his car and starts driving, and that’s where he ends up.

It’s not a bad plan, actually. He can drink a little and forget, and maybe he’ll be uncomfortable around all the people, but that will beat being miserable and heartbroken at home by himself.

He’s not exactly dressed for the club, in baggy jeans and his soft blue sweatshirt, but the bouncer recognizes him, doesn’t even ask for ID. “Damn, we got all the A-listers here tonight,” the guy laughs when he spots Shane walking up. Shane smiles at him politely. 

“Go see your girl, man,” the door guy adds, and Shane doesn’t bother to correct him, because who the fuck cares. Sooner or later, some reporter will ask him about Rose or Rose about Shane, and they can clarify that it’s amicably over, that they’re just friends now. 

The club is just as overwhelming as Shane had anticipated, but it doesn’t get under his skin like it sometimes does when he goes out with his team. It’s perfect; it’s distracting. The bass vibrates through his body, the darkness and colored lights narrow his world, and hide him in the crowd. There’s a smoke machine somewhere, further obscuring the world around him.

In hindsight, he probably should have told Rose he was coming, because it’s going to be slightly impossible to find her now. Shane heads to the bar, willing to cut loose a bit before he goes on a wild Rose-hunt.

While he’s waiting for his beer, he tries to text her, but his message doesn’t send. Sure, of course. 

“Hollzy?!” Shane turns at the sound of his hockey-nickname to see Cliff Marlow, standing right beside him at the bar. 

“No fucking way, dude!” Marlow’s laughing, slapping Shane on the shoulder like they’re old pals. Marlow is here. Are there other Raiders here? Could Ilya be here, too? Holy fuck, this was not the plan.

“Dude, I told Roz! I said Rose Landry is here, obviously Hollander’s in the building,” Marlow is shaking his head, grinning in his vindication.

So Ilya is here. Somewhere. Suddenly, it makes the club feel different: the bass, the smoke, the dark lights, it swirls into panic. At any moment, Shane could bump into Ilya, and what would Ilya say? Would he assume Shane had stalked him, followed him here? Would he be angry? Shane’s intention was not to put Ilya on the spot like this, in public, where anyone can see them. 

“Hey man, nice to see you. I gotta go,” Shane does his best, most polite greeting to Marlow and turns and runs. He completely forgets about the beer he’s ordered, needing air or water or somewhere to calm down or something. Can he calm down? It doesn’t seem possible now, anxiety clawing at his throat, his heart rate spiking dangerously, his hands starting to shake. His sweatshirt is too thick for the crowded space, choking Shane in sticky heat. 

Is there a patio? A bathroom? Shane doesn’t want to go out the front door, not after that interaction with the door guy. He doesn’t need the world knowing that Shane Hollander is fucking weird and has panic attacks at the club.

Pushing through people is only contributing to his mounting stress, and he feels a sob rip out of his body, the feeling of being completely overwhelmed and trapped overtaking him. The sound of his sob is dampened by the bass, absorbed into the walls of the club, no one even noticing Shane’s terror.

He’s not sure how, but he makes it through the crowd to the hall leading to the bathroom. He desperately pushes the bathroom door, only to be met face to face with Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Shane feels himself take a sharp intake of breath, and then the world seems to go white, static in his brain drowning everything out.

—

Ilya can’t even pretend to pay attention to anything or anyone. He is thinking about Shane. Shane and Rose broke up; Shane wants to talk; Shane said please, and Ilya threatened to block him; Rose said Shane was upset. What does that mean? Anxious or angry or something else?

He’s got to fix this, Ilya realizes. The ball is in his court. He stalks to a quiet corner, the hall leading to the bathroom, where the bass isn’t quite as overpowering and he’s less likely to be bothered by a passerby. He pulls out his phone, stares at it for a long time, typing out messages only to delete them.

Fuck this. There’s too much to say over text. Should he call Hollander? They don’t do that — they don’t call. Last time Ilya broke their unwritten rules, Shane ran away and got a movie-star girlfriend. So this needs to be really worth it. Undecided, Ilya rakes a hand through his hair and pivots to enter the bathroom.

It’s an all-gender restroom, with a dozen or so stalls for anyone to use. It’s relatively empty, which is surprising for a popular club, but maybe there’s another one somewhere else. He finds a stall, does his business, thinking, thinking, thinking the whole time.

He examines himself in the mirror as he washes his hands, fixes his hair a little, and centers his shirt on his shoulders. He looks put-together; he doesn’t feel it in the slightest.

Ilya considers that All-Star weekend is two weeks away, and both he and Hollander will be in attendance. They could definitely speak then, even fuck if Ilya is able to patch things up. 

If he waits for All-Stars, he won’t have to overanalyze what to say via text to get his thoughts across, or risk scaring Shane off with a phone call. This is a solid plan, Ilya thinks, and it means he doesn’t have to do anything reckless tonight.

But it means he’ll have to wait two weeks. And what if Shane is angry and upset with Ilya for threatening to block him? Or what if Shane gets a different girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?

Fuck, Ilya needs another drink. He’s doing it again, the catastrophizing.

He pushes the bathroom door to reenter the fray, and standing right there in front of him is Shane. Shane, who is not breathing normally, whose face is flushed with heat, whose hands are shaking, whose hair is messed up, pushed out of his face. Shane, whose sweatshirt sleeves are pushed up his arms like he tried to claw the fabric off. Shane, who is so pretty and almost definitely having an anxiety attack.

At the sight of Ilya, he seems to panic even more, his eyes growing wide and a sharp squeak of breath escaping his lips.

What is Shane doing here? Didn’t Rose just say he wasn’t at the club? Ilya can’t even begin to investigate these questions because Shane is very much not okay.

“Hey, hey, is okay, come,” Ilya drops his voice into something incredibly smooth and soft and soothing, and he holds the bathroom door open so Shane will enter, but Shane remains frozen in shock.

“Shane, you are having a panic attack. Come into the bathroom, please,” Ilya doesn’t want to touch him for fear he’ll make it worse, so instead, he begs and calls him Shane, hoping this will work to snap Shane into action.

It sort of works— Shane takes a tentative half-step forward, shaking badly. A girl comes up behind Ilya, trying to exit. Ilya takes the opportunity to tug on Shane’s sweatshirt sleeve, guiding him through the doorway into the bathroom. Ilya keeps leading him down to the handicapped stall, where he puts a hand on Shane’s lower back and lightly guides him in, locking it behind them. 

“Take a deep breath, okay, is okay, okay?”

Shane is trying, obviously, to breathe, but it’s not working. Tears are peeling out from the corners of his eyes, his breath is uneven and rapid, and Ilya’s chest hurts so much, he wants to wrap his arms around Shane and squeeze and take away all the anxiety. Shane’s eyes are full of fear; he keeps avoiding Ilya’s gaze, and Ilya worries his presence is making this worse. 

“Do you want me to go? I can get Rose?” Ilya says, desperate to help somehow, even if it means removing himself from the situation. Shane shakes his head rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut in a way that pushes tears down his cheeks. 

So Ilya tries the first thing he thought of, which is throwing his arms around Shane and holding him. “It’s okay, just breathe, breathe, Shane. You’re okay,” Ilya starts whispering in his ear, running a hand up and down Shane’s back in an attempt to soothe him. Shane clings to Ilya, and pressed together like this, Ilya can feel how badly Shane is shaking. He makes an effort to steady his own breath, taking deep breaths that Shane tries to match. 

“Yes, like that, breathe,” Ilya says encouragingly. He switches to Russian, lets words pour out easily, unguarded, since Shane can’t understand them anyway. “You are so strong, you are so perfect, breathe, breathe, my love, breathe. You are doing so good.”

Shane’s breathing deepens, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with Ilya’s. Ilya feels his fingers coiled into the back of Ilya’s shirt, and Ilya can’t help but relish the contact. 

“Sorry,” Shane finally croaks into Ilya’s neck. Of course, Shane is apologizing when Ilya is the one at fault. Ilya shushes him and keeps rubbing his back, feeling insanely guilty about how much he’s enjoying this physical contact. Now that Shane is calmer, no longer vibrating with anxiety, Ilya kind of wishes he could stay right here for the rest of the night. He’s missed Shane so much; his heart aches. But it’s a gross bathroom, and Shane is hot, definitely overheating from the combination of his sweatshirt and Ilya’s body heat. “Want to get out of here?” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear. It’s a stupid American pick-up line, but he hopes Shane understands the sincerity hidden in it. 

Shane lets out a little laugh, pulling away from their embrace to look Ilya in the eye. “You want to?” 

Fuck, Shane’s eyes are so big and hopeful, and Ilya wants to kiss him right here, right now. 

So he does. Something quiet, because they are in a public bathroom after all, albeit hidden in a stall. It’s small and chaste, a soft press of their lips together, Ilya holding Shane’s jaw gently. When Ilya pulls back, he gazes into Shane’s watery eyes and says, “Da. Yes.”

“Okay, um,” Shane takes a half step away from Ilya. “Do you want to go first, and then I’ll meet you outside? My car is just down the street-”

“You are okay to walk through again?” The club, Ilya means. He’s not sure Shane is 100% recovered from that monster panic attack. Shane doesn’t seem very confident either, but he shrugs.

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine.”

Ilya gives him a long look, considering before he speaks again. 

“Okay, you go first. This way, if you panic, I will find you. I will meet you outside, da? Do you need to tell Rose you are leaving?”

“No, she doesn’t know I’m here,” Shane says immediately, but then his brow furrows in confusion. “Wait, how did you know- you saw Rose?”

“Yes, I talked to her,” Ilya nods. 

“You talked to her,” Shane repeats, his eyes wide in disbelief. “What…what-”

“Don’t have another panic attack, please,” Ilya is half-joking, but there’s an edge of seriousness. Shane waves him off, annoyance on his face. 

“Whatever, fine, we’ll talk about it later. Jesus Christ,” Shane huffs to himself. “Okay, I’ll go first. Meet me down the block, okay? To the right, there’s a lot.”

“Mm, yes. To the right,” Ilya hums in agreement. Shane gives him a look of uncertainty, a flash of stress. Does he think Ilya’s going to disappear?

“I will call you if I cannot find you,” Ilya assures, which seems to work because Shane nods seriously. 

“Wait a minute before you leave,” he instructs Ilya. Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously. Go. Call me if you panic.”

“Okay,” Shane cracks the stall, looks around, and then slips out. Ilya locks it behind him. 

He whips out his phone and shoots a message to Connors and Marlow, telling them he’s headed out, don’t wait up. By the time he’s done that, he thinks enough buffer time has passed, so he opens the stall door and heads to the exit. The bathroom is empty, save for a pair of drunk girls engrossed in conversation by the sinks; they don’t even so much as glance in Ilya’s direction.

The club is just as loud and intense as before, but now Ilya filters it all through a second lens: how it might be impacting Shane. Don’t worry about that right now, just focus on getting out, Ilya tells himself. If he can’t find Shane outside the club, he can come back and look for him, or try calling him. He just hopes Shane can maneuver through all the people without spiraling. 

He’s almost out of the thick of the crowd when someone grabs his arm. He turns to see Rose Landry, her eyes clouded and dark with worry. Where they are, surrounded by the people on all sides, there’s no way they could hear each other, so Ilya motions for her to follow as he peels out, right near the main entrance. 

“What’s going on?” Rose has to yell in his ear, whatever song that’s playing is shaking the whole room. “I thought I saw Shane? But he’s gone?”

“He’s okay, I’m going to meet him,” Ilya shouts back.

“I’m coming with you,” Rose insists, fiery and protective. It’s too loud to argue, and Ilya doesn’t want to keep Shane waiting too long, or he might freak out again, so Ilya just rolls his eyes and lets Rose follow him to coat check. 

It’s a different person at coat check from when Ilya arrived, and this girl very obviously recognizes Rose Landry, but luckily does not seem to know hockey, let alone the Boston Raiders, and Ilya retrieves his black puffer without so much as a double take. Rose signs something for the girl, who’s beaming from ear to ear with the signed paper clutched to her body. “ThankyousomuchImsuchabigfanIhopeyouhaveagoodnightpleasecomebacksometime.”

Ilya pushes out the exit door without waiting for the interaction to conclude. Outside, a couple of other people loiter near the entrance, smoking and chatting, shivering and kicking snow around. One guy is eating a burrito. Ilya doesn’t see Shane, so he must have walked down the block. To the right, Ilya recalls. Behind him, he hears the sound of the exit door opening again, Rose on his tail. 

“Where is he?” Rose demands. 

“He said to the right,” Ilya supplies. “I don’t know why you are coming. You realize people are going to notice that Rose Landry left the club with her boyfriend’s biggest rival?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” Rose grumbles, trailing behind Ilya as he starts walking. 

“No one knows the ‘ex’ part,” Ilya says a bit bitterly. “I didn’t.”

Rose is studying him, undoubtedly trying to figure out the puzzle. “So what, you’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not my story to tell,” Ilya bites back. “Obviously.”

“Hmpf,” Rose snorts, but she seems appeased by this, Ilya’s respect for Shane’s privacy.

The walk is short; Shane is standing just inside the above-ground lot, shivering slightly in just his sweatshirt. Ilya’s coat is off before he can think it through; he’s shoving it to Shane, who’s so surprised to see Rose that he accepts it. 

“Rose?” Shane says, voice lilted in a question.

“I saw you inside,” she starts. “I saw you leave. I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I don’t know–” she glances at Ilya, back to Shane. “I don’t know what’s going on here, so I wanted to check.”

Shane looks horrified. “Oh, no, it’s– it’s– everything is fine, um, thanks, Rose.” Fucking Rose Landry is going to make Shane freak out again, Ilya thinks. Ilya steps towards Shane, who is just holding Ilya’s coat dumbly. He takes the coat from Shane and drapes it over Shane’s shoulders.

“Okay, you checked. You are good ex-girlfriend. Now you leave,” Ilya says. Rose looks to Shane for approval; he nods at her reassuringly, then he shoves the coat back to Ilya. 

“I don’t need your coat, asshole. I was just overheating inside. It’s nice to be cold.”

Fair enough, Ilya thinks with a shrug, and he gladly puts it back on. Rose is watching them, amusement in her eyes. “Okay, yeah, I’ll go. You boys have a good night.”

Shane is blushing furiously. “Bye, Rose.”

“Mm, yes. Bye, Rose,” Ilya agrees, willing her to fucking leave them alone. 

“Bye,” she laughs at Ilya, smirks at Shane, and turns back to the club.

“My car is over here,” Shane ducks his head. Ilya follows him to a boring-looking Jeep. 

“This is your car? Wow, big spender.”

“Fuck off,” Shane smiles shyly. “It’s good in the snow.”

He seems less stressed, even after the Rose Landry appearance, which Ilya is glad about. He tries to distract Shane on the drive, making jokes and comments about how terribly Buffalo is doing this season, how he’s looking forward to getting a tan in Florida. Ilya knows they have a lot of serious things to talk about, but it doesn’t seem right to start talking in the car when Shane keeps his eyes intently glued to the road. 

Ilya is so distracted by his attempts to distract Shane from anything remotely stressful that he doesn’t realize they aren’t going to the sex building until Shane turns into the underground parking deck of a fancy-looking high-rise. Not Shane’s investment property, where they usually meet up in Montreal.

“We are going to your home?” Ilya asks. He tries to phrase the question as though he’s indifferent, but really, he’s fucking thrilled. Ilya has never seen where Shane lives, not even after all these years. And now Shane, unprompted, drove them here, to his actual fucking home. Ilya rubs his jaw in disbelief. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Shane says sheepishly. “I hope that’s okay. I want to be home.”

Of course, it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s fucking fantastic. “Yes, I understand,” Ilya says instead.

Shane’s place is a penthouse, just like Ilya’s. It’s modern too, but unlike Ilya’s, it has a warmth to it. Clearly, it’s been decorated by a professional who has gone out of their way to make it cozy and welcoming, but it’s more than that. There are framed photographs on the walls, books on the shelves, and trophies in a case by the television. Shane lives here. Shane wakes up here, goes to sleep here, spends his life here, at least when he’s not on the road.

“I got it for a good price,” Shane supplies. Ilya frowns, scoffing. 

“What? I do not care, Hollander, we are rich. Could be a bad price, would not matter.”

Shane laughs. “Whatever, dude. Do you want something to drink? I have sparkling water, some soda–”

“Vodka?” Ilya raises his eyebrows in question. He’s expecting a no, he really only asked so he could tease Shane about his lack of drinking, but Shane brightens and says. “Yeah, I have some in the freezer.”

He pulls it out, and Ilya immediately notices that it’s a brand-new bottle. Why does Shane have an unopened handle of vodka in his freezer?

Shane pours Ilya two fingers in a glass and then grabs a ginger ale for himself from the fridge. Ilya takes the opportunity to corner Shane against the back of the fridge, his hands pressed onto Shane’s hips. 

“Wait,” Shane says, and Ilya steps back instantly. “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Ilya turns away, retrieves the vodka glass, and takes a sip. “I, ah. I am sorry for what I said. In text. I would not block you. I did not know you and Rose broke up.”

Shane shakes his head, scowling. “No, I understand, it’s fine. I’m sorry. For running away last time. It was different, and I got scared, and I–” 

Shane sighs and crosses his arms, almost like he’s hugging himself. 

“I’m gay.”

“Yes,” Ilya laughs, and Shane scoffs, looking annoyed. 

“I thought, I don’t know, I thought if I found the right woman, it would be easier. But it wasn’t.”

“Because Rose is not a man,” Ilya supplies. 

“No,” Shane says, and then quickly. “I mean, yes, that. But also… because she’s not… you.”

The admission sits heavily between them; Ilya stunned to silence. Clearing his throat, Shane continues. “Before I left – and again, I’m really sorry about that – but before that, it was nice.”

“Mm,” Ilya takes a sip of his vodka. He feels suddenly out of his depth, that the conversation is slipping into the territory of feelings he tries to seal up and ignore because he knows he can’t have it.

“I like you,” Shane says next. Fuck. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Ilya snaps, agony slipping into his voice. He sets his vodka glass down on the counter loudly. Shane narrows his eyes. 

“I think you like me too,” Shane says. Fucking Shane Hollander. “I don’t think I can go back to how it was before. I want… more. I want more of you. Do you want more? Of me?”

“We can’t,” Ilya chokes on his own words, suddenly aware that he is going to cry whether he likes it or not. He turns his head sharply away from Shane to hide his emotions, but Ilya can feel his lip trembling, obviously. 

“Hey,” Shane steps towards Ilya, closing the gap between them; his hands on Ilya’s cheeks. “Ilya.”

“I wouldn’t be able to go back to Russia,” Ilya offers weakly. “My father… is sick. I need to–”

Shane is wrapping his arms around Ilya, similar to how Ilya held him in the club bathroom, but this time it’s Shane doing the comforting. Ilya finds himself actually crying (when was the last time he cried?), and Shane is clinging tighter.

“I want you, too.” It absolutely wrecks Ilya to say this out loud. He feels awful and amazing at the same time, his precious Shane in his arms, reality sitting heavy in his heart. They can’t do this. They can’t be together, not for real. “But we can’t.”

Shane squeezes Ilya tighter, and Ilya finally gives in and hugs Shane back. They must stand like this for five minutes, Ilya fighting off the tears, Shane resolutely refusing to let go. It’s nice. It’s really fucking nice. It almost makes Ilya want to say fuck it, we can. But they can’t. They can’t, but Ilya can ignore that for now.

“Will you stay?” Shane finally releases Ilya and reaches up to wipe Ilya’s cheek. “I want you to stay.”

“Yes, I will stay,” Ilya smiles at Shane. His heart is so full, he is afraid it might burst or break or shatter into a million pieces.

Chapter 3: Marlow, very confused

Chapter Notes

Marlow keeps thinking about Roz, Rose Landry, and Shane Hollander.

He definitely thinks it’s strange when Roz tries to hide the fact that he’s frazzled by the sight of Rose Landry; Marlow never pegged Roz as a fangirl. Then Rozanov actually talks to Rose Landry. What is he playing at? Sure, Marlow knows Hollander and Rozanov are supposed to be rivals, but he’s never seen Rozanov do more than chirp Hollander, maybe make a few competitive remarks to the press. It isn’t like Rozanov to be legitimately mean-spirited (contrary to popular belief); Marlow thinks trying to steal Hollander’s girlfriend definitely falls into that category. Or is Roz already sleeping with Rose? That could explain his reaction to spotting her in the club, especially if he wasn’t expecting to see her. Or maybe Roz slept with her before, but not anymore. That would make more sense. It’s not like Marlow would know who all Roz had slept with over the years - despite his reputation, Roz isn’t much to kiss and tell. Rozanov won’t even tell Marlow a single detail about Montreal Jane.

Wait. Is Rose Landry Rozanov’s Montreal Jane? 

No, that wouldn’t make sense. Rose Landry doesn’t live in Montreal; she’s only filming here temporarily, right? So there’s no way it makes sense that Roz and her have been meeting up (and hooking up) in Montreal for years.

Then there is Hollander to consider. Shane Hollander shows up at the club, which makes sense since he’s dating Rose Landry. Marlow notes the evident flash of panic on Hollander’s face when Marlow greets him, which, on its own, he could write off as Hollander being somewhat awkward and caught off guard. But shortly after, Rozanov texts that he’s leaving. Again, that’s not necessarily out of character. Roz often leaves the club early with a girl, though it’s rare for him to give anyone a heads-up. And then Marlow realizes that Rose was no longer dancing with her co-stars. She’s gone too. 

This leads Marlow to a slightly unreasonable, but not implausible theory: Rozanov is involved with Rose Landry somehow, and Hollander found out, and they all left at the same time to go fight (Marlow’s really not sure about this detail) somewhere not in public.

Whatever. Okay. Marlow promptly forgets all of this, letting himself drink and dance and have a good time surrounded by beautiful blonde French-Canadian women. That is, until the next afternoon, when he’s scrolling social media as they wait for the team flight back to Boston, and he sees a blurry photo of Rozanov and Rose Landry leaving Ciel. 

So he didn’t imagine it. What has Rozy gotten himself into? He glances at Rozanov, who’s seated beside him. He’d come back to the hotel late that morning, almost missing the bus to the airport. Makes sense, Marlow thinks, if he was with Rose Landry all morning. What about Hollander? Marlow doesn’t like this one bit – it’s disrespectful, really, and Hollander’s the nicest guy in the league. He doesn’t deserve that.

“How was your morning?” Marlow asks, anticipating no information at all, but willing to try anyway. 

“Good,” Rozanov says brightly, engrossed in his phone. Marlow sneaks a peek; Roz is texting Montreal Jane. So Jane could be Rose Landry after all. The use of a fake name makes sense at least, since Rose is famous and all. The being-in-Montreal-for-the-last-couple-years part doesn’t seem to add up, but maybe they hook up in other cities too, and Marlow just hasn’t noticed. It’s not like he’s Rozy’s keeper, after all. 

“You hear much about Hollander and Rose Landry?”

Roz wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t look up. “They broke up,” he supplies automatically. 

Well, that’s suspicious as hell. How does Rozanov even know that? Is that public knowledge?

“How do you know that, man?” Marlow asks, trying and failing to seem nonchalant. Rozanov looks up from his phone, raises his eyebrows at Marlow. When Marlow doesn’t supply any further explanation for asking this question, Rozanov shrugs and says, “Hollander told me.”

“Hollander told you? Really?”

“Mm, yes,” Rozanoz shrugs, and goes back to his phone.

So is this like a cuck situation? Or a mutual break-up between Hollander and Rose so that Roz and Rose could be together? What the fuck?

Whatever is going on, Rozanov is putting his headphones in, clearly indicating he is done talking, so Marlow has to give up. For now.

Two days later, the news breaks that Hollander and Rose Landry have amicably parted ways. Marlow finds out because he’s been checking celebrity news sites religiously and has notifications turned on for a couple of tags. There’s no word on Rozanov and Landry, though.

Marlow finally asks Rozanov about it after practice, when it’s just the two of them walking back to their cars.

“What’s going on with you and Rose Landry?” 

Rozy looks completely shocked. “What?”

“I saw you. At the club. And then you left with her. And then Hollzy and her broke up. Like, no shade. But I’m just wondering. Is she your Jane?”

Rozanov stops in his tracks and gives Marlow a look that says: are you fucking out of your mind?

“Marley, what? No. What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Marlow feels the bite of embarrassment under his skin, but he refuses to give into it. “Roz, c’mon, don’t act surprised. Think about how it looks. If that’s not what’s happening, what’s going on, man?”

Rozanov shakes his head in disbelief, laughing a little. “No, Marley, I am not dating Rose Landry. She is not my Jane. How do you even know about that?”

“You’ve been texting for years,” Marlow says. “Every time we’re in Montreal, sometimes in Boston too. I don’t know, man, I got worried you were trying to steal Hollzy’s girl or something.”

Rozanov is now dying laughing, which makes Marlow laugh a little, too, although he doesn’t understand what’s so funny.

“No,” Roz tries to catch his breath. He’s wheezing. “No, I am not trying to steal Hollander’s girlfriend. They are broken up, by the way.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Marlow says somewhat defensively. Rozanov is wiping literal tears from his eyes. What the hell?

“You are really funny, Marley,” Rozy says with a grin, slapping Marlow on the shoulder and offering no further explanation. 

Less than two weeks later, it’s All-Stars weekend. Marlow is at the hotel’s rooftop bar, chatting with Carter Vaughan from the Admirals, when he sees Hollander enter and beeline directly to the bar, where Rozanov is seated. Odd.

Later that afternoon, Marlow spots Rozanov in the pool, playing with some of the players’ kids. Hollander is nearby on a lounger. Sure, that’s fine, nothing weird at all. Maybe Marlow only thinks he’s noticing things now that he’s paying attention.

During the game, Hollander and Rozanov are on fire. They’re reading each other's fucking minds, leaving everyone in the dust. It doesn’t matter, since it’s just All-Stars, but Marlow wonders again if he’s missing an important piece to this puzzle.

Shane scores with a fucking beautiful assist from Rozanov, and Rozy plants a huge kiss on the side of Hollander’s face. Not out of character for Rozy, sure, but Marlow sees how Roz’s attention lingers on Hollander, how Hollander blushes. 

And then later, after the game, both Rozanov and Hollander disappear early, nowhere to be found as a bunch of the younger, unmarried guys cluster around the hotel bar. Strange, but again, maybe it’s nothing. Marlow is fabricating things.

Who is Montreal Jane then? Maybe Marlow was wrong about it being Rose Landry, but could he be onto something, thinking Jane is a pseudonym?

One of the guys, a big guy from New Jersey named Jacobs, is telling some story, shouting, “And then I said no because it’s SHANE HOLLANDER. SHANE HOLLANDER! And I—“ Jacobs voice continues, but it seems to wash into the background of Marlow’s focus.

He’s just thinking, Shane. Jane. Shane. Jane.

Montreal. Montreal Jane. 

And suddenly it all clicks into place.

At first, he thinks there’s no way. He must be misunderstanding the Montreal Jane and Rozanov relationship if Shane Hollander is Jane. But then Marlow reconsiders all the facts. How moody Ilya was, right around the time Hollander and Rose Landry got together. How he didn’t want to see his Jane the last time they were in Montreal, how they went out, and Rozy got so startled by the sight of Rose Landry in the club. How freaked out Hollander was when he saw Marlow - probably thinking Roz was nearby. 

How hard Rozanov laughed when Marlow suggested that Rozanov was dating Rose Landry.

And yeah. It makes sense. Marlow understands why they would use the fake name, why Roz would be so guarded about Montreal Jane, even after all these years. Because Montreal Jane is a man. Because Montreal Jane is Rozanov's supposed biggest rival. Because Montreal Jane is Shane Hollander.

Marlow cannot believe this. This is a little bit fucking crazy and also a big fucking deal. 

Marlow excuses himself from the bar and retires to his hotel room early so he can process it all.

He wonders wildly if Rozanov is in love. During the game earlier that day, they did seem... smitten. Now that Marlow's thinking of it through that lens. And Marlow always thought Roz was harboring secret feelings for his Montreal hook-up. Could it be true? Does Roz even know? Does Hollander know? How does Hollander feel?

Marlow is hit with the realization that it’s actually none of his business; that this is serious shit. That this is incredibly, heartbreakingly sad. His heart hurts for his captain. For so many years, Marlow has seen Roz text Jane. How long? Does anyone else know? What about Rose Landry? What about all the girls Marlow has seen Roz take home? 

Fuck, he needs to talk to Roz. It’s none of his business, obviously, but he wants to be supportive. He doesn’t want his closest friend on the Raiders to have to go through all of this alone.

Well, but Rozanov has Shane. His biggest rival in the league and also his… lover?

So crazy.

It’s nearly 3 am when Marlow finally finds sleep.

Marlow decides not to bring it up. Yeah, he’s patting himself on the back for figuring it out, but Rozanov obviously doesn’t want anyone to know. So Marlow keeps his mouth shut, and he doesn’t say anything when the Metros come to town again. Rozy’s clearly got an extra pep in his step, but Marlow's glad he chose not to about Jane/Shane when Rozanov gets a call after the game and learns that his father has passed; the last thing Marlow wants is to add any stress to that.

Roz comes back a week and a half later. Following the trend of every hockey player ever, Rozanov does the typical “I’m fine” act, which Marlow does all the time himself, so he can clearly recognize the signs. And Rozanov’s dad just died, so he’s obviously not fine, but he does seem… softer around the edges. 

It’s when the Raiders are back in Montreal that things go to shit.

In Marlow’s defense, it’s a clean hit. He would never try to hurt Hollander; in fact, given what he (very, very strongly) suspects about the Metros captain and his own captain (and how nice Shane Hollander is), he would go so far as to avoid hurting Hollander. But it’s a clean hit, Hollander’s just not looking in the right direction, and he doesn’t see it coming.

Hayden Pike drops his gloves immediately, so Marlow can’t even discern if Hollander’s okay. Through the fray, Marlow does catch a glimpse of the scene. It’s somewhat haunting; Ilya hovering nearby, staring at Hollander’s crumpled, unmoving body on the ice. 

In the locker room, Roz won’t even look at him. Rather than confront Roz right here, in front of the team, Marlow chases him down after the game is over. Which is quite the feat, because Roz is hustling to get out of there.

Marlow catches up to him in some random hallway leading out of the underbelly of the stadium. 

“Hey, Cap, I’m sorry. It was a clean hit, but he wasn’t looking. I’m so sorry,” Marlow means every word of it, regret and worry and desperation seeping out of him.

Rozanov’s demeanor is hard, but shifts slightly towards confusion. “Yes, okay. I know, Marley.”

“I mean, dude, it’s not. It’s Hollander. I just need you to know I’m sorry, and I would never do that on purpose to him.”

Roz squints his eyes, studying Marlow. “Yes, is Hollander. I have to go.”

“You’re going to see him?”

Something in Rozanov’s facade cracks, and a hint of fear seeps through. 

“I will try.”

“Will you tell him I’m sorry? Please, Roz.”

Rozanov stares at him for a long moment, considering. Then he nods firmly. Relieved, Marlow lets him go. 

Marlow doesn’t sleep much that night; the hit replaying in his mind over and over. Rozanov’s haunted hovering over Hollander’s body, the terrified look in Rozanov's eye when Marlow talked to him in the hallway.

Rozanov is gone all night; he doesn’t come back to their shared hotel room until the next day, ten minutes before they’re supposed to leave for the airport.

“Is he okay?” Marlow is in the middle of shoving stuff into his duffel when the door clicks unlocked, and Rozy emerges.

Rozanov looks absolutely exhausted; his eyes are red, his curls wild. He doesn’t immediately answer Marlow’s question, so Marlow asks another.

“Jesus dude, did you get any sleep?”

Rozanov smiles, wide and unguarded. “Concussion and a fractured collarbone. He will be fine.”

“Thank god,” Marlow lets out a sigh that loosens the chokehold that’s been present since the game. Rozanov hums in agreement and moves to grab his stuff.

“You have time for a quick shower,” Marlow suggests, which gains him raised eyebrows from Rozy, wordlessly questioning. “You look like shit, man.”

Rozanov laughs. “Okay, fine. I shower.”

Marlow still doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t want to stress Roz out any more than he is.

When the Admirals win the cup, Marlow is at his parents’ place in Toronto. He's lounging on the couch with his sister and her wife, when Scott Hunter pulls someone from the crowd, a man, and kisses him on the mouth for all the world to see.

Holy shit, Marlow thinks, his focus on the TV razor-sharp. His second thought is: maybe this will make it easier for Ilya.

Roz comes back from the summer break different. He’s lighter, refreshed; words Marlow would never usually use to describe his friend when he gets back from time in Moscow.

“What’d you do this summer?” Marlow asks him, feigning nonchalance. Rozanov shrugs, “Relaxed.” He will not expand on this answer in any way whatsoever, unsurprisingly. It’s not like Roz is an open book.

Throughout the year, Rozanov is distant in a way he isn’t usually. He’s always on his phone, always sneaking away to call someone (Hollander, Marlow assumes) that he calls by Russian pet names and murmurs I love yous to. Marlow observes from afar, quietly thrilled. He does small things to show his support: using rainbow tape, mentioning his sister’s wife, and vocalizing his respect for Scott Hunter.

At the end of the season, Roz invites Marlow over to his apartment and breaks the news that he’s moving to Ottawa to play for the Centaurs.

“Wow,” Marlow is shocked, because the Centaurs suck. Roz must really love the man.

“Good for you, dude. You happy?”

Rozanov seems completely caught off guard by this reaction. “Yes,” he manages. “You are not mad?”

“No way, Roz,” Marlow shakes his head, a stupid smile on his face. “Gotta be close to Jane, right?”

Rozanov freezes, stares at Marlow, and narrows his eyes. “What would you know about Jane?”

“Nothing,” Marlow says truthfully. “Only a few things I’ve noticed.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing I would tell anyone. Ever.”

There’s something cloudy and distant in Roz’s eyes, which he blinks away, replaced by recognition. Does Roz realize Marlow knows? Knows what, exactly? Marlow decides it’s better to be somewhat forthright with his support, so Rozanov does not doubt that Marlow will be in his corner, no matter what’s to come. Even if he is leaving the Raiders for the worst team in the league. 

“Give him my best,” Marlow says and slaps Rozanov on the shoulder. “Funny how I thought it was Rose Landry, huh?”

Rozanov’s mask slips slowly, a grin emerging. “Ah, well, too many concussions," he chirps.

Marlow laughs. “I’m going to miss you, you asshole.”

Rozanov is beaming still, ear to ear. “Come visit. Will make you boring Canadian dinner.”

Marlow tries to hide how surprised he is at this. He can picture it now: Hollander domesticating the wild Rozanov, the two of them going on walks in the park, ordering takeout, and folding laundry while they watch TV. 

Or maybe Rozanov was never so wild. Just lost. Or in need of love. It makes Marlow a little sad. He hopes Roz will be happy in Canada. He makes a mental note to stay in touch; he won’t let Rozanov disappear on him. 

“Hey, Roz, can I ask, how long has it been going on with you two?”

Rozanov suppresses a smirk and taps his fingers on the table absentmindedly. 

“Summer before rookie season.”

The whole time. All of it. Marlow beams at his friend.

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

Ilya shrugs. “Crazy in love, maybe.”

True, Marlow thinks. Crazy in love.

Chapter End Notes

hope u enjoyed reading this <3 i sure had a good time writing it!!