Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, J.J. Boiziau, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Harris Drover, Troy Barrett, Roger Crowell, Dallas Kent, Rose Landry, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas

Additional Tags:

Mild Gore, Blood and Injury, Airplane Crashes, Mistaken Identity, Paparazzi, Grief/Mourning, Mild Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Character Death, Assumed Character Death, Compartmentalizing, Suicidal Thoughts, Crowell is a Dick, Coming Out, Found Family, Spoilers for The Long Game, Schrödinger's Shane, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Homophobic Language, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Panic Attacks

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-09 Completed: 2026-05-03 Words: 143,904 Chapters: 17/17

Say You'll Haunt Me

Summary

The plane carrying the Voyageurs home from Houston crashes just after take-off.

Shane is on board.

Notes

Okay, so in this, the Cen's plane does not experience engine trouble on the way to Florida. Instead, Shane’s plane crashes on the way home from Houston roughly around the same time period.

I'm not going to reveal who lives or dies until probably the end of chapter 3. And that includes Shane. So if the possibility of him dying is not your cup of tea this is not the fic for you. A big part of the first three chapters is the waiting for news. If heavy angst is not your thing, this is not the fic for you.

I'm aware there is no NHL team in Houston but I have some very petty pesonal beef with Dallas, TX as a city. So for the purposes of this fic, it's Houston.

Also, I'm aware Voyageurs is misspelled throughout the majority of the fic. Google Docs did a thing and I didn't catch it. I'll correct it eventually.

Hope you enjoy 😭

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Fic inspired by: Say You'll Haunt Me by Stone Sour. Specifically the 2nd verse.

January 13, 2021

9:23 AM

Houston, TX- Charter Flight 3771

Shane’s ribs are on fire as he takes his seat aboard the plane in Houston, more than ready to go home. Houston, fresh off a four game losing streak and desperate for a win, had put up one hell of a fight last night. The game went into almost fifteen minutes of overtime, tied 2-2, until Hayden managed to slide the puck between the exhausted goalie’s feet.  

Riding the high of the win, Shane hadn’t felt the damage last night and it hadn’t felt like a big deal at all after a hot shower, but he’s definitely feeling it now. He’d gotten hip-checked straight into a massive Houston defenseman’s perfectly placed elbow, hard enough to take the wind out of him. 

Might have been an accident. Maybe it was on purpose. Houston had played more aggressively than Shane was used to, and it felt like they were trying to take him out every time he stepped on the ice. 

Not the first time a team tried something like that. Houston was just a lot sneakier about it than most teams who engaged in dirty tactics to get the win.  

The injury isn't bad enough to keep him out of the next game, but it's bad enough to make the trip home uncomfortable. As Shane settles into the seat with a soft groan, he thinks of of how nice a hot shower will feel when he gets home, and how much nicer it will be if Ilya joins him.  

He shoots Ilya a quick text before they taxi for take-off to let him know he’s on his way. Shane wants to make sure Ilya is still planning to be there when he walks in the door.  

[Shane] Just got on the plane. Should be home around 2. Maybe before.

[Lily] I will be waiting. In your bed. Naked.

Shane stifles a gasp at the image that immediately follows. Ilya’s sleepy eyes, his lopsided smile, not a stitch on, half-tangled in dark green sheets. 

God, he’s fucking beautiful. 

“Fuck, Hollander. Didn’t need to see that,” Hayden murmurs as he plops down in the seat next to Shane. “You gotta start being more careful, buddy.” 

“Sorry,” Shane mutters back. “Wasn’t expecting it.” 

Hayden gives him a look, as if Shane must be an absolute idiot if he’s not fully and completely expecting dick pics from Ilya Rozanov at any given moment of the day. 

Which is… fair. 

“Wish Jackie would send me some sexy nudes when I’m on the road. She’s kinda self-conscious about it these days.”

“Why? Jackie looks great.” 

“I know. I tell her all the time how hot she is but she thinks I’m lying.” 

“Maybe she’s just worn out from chasing your offspring around all day. Probably doesn’t make her feel very sexy.” There’s a thump beneath them and Shane opens the window shade. It’s a normal plane sound, and they're still boarding, but he’s comforted by the sight of the baggage crew parked just outside. “Maybe you should do something nice for her. Take her out to dinner somewhere fancy. Buy her some expensive flowers on your way home. Or some jewelry.” 

Shane ignores the pang of jealousy over the fact that Hayden is allowed to take his wife to dinner without anyone freaking out. At the moment, having dinner somewhere casual with Ilya isn’t such a big deal anymore since they have the excuse of official foundation business, but anything with remotely romantic implications is completely off the table.

It’s not fucking fair they have to do things this way, and it’s exhausting to constantly have to hide how he feels in public.

“That’s a good idea,” Hayden says thoughtfully. “Didn’t expect that from you, considering.” 

“Considering what?” Shane asks, offended. 

“I just can’t picture you and, you know, Lily doing romantic shit, you know?” 

Shane is genuinely curious about what Hayden imagines when he thinks about that stuff. “What do you picture?” 

“You don’t wanna know, buddy.”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” 

“Like,” Hayden glances around and then pitches his voice lower as JJ sits in the row ahead of them. His cheeks are bright red all of a sudden. “Like, come on, man. I’ve seen you guys on the ice, you know?”

“And?” Shane isn’t going to lie and say he isn’t enjoying Hayden’s discomfort.

“I don’t know, but like Lily really gets off on throwing you around and he really seems to like it when you do it back, so… you know. Like rough stuff. But like all the time. Because you two are so damn competitive, it’s like, that has to translate into some really freaky hot sex.” 

“Jesus Christ, Hayden,” Shane says, laughing. Hayden’s not far off, but he’s wrong about it being all the time. Not often enough, as far as Shane is concerned. “You think about this a lot?”

“No!” Hayden’s cheeks turn an even brighter shade of red. “Hey man, you asked!” 

“You’re the one who brought it up.”  

“Screw you, man.” 

“It’s not always like that,” Shane says quietly. “Always hot, though.” 

“Okay, TMI.” 

“TMI,” Shane mocks. “You’re the one with the vivid imagination.”

Shane returns his attention to his phone. Hayden is right about one thing. They definitely need to be more careful. 

[Shane] Hayden saw that. You really need to start warning me first. You’re lucky it was just Hayden.

[Lily] He thought it was hot didn't he.

[Shane] Shut up. Warn me next time. 

He wants to say more, but the flight attendant announces it’s time to fasten seatbelts. Shane dutifully buckles his and puts his phone on airplane mode and tucks it into his carry on next to his wallet. 

“Ohmygod, you’re Shane Hollander!” the attendant hisses. He’s about Shane’s age, vaguely Asian, and much more built than a flight attendant has any right to be. His biceps are desperately straining against the sleeves of his uniform's white dress shirt. “You’re my favorite hockey player!”

“Of course he is,” Hayden mutters under his breath. Shane can actually hear his eyes rolling.

“That’s so nice of you to say.” Shane says, feeling intensely awkward. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. You don’t see people who look like us in sports much unless it’s like figure skating.” The man smiles brightly. “Representation matters, you know?” 

“Yeah. It does,” Shane says, which feels even more awkward. The league liked to make him the poster-boy for their diversity initiatives, but it has always been purely performative in a way that makes Shane very uncomfortable talking about it in this context. “Definitely.”

“I always wanted to play hockey,” the attendant says wistfully. “It always looked like so much fun.”

“You’re built like a hockey player. You never played?” Hayden says. 

“Aww. You’re so sweet. I’m just a gym rat who learned a long time ago that I really don’t like getting hit.” 

“But that’s the fun part!” Hayden says. He throws an elbow directly into Shane’s sore ribs, oblivious to Shane’s grunt of pain at the contact. “It’s Shane’s favorite. Especially if it’s Rozanov. They just love roughing each other up, don’tcha, Shane?”

“Hayden,” Shane warns. His cheeks start to warm and Hayden winks at him.

The asshole. 

The attendant is beaming at him. Shane pretends he doesn’t notice. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m being so unprofessional right now. Standing here acting like a silly fangirl,” the attendant says. He straightens his posture, clears his throat, and says formally, “Hi, my name is Sammy. We’ll be in the air shortly. Please let me know if there’s anything you need once we’ve reached cruising altitude.” 

“Thanks. Appreciate it,” Shane says. 

As soon as Sammy is gone, Shane slumps back in his seat and groans at his own inability to engage with anything more than polite, boring responses. 

“Sammy’s got heart eyes for you, buddy,” Hayden teases. “Should get his number.” 

“Stop. I’m happy, okay?” As if Hayden doesn’t know he’s not interested. Hayden just laughs and throws an elbow into Shane’s sore ribs again. “Ah. Fuck. Stop that, too.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry man. I can’t believe the ref didn’t call that bullshit. It was so fuckin’ obvious they were gunning for you!” 

Hayden goes on a rant about how bad the refs were and how dirty Houston had played as the plane starts its taxi toward the runway. Shane only half listens as he thinks of Ilya and the picture he should probably delete from his phone. He wishes he was already home, but he’ll have the real thing in person in just a few hours.  

The plane comes to a stop, then begins to accelerate. Shane’s done this so many times, it doesn’t phase him anymore, but Hayden, who has also done this a million times, still gets a little nervous during take off and landing. Hayden never says anything about it to avoid getting teased, but Shane notices that his hands are curled around the arm rests and his eyes are closed. 

He’ll relax once they’re at cruising altitude, like he always does. Then he’ll talk the rest of the way home, and Shane will welcome that because it will distract him from counting the minutes until they get there. 

A moment later, the plane lifts off the ground and begins to ascend. Shane’s stomach does the little flip thing it always does when the altitude changes rapidly, but otherwise, his thoughts are on Ilya and how bad he can’t wait to immediately get tossed into bed or bent over the nearest piece of furniture as soon as he walks in the door.

There’s a loud bang, then an explosion so powerful it actually hurts Shane’s ear drums. The whole plane tilts violently to the right at such a steep angle, Hayden is thrown against his side. 

“What the fuck, man?!” Hayden shouts as he tries to brace himself so he’s not laying halfway into Shane’s lap. His eyes are huge and round and scared as he stares through the window next to Shane. “Oh, fuck. Oh fuck!”

Through the window, the ground beneath them is way, way too close. Part of the wing is missing and there’s smoke pouring out from beneath it. The whole plane is shaking and things are falling into the aisles and the cabin is filled with curses and screams and startled shouts. 

The pilot seems to correct a little so they’re no longer perpendicular to the ground, but they’re still tilted and not climbing anymore. They’re descending, and descending fast. Tree tops pass by the windows and it sounds like the whole plane is coming apart. There’s an announcement that Shane doesn’t hear over the rushing in his ears or his thundering heart – he’s so fucking scared, he’s not even sure what he’s supposed to do. 

Beside him, Hayden keeps repeating oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck over and over again like a prayer. Someone screams. Someone is crying. In the seat in front of Shane, JJ is praying in French.

Shane doesn’t scream. He doesn’t pray. He thinks of Ilya, at the cottage, lying naked, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, his light brown curls a halo of gold around his face. He thinks of his lopsided grin, his passionate kisses, his mischievous winks at inappropriate times, and Shane’s heart hurts. He’ll never forgive whatever higher power that exists if he doesn’t ever get to see Ilya like that again. 

He only gets a second to think I’m going to die before they slam into the ground, hard. Shane flies face-first into the seat in front of him, then he’s slammed sideways into the window frame. The pain is intense and immediate and blinding and he’s not sure if he’s about to pass out or throw up. 

They’re still moving and things are falling all around them and whatever is going on outside is deafening and thunderous and the entire world is shaking. Something comes down on top of him, smashing into the top of his head so hard it feels like he’s been stabbed in the skull with a blunt knife. Hayden scream is cut short and he falls concerningly silent next to him.

The weight of the object presses down on Shane and it bounces against him, forcing him to slide lower in his seat to avoid being crushed by it.

He should have told Ilya he loved him in his last text. He should have sent a selfie back. 

If Shane dies, he doesn’t think Ilya will be okay. His parents won’t be okay. God, he’s not ready to go. Not yet. There's still too much to do.

When the world finally stops moving, Shane smells jet fuel and smoke. There’s blood in his mouth. Blood pouring out of his nose, staining his crisp white dress shirt and soaking through to his skin. His head is splitting – it hurts so bad, he can barely see. He can barely breathe between the smoke and the weight of whatever landed on top of him, and fuck, he can’t think straight, but he has to get out of here alive. 

Most of the screaming has stopped. Someone’s still crying. Someone else is coughing violently. Otherwise, it’s almost scarily quiet. 

Or maybe that’s just the ringing in his ears. High pitched and getting louder as his vision starts to go gray on the edges. 

Beside him, all he can see of Hayden is his legs and one hand pinned down to the arm rest with his fingers curled loosely around it. 

Shane needs to get out of here. He needs to get everyone out of here. There’s still a chance they can get out safely, he just needs to focus and get moving. He can’t afford to black out and nobody can afford to wait for help.

“Hayden,” he says and nudges his friend’s leg. His mouth is drier than sandpaper and his words are slurred and thick. “Hey. Hayden. Can you hear me?”

Hayden groans softly. His feet shuffle against the floor. His fingers twitch. 

Okay. First things first. Shane needs to get out of this seat and find a path to safety. An emergency exit or something. The cabin is tilted to the left, but Shane can see daylight coming from somewhere ahead of him. All he has to do is get to it and then he can get Hayden and everyone else out safely. 

He pushes against the object on top of him – it feels like plastic and looks like it’s part of the overhead storage, but it’s hard to tell through the haze. It doesn’t even budge and he gives up after a couple of tries, not willing to expend his energy on a futile endeavor. His best bet is to try and squeeze his way out through the footwell instead. 

Shane slides down into the narrow space and turns sideways. Hayden’s legs are in the way, making it even harder to squeeze through. When he pushes against them, they give easily, allowing just enough room to slide out into the aisle. 

The air is cleaner down here, less noxious and he takes a long, slow breath as she squirms his way out into the debris-filled aisle. 

Hayden doesn’t move or make a sound. 

Shane rises to his feet and glances around in search of the closest exit. Across the aisle, Coach Theriault is… not alive. There’s a huge shard of metal or something sticking out of his chest and more blood than Shane has ever seen in his life pools on the seat and the floor beneath him. Behind him, a pair of feet stick out into the aisle, but Shane can’t tell who they belong to.

The back third of the plane is gone. So is most of the cockpit. Both openings are blocked by sheets of twisted metal and cables that spark and there’s fucking fire everywhere. It smells like burning fuel and plastic and hair and – 

No. Nope. Not thinking about that. 

Just outside of what used to be the cockpit, Sammy the flight attendant is pinned beneath what might have been the pilot’s seat. There’s a growing puddle of blood beneath him but he’s struggling to free himself with the same desperation as a small animal caught in a trap.  

Shane doesn’t know who to address first. Sammy looks to be in more critical shape than Hayden. Sammy is also closer to the emergency exit and he’s trained to handle these situations. 

Two birds, one stone. 

Move, Shane.

Time seems to slow down as Shane throws the latch on the emergency exit, which is miraculously undamaged unlike everything else around him. He kicks it open and then cringes at the drop between the door and the ground. The other exit over the wing would be a better option, if it wasn’t covered in debris and fire and whoever’s body is beneath all that. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think, Shane.

They’re just going to have to jump. Maybe it’s not as far as it looks. If it is, they’re probably all going to break their legs, but that’s still way better than being burned alive or dying of smoke inhalation. 

Carefully, Shane lifts the pilot seat off of Sammy, who lets out an agonizing howl of pain. There’s a huge hole in his side that’s bleeding really bad and Shane’s not sure there’s anything he can do to help. He’s not skilled in treating wounds beyond the basics, and this isn’t something he can tourniquet until the emergency crews arrive.  

There’s no time to help him. He needs medical attention now. 

“There’s a button,” Sammy says. His eyes have gone glassy. “Delploys the slide.” 

“Perfect,” Shane says. He lifts Sammy into a sitting position, doing his best to ignore the scream that comes out of the other man. “Can you stand?”

The murmured response he gets is unintelligible. Sammy’s eyes roll back in his head. Even in the amber glow of fire, his skin is a sickly pale, his lips blue. 

Shane feels for a pulse. It’s slow, weak, barely there. 

Fuck. This guy is literally dying in his arms. 

Then he actually fucking does. He goes completely limp. He exhales, and then fails to draw another breath. 

Shane feels sick. His head is spinning and his own skin has grown cold and clammy beneath his dress shirt. There’s too much smoke to breathe comfortably and he’s starting to lose his focus. His thoughts turn to Ilya, to what he’ll think or do if Shane dies. 

He lays Sammy down and rises to his feet, wondering where the hell the emergency crews are. It feels like it’s been ages since they crashed, though in reality it’s probably only been a couple of minutes since they hit the ground. He’s not sure where they landed but he can see the runway through the door and the control tower in the distance, so it shouldn’t take that long. 

But shouldn’t they be here already?

He returns to Hayden, coughing as he inhales a lungful of smoke. It burns his throat and his eyes are watering so much, he can hardly see where he’s going. He almost trips on JJ’s feet, which stick out beneath the seat in front of him. Shane can hear JJ whimpering, maybe crying, possibly still praying. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Shane says. “JJ. Hey. Can you hear me?”

“Shane?” JJ peeks out at him from the floor, wide awake, his terrified eyes as round as pucks. “Holy shit, Shane! What the fuck just happened? What the fuck?” 

There’s blood all over JJ’s face. There’s a deep cut on his forehead that disappears into his hairline and his nose is bleeding but neither of those things look fatal. 

“Hey. Take a breath,” Shane says and offers JJ his hand. “Can you help me? Hayden’s trapped.”

JJ blinks rapidly but doesn’t move for a second. He seems petrified, and Shane doesn’t blame him because honestly, what the fuck, but they’re going to die here if they don’t get it together. 

“JJ. Help me,” Shane orders. “Now.” 

There’s whooshing sound from the back of the plane and a surge of heat that swells over him and Shane instinctively drops to the floor. He lands on a hard-shelled carry-on bag that reminds him his ribs are jacked and his head is fucked is too, but he goes down just in time to avoid the flames rolling along the ceiling above him. Someone starts screaming again and it’s so fucking overwhelming, Shane almost shuts down. 

“What do you need me to do, man?” JJ asks in a shaky voice as he scoots out from under the seats.  

“Help me lift this off him, and then you're going to get the fuck out.”

Something blows up somewhere below them and the plane shifts toward the left with a violent shudder. Shane has to grab onto the back of Hayden’s seat to stop himself from being thrown backward. 

This whole thing is going to collapse all around them, but Shane can’t in good conscience leave Hayden here to die. Or anyone else, either. He can’t afford to freak the fuck out, no matter how much easier that would be than any of this.  

“On three,” Shane says and grips the edge of the fallen overhead storage bin that’s currently crushing Hayden into the seat. It’s heavy as shit and it takes the both of them to lift it. “Hayden, come on man. Go.”

Hayden doesn’t move. His hand twitches and he lets out a soft moan, but he doesn’t fucking move. Shane wants to shake him and scream in his face, and he would if he could actually get to his face.

“I think he’s passed out,” JJ says nervously. He stares at the encroaching flames. “We should get the fuck out of here, Shane.”

“Just fucking – just try one more time, okay? I’ll lift, you drag him out.” Shane coughs as he breathes in a fresh wave of noxious smoke. The pain in his head is getting worse and his vision is so blurry it’s gotten hard to see anything clearly. 

“Come on, man. I don’t want to die,” JJ says. “We need to go.”

“I fucking know that!” Shane snaps. “What do you think I’m trying to do? Just fucking help me, goddamnit!” 

Someone in the back starts pleading, sobbing – Shane hears someone call his name, and he realizes he’s not going to be able to save everyone. A lot of them might already be dead for all he knows, but if he can save the ones he can save, he’s going to. This is his team. He’s the captain, and only a shit captain would save himself first. That’s not the way it works. 

“Get ready, JJ.” With every last bit of his strength, Shane lifts the weight off Hayden’s body once more. “Come on, man. Hurry.” 

JJ goes to the floor as he drags Hayden’s semi-limp body out into the aisle. Hayden’s shriek is unlike anything Shane has ever heard outside of a horror movie. Shane doesn’t look too hard to find out why. He can’t handle that right now.  

Shane lets go of the bin and dissolves into a coughing fit so bad, it sends him to his knees. Every movement sends a knife-blade of pain through his head and neck, and he comes very close to passing out right there. 

He needs to focus. He has one goal right now, and that is to get everyone he can off this plane before it’s too late. 

Get up, Shane. Keep moving. Fight through it. No different than a tough game. It's just strategy.

JJ pulls him to his feet and Shane steadies himself against the seat beside him, fighting back a wave of exhaustion and panic so strong he almost folds again. He’s so light-headed. So fucking tired. 

“Shane.” JJ nudges him. “Don’t fucking freak out on me right now.”

The reminder is exactly what he needs to pull himself together. He can freak the fuck out later, after he’s off this fucking flaming death trap and breathing fresh fucking air.

Together they lift Hayden to his feet but Hayden immediately crumples as if both legs are broken or paralyzed. Shane prays that it’s the former, but he’ll take the second if it means Hayden lives.   

At the exit door, Shane kicks the button Sammy mentioned and he sucks in lung-fulls of fresh air from the open door as the bright yellow slide deploys. In the distance, he sees the lights of a dozen or more emergency vehicles headed their way, speeding down the runway all at once. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says to Hayden as they lower him onto the slide. “I’ll see you at the bottom.” 

Hayden leaves a vivid red bloody streak on the yellow material of the slide on the way down. Shane doesn’t want to think about the source. 

“You next,” Shane tells JJ. “Go.”

“And what are you going to do?” he asks in French. 

“Captain goes down with the ship, right?”

“Fuck no, Hollander. Don’t be an idiot.” 

“I’m just going to check and see if there’s anyone one else, okay? I’ll be right behind you.” 

“Shane –”

“Go on.” He pauses and grabs JJ by the shoulders and shoves him down the slide.

Shane doesn’t wait for JJ to make it to the bottom. He turns back toward whoever it is that’s still sobbing inside. Comeau, maybe. Or the rookie, Higgins. They’d been in the row behind him. 

It seems like everything is on fire now. He doesn't plan to stay long, just long enough to make sure he’s not leaving anyone behind.

Shane thinks he maybe needs some sort of protection from the flames, just in case. Blindly he grabs for the scattered articles of clothing nearby and finds a welder’s-style jacket with a hood. It’s so fucking hot in here already, but the thick canvas material will protect him a little better than the button-down dress shirt he’s wearing. He pulls the jacket on and zips it, then pulls the hood over his head and tightens the toggles until everything but his eyes are covered. 

Someone calls his name, Hollander, and Shane goes down on all fours to crawl beneath the worst of the smoke. He can’t tell who it might be, and it doesn’t matter. If he can get to them in the next minute or so, they may have still have a chance.  

This is such a bad fucking idea, but Shane is no coward. He won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t at least try.  

As he moves along the floor, he is very quickly overcome by the smoke and the heat and the blinding pain that continues to ratchet up inside his skull. Every time he sucks in a breath, he starts to cough. Still, determined, he belly-crawls along the floor toward the crying man until he can’t hear him anymore over the wailing sirens outside. 

His hand lands on something soft – his own bag, and Shane finally loses his battle against freaking the fuck out. He thought he was a lot closer to whomever was calling out to him than this. 

And whoever was calling his name has stopped. The only sound is the crackle of the fire consuming everything around him. 

He’s going to have to turn back if he wants to get out alive. It would be stupid to keep going.

There’s another heavy shudder and something that falls from the ceiling slams into the back of his legs, pinning him to the floor. A shock of sickening pain slices through his left calf, a cracking sensation that he feels all the way up his spine, and then total numbness in his left foot. 

God, he can’t fucking breathe and the persistent grayness around the edges of his vision is starting to turn black. His head hurts so bad now that pain is all he can focus on as the world dissolves into a watercolor haze of orange and black and shimmery silver. 

He needs to rest for a minute. Just for a second. To re-orient himself and catch his breath. He lets his head drop against the floor, where there’s so little air left and he tries to calm his racing heart with thoughts of Ilya’s smiling face and smoldering hazel eyes. Ilya is all he wants right now. 

With his free hand, he withdraws his phone from the side pocket of his bag and fumbles with the screen to turn off airplane mode. 

[Shane] I need you to know that I wanted forever with you. I’d like to think you wanted the same. So if we don’t get that, it won’t be because I didn’t want it. I do. So much.

[Shane] I wish we got more time. Whatever happens, Ilya, I need you to stick around. Not for me but for yourself. You deserve only good things and the world is a better place with you in it. 

It’s getting hard to see. Hard to keep his eyes open. He starts to cough again and this time, he can’t seem to stop. Every breath makes it worse.

[Shane] I love you so fucking much. Thank you for loving me back. Thank you for the time we did get. And please tell my parents I love them. XO Shane

Shane closes his eyes, unable to stop the rolling darkness from overtaking him like a tidal wave. He fights it with everything he’s got, but there’s no stopping it. 

Ilya’s soft, sleepy smile is the last thing he thinks of before the darkness swallows him whole.     

10:43 AM

Ottawa

Ilya’s packing his bag for his trip to Shane’s place when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He reaches for it, expecting to see an e-mail alert or some other nonsense notification, which it is – user @ilyatrolls81 tagged him in some stupid shit on instagram, but there are also 3 missed texts from Shane from an hour ago that must have come while he was in the shower.

He frowns at the phone and mentally prepares for the bad news that Shane’s flight has been delayed. It would be annoying if that happened. It means they’ll get less time together and the time they do get already feels too little and precious to waste on late planes and traffic. 

The words on the screen don’t make sense to him. It’s like Shane is saying goodbye. Like he’s breaking up or something. Except he isn’t. 

Ilya thinks he must have misunderstood, so he reads the texts again, slowly. This time, the words make him dizzy, each sentence feeding an unpleasant, ugly feeling in his gut.  

Ilya finds himself sitting on the floor beside his bed, calling Shane to ask what the hell this is about, but his phone goes to voicemail immediately. He hangs up and tries again. And again. And again.  

[Ilya] What the fuck Shane? Call me back. 

Ilya’s phone rings less than a minute later, but it is not Shane calling him back, it’s Yuna. 

And Ilya knows. In his heart, he knows.

Something bad has happened. 

“Ilya.” Yuna is crying. He can hear it in her voice. A knot forms in Ilya’s throat that prevents him from answering her back. “Have you seen the news?” 

“What news?” he croaks around the small planet lodged in his trachea. “What happened? I got some texts from Shane–”

“His plane crashed. Just after take-off.” She sounds out of breath and dazed. “It’s bad.”

Ilya feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on him. It gets hard to breathe and his eyes burn. He suddenly feels like he’s going to pass out. 

He can’t ask Yuna if Shane is gone. He doesn’t know how to ask and he doesn’t want to know if he is. That kind of truth will destroy him.

“They’re not giving me any information,” she says angrily, tearfully “Not the airline and not the Voyagers management. The only thing they’ve said is that there are casualties.” 

Ilya’s brain stumbles on the last word. It’s not one he knows exactly, but he’s heard it before. He doesn’t know the exact definition, but from context, he assumes it means that people have died. 

Yuna sniffles and takes a sharp shuddery breath. “I’m going to fly to Houston. In case –”

She doesn’t finish that sentence but Ilya knows what she means. In case Shane is gone. In case she has to deal with making arrangements.

“I will come with you.” Ilya’s heart is cracking in two, but he is not going to sit at home and wait for news, all alone. “Have you booked a flight?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. I will do this and then I will come get you.” 

“Okay.” 

“David will be coming, too, yes? So three tickets?” 

“He’s in Vancouver. He’ll meet us there.” 

“Okay. We will be on the next flight out.” Ilya thinks of Shane’s texts and the implied farewell. He’s not sure he wants to share those with Yuna yet. “Do not lose hope yet, Yuna.”

He sounds so much calmer and so much more confident than he feels. On the inside, he’s terrified. 

Ilya books two first class tickets to Houston before they hang up – first class out of Montreal because it’s the earliest direct flight available. He books two rooms at the hotel closest to the airport, too, just so they have somewhere to go if they need to sleep to fall apart in private.  

He finishes packing in record time and heads out, arriving five minutes ahead of schedule. 

Shane would be proud, though he would still consider five minutes early late. 

There are dozens of text messages on his phone when he pulls into the Hollander’s driveway that he doesn’t have the strength to look at right now. He’s focused only on keeping it together for Yuna’s sake, though he’s close to his tipping point. It won’t take much to push him off that ledge and even kind words from friends could be the thing that does it. 

Having something to focus on helps. Without that, Ilya would not have made it out of the house. He would still be sitting on his bedroom floor, trying not to picture what his life would look like without Shane in it. 

For now, his job is to support Yuna. It’s the least he can do for her and for Shane for giving him a family.  

Yuna is waiting for him when he rings the bell, as if she was packed ready to go the second they ended their call earlier. Ilya doesn’t waste time on pleasantries and neither does she. He takes her bag and tosses it in the back alongside his own, and in minutes they’re on the road. 

“Is there any news?” he asks only after they’re halfway to the airport.

“Just speculation on what happened. They’re saying maybe a bird-strike or a mechanical failure.” 

Ilya has not seen images of the crash and he does not care what caused it. He does not want to look at any of it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to look. Ilya could barely stand to see the aftermath of Shane getting zambonied by Marlow, so seeing the plane Shane was on in pieces all over the ground would completely break him. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. Ilya has to put his fear aside and hope for the best. There will be time to fall apart later.

He hopes it won’t come to that, but Ilya has never been allowed to keep the things he loves for very long. 

Chapter 2

January 13, 2021

12:45 PM

Montreal

Ilya makes it to Montreal in record time. He breaks a dozen traffic laws on the way and Yuna doesn’t say a word. She’d been too preoccupied with her phone to pay attention, quietly looking for updates and answering texts. Occasionally, she takes or makes a call, but they don’t talk about it. 

It’s not like Ilya is in the mood for conversation and it feels dangerous to speak of it. Like acknowledging that this is real and it’s happening means life as he knows it is over. Talking is too hard right now anyway. His thoughts are too tangled to find the right words. He’s too emotional to say what he means in English. 

Ilya’s not ready to accept defeat yet. Shane is alive until there is confirmation otherwise. Asking questions and refreshing social media and news feeds will not help anything or give him answers any sooner. 

If doing that makes Yuna feel better, though, Ilya won’t judge her for it. Shane is her child and she must be even more terrified of bad news than he is. He suspects any mother would be. 

“Crowell has canceled the next two games for the entire league,” Yuna says distantly as Ilya turns into the airport entrance. “All of the Voyageurs remaining season games are to be determined.”  

Ilya hasn’t even thought about hockey since he saw Shane’s texts. He can’t even imagine having to play Detroit tomorrow night when Shane is the only thing on his mind. 

It’s not a good sign that so many games have been canceled or that the rest of the Voyageurs season is already up in the air but Ilya can’t let himself think about what that means right now. 

“They’re being very quiet about whether or not there are survivors,” she says. 

“They are thinking about optics. Not the people.” Ilya says. “Or their families."

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes, because that is how it is. They are doing damage control right now.” 

Yuna draws in a sharp breath and lets it out slowly. “I suppose you’re right. Crowell’s not even a hockey player.”

“Yes. All about the money and the image for him.” 

Ilya does not share his views of the league often but there are things on the corporate side of things under Commissioner Crowell’s leadership that bother him. He has seen and heard too many things over the years to believe that they genuinely care about their players. He’s seen injured players be pressured to perform before the injury has fully healed. He’s seen players be told to shut the fuck up about their personal causes and beliefs if they don’t align with the league. He’s seen queer players benched until they quit. Minorities being bullied and harrassed, even by fellow players, without any consequences, all while being used as evidence that they are inclusive. Rapists and abusers are celebrated and victims called liars. Drug and alcohol abuse stays hidden. Those with mental health issues are ignored or told to suck it up. 

Historically, anything that might damage the league’s reputation is either silenced or covered up.

He expects this will be exploited. A terrible tragedy will sell more merchandise and they have to make up for the lost revenue from all those canceled Voyageurs games somehow. It is all about profit and looking good and wholesome to the public. He expects that they will milk this for every single dollar they can get out of it.

Ilya knows this because he has seen it in action. The only reason the league didn’t force Scott Hunter into retirement is because he gained so many new fans by coming out so publicly, and they realized that silencing him or burying it would have hurt both their image and their bottom line. 

Scott Hunter is everything Crowell does not want in the league – an advocate who won’t shut up and won’t stop calling out bad actors, bigotry, racists, transphobes, sexists, and homophobes. They do not like that Hunter defies their hyper-masculine stereotype, and they do not like the way he came out, but his jerseys are still in high demand and he’s playing the best hockey of his life. Hunter’s name alone sells a lot of tickets, both home and away, but the league couldn’t care less about him as a human being. He is a product, just like every other player in the league. He’s just a way for them to pretend how inclusive they are.   

Ilya has thought about this a lot in terms of his own situation. It is very possible that in coming out, he and Shane might get the same reception from fans as Hunter, but their situation is so much more complicated. They will make the league look like liars for debunking an entire decade of manufactured hatred that never really existed. They risk being benched for not disclosing their relationship to their respective management teams. Ilya himself risks having to return to Russia, where the punishment for this is too severe to contemplate. 

And none of that even matters now as Ilya faces the possibility that Shane is gone. No one will ever know how much they love one another and Ilya will have to grieve in private so that no one knows. 

That thought strikes him like a lightning bolt and his hands loosen on the steering wheel for a second – what the fuck is he supposed to do without Shane – and he corrects before the car swerves too hard, but it leaves him breathless and scared that this will not have the kind of outcome he’s hoping for. 

“I can’t take not knowing,” Yuna says. “I just need some answers.”

Ilya doesn’t want to know. He’s too well acquainted with the finality of death to chase answers. In not knowing, the possibility of a future still exists. He would rather stay in limbo, where he and Shane can have forever. 

I wanted forever with you.

If we don’t get that, it won’t because I didn’t want it.

God. His words sounded so final. 

“I hope they will be good answers,” Ilya says. He hangs a left of the main road and into long-term parking near the terminal. “We will know soon.” 

A few minutes later, they’re standing just outside the elevator in the parking garage, Ilya clutching both of their bags in one hand when the man pops out from behind a concrete pillar. He shoves a microphone at Yuna, who nearly drops her phone, startled by how quickly he came out of nowhere.

“Mrs. Hollander. Can you comment on the plane crash? Was Shane on board? Have you been given any information about the number of casualties?” 

This fucking guy must have been waiting for them. How he fucking knew is anyone’s guess, but Ilya immediately steps in front of Yuna and stares the reporter down. She should not have to deal with this and these stupid reporters should know better. 

“Go away. She does not have a comment.”

The reporter’s eyes widen at the sight of him. It’s not fear but recognition. “Mr. Rozanov –” 

“I will not be giving a comment, either. Now go away.” 

The rough timbre of his voice and unwavering stare is enough to make the reporter shrink back, his hands held up in surrender. From somewhere nearby, there’s the soft click of a camera shutter.

Ilya should have expected this. The potential loss of an entire hockey team is major news, he just didn’t expect to be ambushed in a parking garage by reporters looking for a soundbyte. He gets enough of that already, and he does not need more in his personal time when things are so very personal. 

Now extremely irritated, Ilya jabs the button for the elevator a second time and is relieved when it slides open a beat later. Inside, Yuna leans back into the wall and closes her eyes as the doors shut. 

“I’m sorry that guy was an asshole.” 

Yuna lays a hand against his arm and gives it a squeeze without looking at him. “I think there’s going to be a lot of that for a while.” 

There is a lot of it immediately. As soon as they step off the elevator, there are four more of them, two of them from local news stations. That fucking guy must have called all his friends, Ilya thinks. They’re surrounded on the sidewalk, microphones shoved toward their faces, each of them yelling their questions over the others. 

They all have the same questions as the man downstairs and Ilya waves them off, growing increasingly pissed off by their aggressiveness. He is used to the press asking stupid personal questions, but this feels so invasive and horrible that he wishes he’d thought to hire security. Ilya might be used to this, but Yuna is not and he’s going to do what he needs to do to protect her from that. 

It’s tempting to answer them with his middle finger and a few ugly curses in Russian, but it’s better to deny them anything they can use. He pushes his way rudely through the small gathering, taking Yuna’s hand in his as he marches toward the main terminal. 

No doubt, those reporters are now posting photos online and speculating about why Yuna Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are traveling to Houston together. The foundation had helped change the public perception of his relationship with Shane, but there are still so many that want to continue pushing the rivalry narrative because their public friendship has not changed how they play against each other. 

He has a bad feeling that this will be used to speculate about things that they don’t understand. Ilya knows enough about fandom and internet spaces to know it takes very little for rumors to start. 

Ilya is keyed up and angry by the time they reach the VIP lounge near their gate, but the second the door closes behind him, he relaxes a little. It’s mostly empty, except for a pair of men in suits that are more interested in taking meetings on their laptops than they are in other patrons. One of them briefly gives Ilya a dirty look, probably because he’s wearing track pants and soccer shoes in a place reserved for rich people, but one loaded glare from Ilya has him minding his own business again. 

They have about thirty minutes before boarding. Ilya doesn’t want to look at his phone, but there are now too many messages and notifications on his phone to keep ignoring them. 

One is the group chat for the Cens. As expected, it’s full of shock and disbelief from his teammates. Wyatt seems to be the one sharing updates, but Ilya just skims the conversation until his name is mentioned. 

[Wyatt]: Rozy! You’re probably not paying attention to this, but check in please if you see it.

[Ilya]: I am fine. At the airport with Yuna Hollander. We are headed to Houston.

[Dykstra]: that sounds serious man have you heard anything

[Ilya]: No. There is no news.

[Wyatt]: Crowell said they’re not announcing anything until everyone is accounted for. 

[Haas]: Does that mean people are missing? 

[Bood]: that makes it sound like nobody survived

[Barrett]: Hey can we not talk like that? Some of us had friends on that team.

Troy does not have any friends on the Voyageurs that Ilya knows of. As far as Ilya knows, Troy lost most of his friends after accusing Dallas Kent of being a rapist, so his comment leaves Ilya wondering if Troy actually did put the pieces together that night in New York.

That doesn’t bother Ilya as much as it should. He thinks he can trust Troy with that secret if he did figure it out. After all, Troy didn’t ask too many questions and he has secrets of his own. 

Ilya doesn’t want to respond to that, though. He closes the chat and moves on to the next text.

[Harris]: Crowell is asking for all the team captains to make a statement on their insta and twitter accounts about Flight 3771. I know you’re probably more worried about Hollander, so let me know if you need help. Or I can write it for you if you want. 

A statement. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say? If the worst happens, there won’t be any words he can post publicly. If the worst happens, he will have to keep all of it to himself. He will be expected to step onto the ice and go play hockey, and at the moment, that is unfathomable. There is no point if there is no Shane. 

He doesn’t know there is no Shane yet.  

[Ilya]: I will let you know. I am on my way to Houston now. 

[Harris]:10-4. I’ll be there later tonight. Standing in for Montreal’s socmed team. We can work on it then, if you want.

Ilya decides not to answer back for now. What he writes, if he writes anything at all, will depend on what the outcome is. Until then, he does not see the point. 

The rest of the messages are from various other hockey players asking if he has heard anything. Ilya doesn’t reply to those. He probably knows less than they do since he hasn’t watched any of the news. 

He puts his phone away without looking at his socials or the 29 emails awaiting his attention. 

That turns out to be the worst thing he could do. In his idleness, his thoughts turn to Shane. Nothing specific, just – little details. How Shane can have an entire conversation without saying a word because his face is so expressive. How easy he is to read. How eager he is to touch and be touched. The way his skin smells after a workout. The way he looks wearing only glasses….

Yuna gets up, her phone to her ear. Calling the airline. Or the commissioner. Anyone who can give her information. Answers. 

Ilya lets his eyes wander up to the television screen in the corner, where flight arrival and departure information is displayed. There are a handful of delays, but it looks as though they will be leaving on time.

Shane’s flight should be landing right about now. Instead –

Ilya had intended to tell Shane everything today. About why he was going to therapy, about his shitty coping skills, how he can’t seem to break through the clouds that surround him, about how often he dreamed of his mother, about how 90% of the time, he felt like he was suffocating, and how often he felt like he would die from lack of affectionate physical contact. How money couldn’t buy any of the things he needed, or how fast he was losing his sense of self and how little control he had over his spiralling emotional state and how bad that scared him.  

Shane needs to know that sometimes Ilya just wants to disappear and he doesn’t know how to stop feeling like that. He wants Shane to have a chance to get out before it gets too bad, before bad becomes worse. 

The door of the VIP lounge opens and Jackie Pike walks in toting a duffle bag with purple dinosaurs all over it. Her hair is in a messy ponytail and she’s not wearing any make-up and she looks as wrecked as Ilya feels. 

He gets up and holds his arms open for her wordlessly and she throws herself into them. 

“Oh my god, Ilya,” she breathes in relief. “I am so glad to see you.” 

Her hug is fierce and Ilya returns it just as fiercely. It takes everything he’s got in him, every last bit of his strength, to stop himself from falling to pieces. For a minute, he just holds onto her without moving, barely breathing, drawing as much strength as he can from his own tapped-out well to keep himself under control. 

“I was so afraid I was going to be making this trip on my own,” she says when she pulls away. She wipes her eyes. “Most of the other WAGs are taking an earlier flight, but there’s two hour lay-over in Chicago and I didn’t want to wait that long. I think I got the last seat on this one as it is.”

Ilya takes her bag from her and puts it next to his and Yuna’s.  

“So, have you heard anything?” she asks. 

“Ah, no. But I have not looked,” he admits.

“God, how could you not? I’ve been going crazy trying to find out what happened.” 

“Is too much.” I’m not ready. “It will only make me worry more.”

He sits back down and Jackie sort of melts into the seat beside him. Ilya can’t imagine being in her position. He stands to lose far too much, but Jackie has four children with Hayden. Children who might lose their father.

It’s selfish of him to be feeling sorry for himself when others have so much more to lose. Most of these players have wives and children. Extended family. 

“I don’t understand why they’re being so quiet about it,” Jackie says. “Usually the news starts updating about the number of survivors right away, but they’re not saying anything.” 

“You know about these things?” Ilya has never paid attention to news about tragic things. It’s never sat well with him how the media talks about it. “Accidents?”

“My dad has always been obsessed with like, disasters? Tornadoes, train derailments. He’ll talk to you for hours about hurricanes and earthquakes and planes that have disappeared with everyone on board. Sorry. That was not where I wanted to go with that,” she sighs and presses her fingers into her eye sockets. “Are you here by yourself?” 

“No. Yuna is here. Somewhere.” Ilya rubs his mother’s cross between two fingers. “Probably trying to get Crowell on the phone.” 

“If anyone can get answers, it’s Yuna Hollander.”

“This is true.” Ilya glances at the departure screen again. “So, where are little Pikes?” 

“With my parents. I didn’t want to drag them along for this. Managing all four kids on a plane by myself on top of all of this would have been more than I can handle.”

“Good thinking. Probably not good for them anyway. Is scary, yes?”

There’s a long, loaded silence between them. One of the businessmen on the other side of the room starts cursing in French to whomever he’s talking to on his laptop. 

Ilya starts to spiral. He’s not sure he can do this. How is he supposed to get on a plane, knowing that whatever Shane just went through on his own plane must have been terrifying. How is he supposed to sit there, not listening to every sound, feeling every shudder and not imagine meeting his own end that way? 

I wish we got more time. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and shifts forward in his seat. Time seems to have slowed down in a way that it never did when Ilya was with Shane. He wants to be in Houston 30 minutes ago.

And he suddenly needs to know if Shane made it out alive. Right now. For sure, because the not knowing is already breaking his heart.

3:46 PM

En-Route

Ilya switches seats with Jackie on the plane so she can sit with Yuna and discuss the situation. He drowns out the conversation with music and reads Shane’s last words to him over and over trying and failing to find any indication that this isn’t a farewell until the screen blurs and his eyes mist over. Worse, the text Ilya sent back wasn’t read before his own plane took off. 

That does not mean anything. The phone could have been lost or damaged in the chaos. The battery might be dead. His belongings might be temporarily stored away while he’s checked over for injuries. 

It could be – 

Ilya should sleep. He feels like he could sleep. The emotional rollercoaster he’s been on has taken a heavy toll and it has left him intensely tired, but every time he closes his eyes, he imagines the plane exploding all around him in a ball of fire and crashing to the ground. 

Shane would tell him that these kinds of thoughts were not productive. Not helpful. He would be right and Ilya would be wise to find some distraction, but the harder he tries to stop, the worse it gets. 

The worse it gets, the harder it is to hold onto hope that this is not as bad as he thinks it is. 

The less hope he has, the farther Ilya falls. 

He orders a whiskey and coke from the flight attendant, a curvy blonde who is exactly the sort of woman he might have picked up at the club in the past. Her smile is flirtatious, she tells him she’s a fan, makes no secret of the interest hiding behind the veneer of professionalism, but all Ilya wants is Shane. 

It’s only been Shane for a long time. 

Even before Ilya stopped sleeping around, it was only Shane. Anyone else was just a substitute, a form of denial, a dose of dopamine to satisfy his desperate craving for what he couldn’t have, a placeholder for the love he didn’t believe he deserved, and nothing compared to the real thing. No matter how much effort he put into loving strangers, or how often he gave more than he got, it was never enough. 

Ilya’s not sure how he got it so fucked up. He wonders what part of his brain decided that sex was the only way for him to feel loved, why it was the only thing he thought he had to offer, or why he ran from the real thing when he realized it was right in front of him. 

A part of him had known, from their very first hook-up, that it had been different with Shane. His earnestness, his eagerness to please, his anxiety and inexperience, had all been so fucking charming and unexpected that Ilya had not been able to stop thinking about it afterward. He was a man who was used to one night stands, names optional, with people he would never see or speak to again. There were only a handful that he maybe got a phone number for, but even those were temporary and never involved feelings. 

Even now, he reveres that very first memory of Shane Hollander sinking so willingly to his knees and without hesitation even though it was obvious he was terrified and so very inexperienced. It had changed something in his own brain chemistry that he could never shake.  

He’s never told Shane how much he’d wanted to stay after that, even if it was only for a while. Thirty minutes. An hour. He’d wanted to know more, maybe do more, but he’d been nineteen and stupid and they’d just done a very dangerous thing. Had anyone seen Ilya leaving Shane’s room or heard what was going on, it could have ended their careers before they even got started, especially back then, when they were so many years away from Scott Fucking Hunter kissing his boyfriend on live TV.   

But god, he’d wanted to stay every time after that, too. Or for Shane to stay with him. Even in Vegas, as fucked up as he was feeling that night, as hard as he tried to push Shane away, the truth was, Ilya had wanted to beg him to spend the night. Most especially because he was feeling so fucked up that he couldn’t even handle watching Shane walk out the door. 

It was mostly that he’d believed it was something he needed to put a stop to before it was too late. For his sake. For Shane’s sake. 

But there was never a point where Ilya could have walked away from him for real. It was always Shane.

Where would they be now if Ilya had opened up sooner? If he hadn’t allowed Shane to walk out on him in a state of panic in Boston? If he’d met Shane where he was at then, instead of trying to convince himself that it was for the best that he backed off?

That is all in the past and there are no do-overs. There is only now. What choices he makes now, and going forward, are the only ones he has any control over. If he’s to survive the next day or two, he has to stay in control. He has no other choice. 

Ilya finishes his drink and looks at Jackie and Yuna, sitting silently together, watching something on Yuna’s phone. 

“Any updates?” he asks. 

“Crowell’s making an official statement,” Yuna says, “but there’s no new information. It’s just the same thing they’ve been saying for hours.” 

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” Jackie says. “Several people are still unaccounted for.”

“They are not letting the families of the survivors know anything?”

“Apparently, they’re not sure who two of them are.” Yuna scoffs. “They want to be sure before they give an official list.” 

Ilya thinks that sounds strange but he doesn’t know much about how these things work. 

“But there are survivors, yes?” 

“At least two,” Yuna says. “The way he phrased that, I have to assume there are others.”

It gives Ilya a little bit of a boost to know there’s still the possibility that Shane is alive but he’s scared that their inability to figure out who is who might mean terrible disfigurement from burns or something. That would mean whoever they are, they’re suffering badly, and Ilya can’t stand the idea of Shane being hurt. 

“They could at least tell the families of the ones they do know for sure, though,” Jackie says quietly. “It feels cruel to make them wait.”

“I agree,” Yuna says. “I know the league has power of attorney in emergencies, but this is ridiculous. The family should be involved.” 

Ilya can’t help but smile a little at Yuna’s outrage. He’s sure the commissioner is going to get an earful from her about their handling of this situation and he thinks he would like to be there when she does. He might have a thing or two to add of his own. 

7:16 PM

Houston, TX

The league has booked a conference room in the same hotel Ilya and Yuna will be staying at. It’s convenient, though they are besieged by reporters the moment their shuttle arrives. This time, the reporters don’t recognize Yuna, but they do immediately lock onto Ilya as he attempts to escort the ladies inside. 

“Mr. Rozanov! Can you tell us anything about the Voyageurs plane crash?!

“Has the league called all the team captains to Houston?” 

“Ilya, is there any word on your rival, Shane Hollander?” 

Ilya ignores them as best as he can, though he’s itching to punch a few of them for trying to block their way. He would think if the league had the forethought to book a meeting place, they might also have thought to hire security. 

There’s no small number of fans standing outside, either, just behind the crush of reporters, holding signs with the Voyageurs logo and various player names and numbers on them – most are for Shane, though. 

Hockey’s golden boy. Beloved, even in Texas.

The press does not follow them into the hotel lobby, where there actually are a handful of security guards keeping watch on the front door. Ilya is glad for that. The last thing any of these families need is to be interrogated and harassed for answers that they don’t have. 

They check in with no issue and agree to go to their rooms to freshen up, and then meet in a conference room on the first floor. 

Ilya hopes there is news, but only a handful of people have arrived. Most are sitting on the banquet chairs that are lined up in rows in front of a small podium, but a few are helping themselves to coffee and refreshments on the far side of the room. 

Most of them are young women, some with small children.  All of them look sad and scared. 

“I’m going to go check in with everyone,” Yuna says. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Barely holding it together, just like Ilya. “I’ll find out what the plan is.” 

“Yes. Let me know.” Ilya hugs her because he doesn’t know what else to say. Because he needs a hug himself. Something, someone, to ground him. “I will be here if you need me.” 

Jackie goes with her, leaving Ilya sitting alone in the back row. 

He checks his phone. There are more messages, all of which he chooses to ignore. The only thing he wants to see is if Shane has read his last text. 

Someone turns on the televisions mounted to the ceiling and Ilya gets his first unwanted glimpse of the crash. 

It’s an aerial view, from earlier in the day, and it’s even worse than Ilya imagined it would be – there’s hardly anything left and it’s in pieces, just past the end of a smaller runway. One wing is completely missing, there’s just a hole where the cockpit should be, and the tail section of the plane is in an adjacent field, nowhere near the rest of it. 

They barely cleared the fucking runway. 

Hard to imagine anyone surviving that. 

He opens his texts, ignoring the dozen or more he hasn’t looked at yet, and stares at his last message to Shane. It’s still unread. 

In spite of that, Ilya types out another.

[Ilya]: I am so scared right now. I am hoping you are okay. Please call me back. 

[Ilya:] I love you

The news is playing footage of the plane going down. Ilya does not want to watch but he can’t tear his eyes away. 

On screen, the plane lifts off. There is a bright flash on the right side – Ilya can’t tell where it came from – and part of the wing comes off, the tail section seems to separate, then the plane turns hard to the right, angling back toward the ground, nose-first. 

It happened in seconds. Not even half a minute. 

Ilya’s stomach rolls and he thinks maybe he’s going to be sick. For real this time. 

Still, he swallows it down, focused only on breathing and not the sound of the talking heads discussing what may have happened, how many might have died, or the impact this may have on the remainder of the hockey season. 

“The fuck are you doing here, Rozanov?” a familiar voice asks from his left. 

Ilya looks up and Scott Hunter is standing over him, confusion written all over his face. 

“Did you wander out of the retirement home again, Hunter? Should I call someone to come collect you?” Ilya fires back. His smirk feels fake, the taunt half-hearted. 

“You really need some new material.” Hunter sits down, a chair between them. 

“What are you doing here?” Ilya asks. 

“I was in Florida last night, supposed to play in Raleigh tonight, but that got canceled, so I figured I’d lend support.” 

“With your knees?” 

“Why are you here?” Hunter’s sharp, curious gaze overrides his annoyance over Ilya’s needling. “Weird, how you always show up unannounced.”

Ilya drops the act altogether. He’s too fucking distraught to sustain it. “I came with Yuna Hollander. Also for support.”

What a fucking lie. Ilya is so tired of lying. He’s here because the one person he loves most in this fucked up world was on that fucking plane and he can’t even talk about it. 

“You’ve gotten pretty tight with the Hollanders, hunh?” Ilya does not like the suspicion in Hunter’s stare. 

“Yes,” Ilya says plainly. “They are like my family now. I am here for them.” 

Ilya isn’t sure he has convinced Hunter. Maybe he doesn’t care. 

“Any news?” 

Ilya is already tired of that question. “No.” 

“I heard the commissioner will be here tonight. I’m guessing he wants to deliver the bad news himself,” Hunter practically spits. “Bet he’s practicing how to tear up for the cameras without actually crying.”

Ilya grunts his agreement. It would be unsurprising if that was exactly what happened.  

They’re playing the crash footage again. Ilya wants to throw something at the screens so he doesn’t have to keep seeing it. 

A hand touches Ilya’s shoulder, then an arm slips loosely around his neck. Jackie’s face appears next to his. “Yuna’s going to get some coffee from the shop in the lobby.” She angles her head at the buffet by the wall. “That stuff is battery acid. Stay far, far away.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

“She wants to know if you want anything.” 

It’s far too late in the day for coffee, but Ilya needs something to combat the overwhelming exhaustion in his mind and body. 

“Just regular coffee, please,” he says. “She knows how I take it.” 

Jackie leans her cheek against his, then presses a kiss to his temple before drawing away. 

“Hi, Scott,” she says. “Did you want anything? I’m sure Yuna won’t mind grabbing you something.” 

“Oh, no. I’m fine,” he says and lifts his own coffee cup half-heartedly. “Thank you though.” 

Jackie gives Ilya’s shoulder another squeeze and kisses the top of his head before she leaves. Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose to stop himself from crying. He feels very lucky to be surrounded by strong, supportive women, yet also very unworthy of their compassion. Especially right now.  

“Your girlfriend?” Hunter asks. 

Ilya snorts. “She’s hot, but no. Pike’s wife. Jackie.” 

“Oh. Right.” Ilya doesn’t look at him, but he can feel Hunter’s stare. “I didn’t know you were friends with Pike.” 

“I am friends with Jackie.” 

It’s not entirely true that Ilya and Hayden aren’t friends. They’re getting there. They probably could be friends if Hayden wasn’t so easy to rile up and Ilya didn’t enjoy needling him so much. Pike makes it so easy, and it’s so hard to resist, no matter how much it pisses Shane off. 

Maybe Ilya needs to change that. Maybe it’s too late to change that. 

“Hayden is okay,” Ilya adds. “He is Shane’s friend, so I tolerate him.” 

Hunter is still staring and it’s annoying. 

“Is there something you want to ask me, Hunter?” 

Ilya finally looks at him, but Hunter looks away, eyes flicking toward the nearest television screen, where they’re showing a clip of the Voyageurs most recent cup win. That sick feeling comes back. 

“Nothing,” Hunter says. “It’s just, every time I think I have you figured out, I realize I don’t.” 

“You think about me a lot? Is because I am so good looking, yes?” 

Hunter’s put-upon sigh drags a reluctant laugh out of Ilya. 

“Just, after all these years, you’re a complete fuckin’ mystery, Rozanov. No one knows anything about you. Nothing real, anyway.” 

“What is there to know?” Ilya asks more seriously. “I am a simple guy. Typical stupid hockey player. Fake teeth, too many concussions, more cars than I need. Is not complicated.” 

“I think you’re lying.” Hunter sips his coffee and sets the empty cup on the seat between them. “I think you’re a lot smarter than you get credit for.”

“What is it that you want to know, Hunter?” Ilya asks tiredly. “What is my favorite color? What toppings I like on my pizza? Boxers or briefs? Just ask your question. I might answer it or I might not.”

Ilya suspects he knows where this is going. And maybe, he will even answer with the truth. Depends on how and what he asks.

“Not really a question. Well, maybe it is.” Hunter rubs his hands together, his gaze far too intense for Ilya’s liking. “Why did you sign with Ottawa?” 

“I like a challenge.” 

“Never mind,” Hunter says. “Forget I asked.”

“No, I like this game.” Ilya does not like this game, but if it will pass the time and keep him from obsessively checking to see if Shane has read his messages, he will play along. “Why do you think I chose Ottawa?” 

“I have theories.” 

“Okay. Tell me your theories.” 

He doesn’t care what the answer is, but there is a small part of him that is curious about what Hunter may have picked up on. Just because Ilya never clocked Hunter does not mean Hunter hasn’t clocked him. It’s not like Ilya hasn’t given him ample evidence over the years to suspect he’s not just a good ally.   

“Well, you stopped acting like the Russian fuckboy version of the whore of Babylon around the same time –”

Ilya bursts out laughing. Sometimes he forgets just how extreme his behavior was back then. Lots of drinking, sex, even drugs sometimes. A party every night, a different girl every night, maybe two. 

“ – so one of two things happened,” Hunter presses on. “Either the League sent you to rehab and told you to get your shit together, or you met someone you got serious about and moved to be closer to them.” 

Ilya considers this, and how much he wants to reveal. He thinks he can trust Hunter with the truth, but he prefers the veil of mystery he’s built around himself. Hunter is also smart enough to put the pieces together, and though Ilya does not care if he does, it would be a problem for Shane.  

“You are right. It is one of those things. But I will not tell you which one.” Ilya smirks. “I will tell you that Ottawa is good people. Not like Boston. I am happy there.” 

It’s not entirely true. He would be happier if they won more games. If they weren’t the league joke. Both are his fault. They have all the right elements to be a great team, if only their leader would get his shit together and actually lead.

Jackie returns, interrupting any further line of questioning. She sits next to Ilya and hands him a fresh cup of coffee. She looks tired and stressed and sad and Ilya envies the fact that she’s allowed to show it. 

“Thank you for the coffee,” he says and drops an arm around her shoulders. “Is Yuna coming?” 

“She’s busy playing team mom right now,” Jackie says. 

Ilya smiles a little, but that makes him sad, too. It’s a distraction for her, maybe a good one, but he also knows she’s channeling all her energy into taking care of others instead of herself. He knows this because he does the same. A lot. 

Hunter’s phone chimes. An instant later, Ilya’s does, too. It’s a notification that the commissioner will be holding a press conference at 9:30 PM, here at the hotel. Annoyed, Ilya skims what looks like a 4th request to post a statement on his socials, and they’re asking for him to mention Shane specifically. 

Angrily, Ilya shoves his phone in his pocket. What will they do if he doesn’t? Fire him? Give him a stern lecture about sportsmanship?

“Did you make a statement?” he asks Hunter. 

“Yeah.” 

“What did you say?” 

“Generic shit, like my thoughts are with the Voyageurs family.” 

Ilya supposes he could do something similar, but it doesn’t feel right. Lip service is a word he learned from Yuna – anything he would be allowed to say would feel like that. It would be a lie.

“Is that enough?” Ilya asks. “Thoughts and prayers?”

“Hell no,” Hunter says. “But what the fuck am I supposed to say? It’s a goddamned tragedy. Could have been any one of us, at any time.” 

Ilya almost makes a joke about how if it did, at least Hunter was at the end of his career, but he holds back. It would be in very poor taste right now. 

“You didn’t make one?” Hunter asks. 

“I don’t want to. Is bullshit anyway,” Ilya says. “Nobody needs me to tell them that Hollander is an incredible hockey player.” 

“They actually asked you to do that?” Hunter is incredulous. “That makes it sound like they already know he’s dead.” 

That hits like a sucker punch to the throat. It hadn’t occurred to him that was why they would ask him to post specifically about Shane, but suddenly it makes sense. Maybe that is why they have kept everything so secret. Maybe that is why the commissioner is coming here, instead of announcing it from his offices in New York. 

The loss of one of the league’s biggest, most popular stars is something they will milk for everything it’s worth. 

“Are you okay?” Hunter asks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

All Ilya can do is shake his head and bolt for the door before he throws up. Because he’s going to and he can’t stuff it back down this time. 

He crashes through the bathroom door and barely makes it into the single oversized stall before the contents of his stomach, which are not much because hasn’t eaten at all today, come up. He is suddenly very cold and dizzy and on the verge of screaming or sobbing and he can’t control any of it. 

After he’s done being sick, he stays where he is, slumped over the toilet, trying to get a grip on himself. He would like to curl up on the floor and cry his eyes out. Maybe he would like to join Shane, wherever he is now. He doesn’t think he can do this without letting it show. 

The bathroom door opens and Ilya freezes. The door of the stall is wide open, and there’s no way the newcomer can’t see him crouching over the toilet, shaking with the effort to regain control. 

“Jesus, Rozanov,” Hunter says. “You get a bad bag of peanuts on the plane or something?” 

Hunter is giving him an out. An excuse for this behavior. It is nice of him, when maybe Ilya doesn’t deserve it. The man stands over him, looking deeply concerned. Ilya guesses he must look crazy right now.

“I am okay,” Ilya croaks. 

Hunter disappears and a moment later, the lock on the exit door clicks. The sink comes on. The automatic paper towel dispenser whines.

Ilya sits back on his heels and then slumps back into the wall. He just needs a minute to pull it together. 

“Here,” Hunter says, offering a stack of wet paper towels. “Clean yourself up.” 

Ilya takes them and wipes his face, feeling like a stupid little kid for some reason. He tosses them in the trash when he’s done and leans his head back against the tile with his eyes closed, wishing for every single thing about this day to be different.

Hunter sets a can of something between Ilya’s feet. Ilya picks it up. 

A fucking can of ginger ale. 

That’s all it takes to end him. 

A horrible, ugly sob bursts out of him and he buries his face in his knees to silence it. It doesn’t stop the sound from carrying, and it doesn’t stop the tide of anger and grief that washes over him – it suffocates him, he can’t seem to draw a breath, there’s not enough air in this room and Ilya thinks this must be what Shane feels like when he has one of his panic attacks. 

God, his chest hurts so bad, like there’s a vice around it, crushing his ribcage and lungs, squeezing the blood out of his heart. He’s completely out of control and all he really wants to do is scream and kick down the walls at how unfair this is. The lack of information, the knowledge that he may wake up more or less a widower tomorrow and no one will know, that forever is no longer possbile – none of that is fucking fair after all the sacrifices they’ve made to be together. 

The sounds coming out of him are horrible and monstrous and he can’t seem to make them stop. The harder he tries, the worse it gets. The more it hurts. 

Ilya is that plane, out of control, crashing to the ground, pieces missing and bits of him scattered at the end of the runway. His heart is with Shane, wherever he is, and every second that goes by without knowing breaks it just a little more. 

And Scott Fucking Hunter is here to witness Ilya incinerating himself. 

Hunter doesn’t say a word. All he does is sit down beside Ilya on the sticky bathroom floor and rests a hand against the base of Ilya’s neck. That only deepens his hysteria – Ilya’s sobs turn to pathetic, choked whimpers and wet sniffles and gasps that are no more easily controlled than his sobs. 

It’s a while before Ilya runs out of steam. The room fills with air again, the rush of the tide in his ears dies down, his tears run dry. 

His head hurts and he’s dehydrated, but the shame at having a witness to this is worse than both. He can’t look at Hunter, can’t find words to explain himself, even though he should do both, but every excuse he comes up with sounds weak and stupid. 

“Maybe I’m way off base here, but he’s more than just a friend, right?” Hunter asks. “Hollander, I mean?” 

Ilya doesn’t answer one way or another, he just sighs tiredly and leans his chin against his folded arms. He figures it’s probably pretty obvious.

“Jesus, man. I’m sorry.” Hunter squeezes the back of Ilya's neck and then reaches for the can of ginger ale, unaware that this is what set Ilya off. “Drink it. You’re gonna get a headache if you don’t.” 

Ilya takes the can, opens it, and swallows half of it without tasting it. He sets it back down and drops his face against his arms, completely drained. 

“How long?” 

“The whole fucking time.” Ilya’s voice cracks. 

“What, like your entire career?” 

“Maybe before.” 

“Before?” 

Ilya laughs weakly at Hunter’s tone of disbelief. “We were nineteen.” 

“Fuck, Rozanov. That’s insane.” 

“That was why it was fun. At first. And then I did the stupid thing and fell in love. And so did he.” Ilya wipes his eyes and takes another sip of the ginger ale to soothe his dry throat. “So you see why writing generic things about him is a problem.” 

“Yeah, I get that.” 

“I would tell the whole fucking world if I could.” 

“I take it Shane doesn't want to?” 

“He is not ready. Is a lot, you know? Complicated. Could be very bad for both of us for lying all these years.” 

“Yeah. I can understand that. There were a whole lot of years where I felt the same." Hunter looks at him, but Ilya doesn't look back. "So that rivalry thing was just an act?”

“Mostly media, but we both like to win, so not entirely.” Ilya lets out a breath. “I am very tired of pretending.” 

Hunter is quiet for a minute. There are voices in the hall, someone tugs on the locked door. He doesn’t speak until the hallway falls into silence again. 

“Who knows?” Hunter asks. “Have you guys told anyone?”

“Only a few people. The Hollanders. The Pikes. Ryan and Fabian, but that was sort of by accident," Ilya says. “Rose Landry. Our agent. And now you.”

“That’s more than a few.”

“Yes, but they have known for a while, so I am not worried.” 

Truthfully, the only person he doesn’t quite trust is Hadyen, but only because Hayden forgets to think before he speaks. He would never do anything on purpose to hurt Shane, even if he is not Ilya’s biggest fan. 

“What happens if Shane doesn’t make it? You just pretend like you’re not fucked up?” 

That brings a fresh round of tears to Ilya’s eyes. That’s the part he’s avoided thinking about too much. If Shane is gone, everything comes to an end. Ilya, as he knows himself, will come to an end, too.

“I don’t know. Maybe I quit hockey. Adopt a bunch of dogs. Fade away and everyone forgets about me.” 

“Is that what Shane would want?” 

“No, but without him there is no hockey for me. I am the player I am because of him. Is fun, yes? Good money, nice things, but I don’t love it the way he does. I have no problem leaving if there is nothing for me there anymore,” Ilya says. 

Hunter folds his arms over his chest. “This is so fucked up.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. He probably shouldn’t say any more, but since he’s basically humiliated himself, why stop now? “How am I supposed to step onto the ice a week from now knowing that we will never play against each other again? My heart will not be in it.” 

Maybe Shane would be there, in spirit. The way his mother was sometimes. 

But there in spirit is not good enough. 

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

So this has turned into a full-blown AU because I apparently have no self-control. Oops.

Huge thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos last chapter. I did not expect any of that, so thank you! 💚

January 13, 2021
8:41
Houston, TX

Ilya emerges from the bathroom, dry-eyed but miserable. He would like nothing more than to find a bottle of decent vodka, go to his room, and drown in it all by himself, and he would, if he was by himself. But he isn’t. Scott Hunter keeps a close watch on him, acting paternal toward him, which might be very funny in any other circumstance.

David should be arriving any minute, along with the bulk of the Montreal WAGs, and maybe Harris, too. Ilya will have to pull it together, put on a brave face, and do his best to hide how emotionally wrecked he is.

At the conference room doorway, Hunter excuses himself to go speak to a player Ilya recognizes but can’t place a name for. He takes a slow, deep breath as he watches Hunter walk away, rubs his cross with his thumb, and shakes off the dregs of his breakdown.

There are many more people here now and the room hums with subdued conversation. Wives, girlfriends, parents, children, random team captains, probably family members of the crew, too. He spies a few team captains from the western conference among them, mostly people Ilya isn’t so familiar with.

A few are gathered around a banquet table covered in pizza boxes and various kinds of store-bought cookies. There’s a cooler of canned drinks and juice boxes next to it. Someone unattended child is drowning her doll in the cooler’s ice water.

Ilya should eat, especially now, but the thought of it turns his stomach. He’s not looking to repeat his earlier performance.

At the front of the room, the press is setting up. ESPN, FOX Sports, and another one Ilya doesn’t know – probably local. One camera and reporter are already documenting the room. Ilya is used to cameras, but this is invasive. How awful to have maybe the worst day of someone’s life used for ratings this way, to have your tears and pain broadcast all over the world.

Harris is among the members of the press, speaking to a woman in a bright blue pantsuit. A reporter, maybe, but more likely someone from the league. She has that executive air about her, and her face says she would rather be anywhere but here, rubbing elbows with the help.

“Hey.” Troy Barrett steps up next to him.

“Did you come with Harris?”

“Yeah. Technically as an assistant. But he doesn’t really need my help.”

“Good excuse. Are you sharing a room tonight?”

Ilya probably shouldn’t have asked that, but Troy’s hot blush makes it worth it. He gives Troy a gentle nudge with his elbow. It’s cute watching them dance around each other and if Ilya can’t be happy, someone should be.

Troy folds his arms over his chest and digs his toe into the carpet. “So, uh, Dallas is here.”

“And who the fuck invited him?” Ilya asks hotly, even though he knows the answer already.

“Guess the league asked a few of the captains to show up. Of course he was one of them.”

Troy is understandably bitter. To be punished for speaking up and doing the right thing is a very hard thing to swallow. Ilya does not blame him for being angry.

Just one more thing to add to the list of things the league would rather cover up than deal with. Someday, the truth will come out, one way or another. Whether there will be accountability is another story.

Ilya hopes Dallas Kent stays far away from him, and from Troy. After their last encounter, he would be stupid to start something, especially here, but Kent is not smart and Ilya is in no mood to be fucked with. He has no problem knocking Kent’s teeth down his throat if he runs his mouth again.

“How are you holding up?” Troy asks.

“Is a lot,” Ilya says. “I am hoping for the best.”

Troy, thankfully, does not ask any more questions. If he suspects anything, he keeps it to himself.

Harris waves from across the room. Ilya waves back. A moment later, he’s heading their way, clutching his phone like it’s a lifeline. He does not look thrilled to be here, either.

“God, this is awful,” he says. “They want me to interview the players about all this. Which is honestly a terrible idea.”

Ilya is unsurprised by this decision. He also does not want to participate. He can’t participate without cracking.

“Count me out,” Ilya says. “I am here for Shane’s family. That is all.”

Harris’ smile is sympathetic. “I heard Mrs. Hollander is giving the commissioner hell.”

Ilya does not doubt that at all. If there is anyone in this room who could make it a problem for him, it would be Yuna. Like Shane, she’s not one to back down.

“They deserve answers. Even if those answers are not complete.”

“It’s weird how quiet they’ve been.” Troy looks troubled. “Then again, that’s what they do, right?”

Troy’s stare is fixed on Kent, who stands at the table covered in pizza boxes, laughing loudly about something with a pair of young women. Ilya feels like he should warn them off. He would not put it past Kent to prey on these women purely because they are vulnerable right now.

It’s then that he notices that David has arrived. He stands next to Yuna, chatting seriously with another executive-looking woman. To Ilya, he appears frustrated. The woman has a passive, almost placating expression on her face. Just humoring them, Ilya thinks.

“Excuse me,” Ilya says to Harris and Troy, and breaks away to go greet David.

“There you are. You were gone a while,” Yuna says when he arrives at her side. Worry lines her face as she smooths her hands over his shoulders and down the sleeves of his hoodie like she’s checking him for injuries or smoothing wrinkles that aren't there. “Are you okay?”

“I just needed a moment.”

She doesn’t look convinced. He’s probably not very convincing and he doesn’t have the energy to try too hard to sell that lie right now.

“Good to see you son,” David says and holds out his arms. Ilya, of course, accepts. David is not an emotional man and he’s not much of a hugger so it matters very much to Ilya when he does show him affection. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay, maybe. I don’t know,” Ilya says and pulls back. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“As okay as I can be, I guess. None of this feels real yet. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’s all just a dream.”

To Ilya, it feels too real and it’s chafing his heart raw.

“Ilya, this is Sharon Tolbert,” Yuna says. She touches Ilya’s arm lightly to direct his attention to the executive woman. “She’s the CEO of the league’s media operations. Sharon, this is Ilya Rozanov.”

“Yes, I know who you are.” She offers her hand but looks at Ilya like he’s a piece of gum stuck to her shoe. “You left Boston to play for Ottawa, right?”

“A few years ago now, yes.”

“Ilya and Shane have done some amazing things with the Irina Foundation and the Game Changers hockey camps,” Yuna says. Ilya has to admire her tenacity. Leave it to Yuna to work that into the conversation. “They’ve become quite close, and I’m so proud of the work they’re doing together.”

“Yes. I’ve heard the camps are quite inclusive.”

Ms. Tolbert’s face twists on the last word like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Ilya decides right then that she is not worth his time. Unless she’s prepared to give them answers right now or make a huge donation to the foundation, he is not interested in hearing anything she has to say about it.

“Well, being that Shane is currently one of only a handful of minorities in the league, we feel that inclusion is extremely important,” Yuna says. “Hockey should be for everyone, don’t you think?”

Ilya struggles not to smile at how calculated Yuna’s words are. It’s an open dig at how weak and ineffective the league’s diversity initiatives actually are. It will also be very hard for this woman to respond dismissively without looking like a terrible person.

“You should get cleaned up for the player interviews, Mr. Rozanov,” Ms. Tolbert says. Her distaste for him is clear in her face and her tone. “A different shirt, maybe?”

“I am not here for the league,” Ilya says. “I am here in a personal capacity.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t read your contract, Mr. Rozanov. Unless you are out with an injury, you’re to appear and speak when we tell you to appear and speak and I believe you were summoned. Multiple times.”

Ilya clenches his teeth, fury boiling up in his chest at the expectation that he should perform on command like a trained seal. He swears, if they try to force this on him in some way, maybe he will blow a few buried stories wide open, his career be damned. He’s never been the sort to want to burn anything down unless it’s during a game, but this sort of thing makes him want to.

“And what will you do if I don’t?” Ilya takes care to keep his words calm and measured but his limbs are trembling. “Trade me to Washington?”

Yuna grasps his arm and shakes her head, warning him off escalating this.

“You would be in breach of contract, Mr. Rozanov. I’m sure you know the consequences of that.”

Ilya sees red. He’s so angry at the threat of being fired over this that he can’t even speak.

“I’m sure an exception can be made for family,” Yuna says. She looks around at the room and gestures to the small gathering of team captains next to the pizza. “And I’m sure you have plenty of team representation already.”

“Mr. Rozanov has no family here,” Ms. Tolbert says. Ilya grits his teeth and his fists ball up at his sides as something white-hot sparks in his chest. “The commissioner has asked for Mr. Rozanov specifically, since his professional relationship with Shane is of particular interest to fans.”

“Ilya does have family here. He's our family,” David says firmly. There’s something very cold and dangerous in his face, something Ilya has never seen there before, and it tells him that David is maybe even angrier as he is. “I would hate for this to become a legal issue. I promise you, it will, if you decide to take punitive actions against him, and you won’t like the outcome.”

Ilya has never loved David Hollander more. If he ever questioned whether his new family would go to war for him, he has his answer, and that answer is yes.

It’s exactly what his own father would have never done – stand up and defend him and it means so, so much that David is willing to do that.

“I don’t think I would want to test that if I were you,” Ms. Tolbert says. “Be sure you’re ready for that interview, Mr. Rozanov. We can even get you some prepared statements if this is too difficult for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure we’re ready to go when Mr. Crowell arrives.”

She dismisses them with a wave of her hand and walks away. Ilya wants to punch something. Or scream a few choice Russian curses in her face. Instead, he throws his arms around David and holds tight. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, son,” David says. “She won’t follow through. You’re too valuable to the league and it’s too big of a risk for them to try and enforce it.”

Ilya isn’t sure he’s right about that, but he’s so grateful to have David on his side.

He lets out a breath and pulls back, suddenly very much in need of some distance, to reset and calm down before the press conference begins.

“I think I need some air,” he says. “Save me a seat, okay?”

“We will,” David promises.

Ilya can feel the eyes of some of the other captains following him as he crosses the room. He doesn’t think anyone overheard their conversation, but he is being observed and he senses that his behavior is starting to raise some questions.

He doesn’t care what they think. It’s not a secret that he has a professional and personal relationship with the Hollander's. It’s not their business, either.

At the little store next to the coffee shop, Ilya buys a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and goes out a back exit that faces a parking lot. Out of pure frustration over the pressure and the lack of information, he kicks the empty plastic trashcan marked maintenance that’s sitting beside the door and sends it flying off the step and into the bushes.

It doesn’t make him feel better. It makes him feel stupid and childish.

Defeated, Ilya sits down on the step and lights a cigarette. As he takes a long, slow drag on it, he can practically hear Shane whining at him about it from wherever it is he might be.

You shouldn’t be smoking. I’ll never forgive you if you die of lung cancer.

“Is your fault for making me worry,” he says under his breath, though he doesn’t really mean it.

He takes out his phone. Checks to see if his texts have been read.

They haven’t.

This is killing him. Slowly and painfully. Not knowing tears him to shreds. The thought of Shane suffering claws his guts to bloody ribbons and the possibility that he is truly gone – it’s more than he can bear.

Ilya has already lost too much. One more loss might really be the end of him.

He takes another drag on his cigarette and opens instagram. There are more than a hundred notifications, most of which he ignores. A few of them are tags from the league’s official page, bragging about how the team captains have showed up to lend support, though in what capacity, they have not disclosed. So far, no one is doing much except for Harris.

Ilya suspects their presence here is purely for appearances.

Look at how supportive our hockey family is!

As if Ilya wasn’t just told he had no family there.

As if some of those captains wouldn’t throw someone under a bus if it meant they got a bigger salary or a lucrative sponsorship deal or to ensure a scandal got erased. He’s willing to bet Kent is here for no other reason than to clean up his tarnished image. Kent couldn’t care less about Montreal, the players, or the families of those players.

Another reminder pops up to post a statement, this time from Crowell himself.

“Fuck this,” Ilya hisses and hits create.

The photo he chooses is from their first time playing on the same team at All-Stars in Florida. It’s the one where he’s kissing Shane’s helmet. It’s his second favorite picture of the two of them in full gear. His first favorite is the photo of them laughing at each other at the CCM photo shoot.

He wishes he had that one on his phone. They were so young, and so stupid, but it would prove the point he’s about to make.

Ilya’s real favorites can’t be posted. They reveal too much.

He adds two more. One of them is from a day spent hiking during their last visit to the cottage, both of them red-faced and smiling. The second is a photo from the last benefit dinner for the Irina Foundation that includes Yuna and David. In it, Yuna is kissing Ilya’s cheek and David is giving Shane bunny ears. Everyone looks happy and fancy, if not a little drunk.

Then, he starts to type.

Ilya Rozanov
@ilyaroz81official

My heart is heavy as I sit with the families of the Montreal team here in Houston, all of whom may have lost someone they love today. The league has asked me to talk specifically about the potential loss of Voyageurs Captain, Shane Hollander, and how that will affect the future of hockey.

I will not be doing that.

I must humbly ask for forgiveness from the fans and from the league for not being able to fulfill my duties as a representative of the Ottawa Centaur's today. Shane has become my closest friend. His parents, David and Yuna, have welcomed me into their family as one of their own. So I am not here as a hockey player and I am not here to represent the league, I am here to support people that I love very much, and that includes my “rival” Shane Hollander.

Please respect that I will not be giving interviews or answering questions. I would like to focus on my family, which will always come first.

~Ilya

Ilya reads over his words carefully until he’s mostly satisfied with what he’s written. It will be very hard for the league to justify censuring or firing him for not doing an interview without making themselves look very bad.

Too bad he can’t say how he really feels. It’s tempting to delete and start over with words meant only for Shane, but he’s not going to do that while there’s still hope that he’s alive.

He hits post, then cross-posts to his other official socials, then sits back to take one last drag off his cigarette. He stubs it out on the step next to him and tosses the butt in the ashtray.

There’s still about twenty minutes to kill between now and the press conference and Ilya has nervous energy to burn. He’s not ready to go back inside, so he gets up and starts walking – maybe a lap around the building will help calm his nerves and quiet his anger. Maybe he should have paid closer attention to Shane’s yoga stuff. Maybe he would know how to center himself, whatever that means.

It’s a nice night. So much warmer than Canada, though the air is too heavy and humid for his liking. He’s sweating beneath his hoodie, but he doesn’t take it off. It’s… comforting, somehow.

He lights another cigarette as he circles the building, but stops walking when he spies a liquor store in the strip-mall adjacent to the hotel.

He stands there, debating. A drink might make things worse. Or, it might soothe all his frayed edges.

After a moment of deliberation, Ilya heads toward it, following the fence that goes all the way up to the road until he meets the sidewalk. He doesn’t drink so much lately – a beer or two every now and then, and he does enjoy quality vodka from time to time, but he rarely indulges anymore. Drinking has always been a social activity for him, and Ilya rarely socializes with anyone outside of the Hollanders, and occasionally the Pike family these days.

It’s a small shop, but stocked with high-end liquor for those looking for gifts. It’s no surprise they don’t have any good Russian vodka, so he chooses a Dutch brand he knows from experience isn’t terrible.

Back at the hotel, he takes his purchase up to his room. There, he pours a measure into a plastic cup and drinks it down. Then, he pours another and carries it with him downstairs, where everyone is settling into their seats.

He adds half a can of coke to the cup, then joins the Hollanders, taking the empty seat saved for him between Jackie and David. He notices the players are grouped together on the left side of the room, except for Kent and the captain from San Jose. It makes him wonder if Kent has been separated from the others on purpose. Seating him near Troy would be a terrible idea.

His phone starts going crazy with notifications. Whatever the comments are, he doesn’t want to see them and he turns off the notifications for all his socials.

A hand touches his shoulder and he turns in his seat to find Harris behind him, smiling sadly. “I just read your post.”

“I did my best,” Ilya says tiredly. He finishes off his vodka and coke and sets the cup at his feet for disposal later. “I know it is not what they wanted, but it is all they will get from me.”

“It was a very polite way of saying go fuck yourselves.” Harris smiles. “Off the record, I love it.”

Ilya laughs a little. “Is just the truth.”

“Well, thank you for doing it. They’ve been breathing down my neck about it.”

“I’m sorry they made it your problem. And for taking so long.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” Harris gives Ilya’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll try to get them to back down on the interview thing.”

“Even if they don’t, I am still not doing it. It is not appropriate for them to expect me to.”

Crowell walks in and the room falls silent, every pair of eyes on him in his crisp suit, as he takes a leisurely stroll to the front of the room like he has nowhere to be.

“You should go sit down, Harris.”

“I should. Drinks later, maybe?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He does not tell Harris that it will depend on whether or not his whole world comes crashing down on him. Harris seems to understand anyway.

David grasps Ilya’s hand as Crowell steps up to the podium. Though David’s face is a mask of calm, his grip is tight and his palm is a little sweaty.

“Ready?” David asks.

Ilya nods, but he isn’t. He’s spent the whole day in a heightened state of terror and now he’s waiting for the axe to fall.

Like the day his mother died. Ilya knew she was dead when he found her, some extra sense maybe, or the lack of her essence in the room, had told him she was gone, even before he’d known for sure.

They’d taken her to the hospital and he’d waited all day for news that maybe the doctors had saved her. He’d bargained with a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, and prayed for her to return to him, hoping it wasn’t as bad as he thought it was, sitting alone for hours in his room in a silent house.

This feels a lot like that, but with even higher stakes. He stands to lose even more this time.

Ilya does not feel Shane with him the way he feels his mother, but he can’t say if that means anything. He’s always wondered if she stayed with him because she was not at peace when she died. Or maybe it’s her memory that gives Ilya peace, even if their business was left unfinished.

Maybe her presence is only wishful thinking, but he is comforted by the thought of her watching over him, whether it’s real or not.

If Shane is gone, truly gone, the memories will haunt him forever, and there’s no peace in that. There will be no comfort living with his ghost – the only peace for Ilya is for Shane to stay.

Ilya reaches out to Jackie with his other hand. Her fingers wrap around his and he can feel her shaking. Or maybe he’s the one who is shaking. He’s not sure, but the prolonged silence has his nerves stretched spider-silk thin.

It’s so quiet, the only sound is the shutter click of journalists taking photos at the front. Crowell just sorts through his notes without looking at the crowd in front of him, as if he has all the time in the world.

Ilya has never been so scared of anything in his entire life.

“Good evening, and thank you all for being here,” Crowell finally says. “Before we start, I’d like to thank the team captains and players that have joined us to support our Voyageurs family in this difficult time.”

Crowell looks directly at Ilya. His eyes are cold and hard and Ilya knows he’s seen the post and correctly read the defiance in it.

Ilya does not give a fuck.

He stares back until Crowell breaks eye-contact first. Ilya counts that as a victory. He’ll probably pay for it somehow later, but who fucking cares? The outcome of this conference may determine whether or not he even continues to play.

“To the families, I know that you’re desperate for answers and I thank you for your patience in the matter. I know it isn’t easy waiting for news of this nature, and believe me, we all want the same thing.” Crowell tugs at his tie and Ilya hopes it’s fucking choking him. “We are making every effort to provide timely updates and everyone involved is working very hard to make that happen.”

He’s drawing this out on purpose. Putting on a show. Ilya wants to shout at him and tell him to get to the fucking point.

“Here’s what we know: There were 32 people on board today’s chartered flight, including crew, players, coaches, and support staff,” Crowell says. “Of those 32 people we have 21 confirmed casualties, 7 unaccounted for, and 6 survivors.”

Both Jackie and David tighten their grip as Ilya does the math, but before he can speak up about the discrepancy, Crowell continues.

“Two of those survivors have yet to be identified and are presently included in both the number of survivors and in those unaccounted for numbers.” He clears his throat and flips through a stack of note cards. “I wish we had all the information you were hoping for, but in situations like this, sometimes it’s difficult to work at the speed in which you deserve, so we still have a lot of unanswered questions at this time.”

“Can you at least tell us the names of the survivors that have been identified?” a woman two rows up asks. “There’s no sense in keeping those families waiting.”

Crowell pauses for far too long, head cocked as if he’s giving it some serious thought. It looks rehearsed and completely out of place in context with the question. This is a yes or no question, not something he needs to fucking think about.

“We do have that information to share with you,” Crowell says. “The known survivors and their current conditions are as follows: Co-pilot Elliot Wu, critical condition. Jean-Jacques Boiziau, stable condition. Pascal Evans, stable condition. And Hayden Pike, critical condition.”

Jackie lets out a strangled sob and leans heavily into Ilya’s side. Ilya puts his arms around her and holds tight, letting her cry tears of relief into his shoulder.

He is glad for her. Truly. The Pike children deserve to grow up with a father, and for all Ilya’s teasing, Hayden is good to his family.

But Ilya is slowly crumbling on the inside, and for just a second, he hates her. But only for a second.

Someone is taking pictures of them. Irritated, Ilya moves his arm so that Jackie’s face is blocked from their view. It disgusts him that someone would want photos of a thing like this, but he isn’t surprised. They will probably be uploaded to news sites and to the league’s official accounts within the hour.

“If you are a family member of one of these survivors, please meet our representatives in the conference room across the hall for more information,” Crowell says.

“This is good news, yes?” Ilya says to Jackie. He hopes she can’t hear the way his voice cracks, or the envy that bleeds into his words. “No tears, okay?”

Jackie nods into his shoulder and then pulls back. Ilya instinctively reaches out and brushes her tears from her cheeks. Someone fucking takes pictures of that, too and it takes everything in him to not snarl at whoever is doing it. He does not want to get arrested for fighting a journalist.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says and grasps his wrist. The looks she gives him is heartbroken. “I – Shane.”

Ilya will fall apart right here if she says she’s sorry. “You should go. Find out where he is. He will need you, I think.”

Jackie kisses his cheek. “Shane always sits with JJ and Hayden on the plane, right? If they made it, maybe he did, too.”

“Yes. Maybe. Now go.”

And then she’s gone and Ilya is holding on to David's arm and wrist with both of his hands because if he doesn’t he’s going to come apart.

“The seven still unaccounted for are as follows…”

Ilya holds his breath through a series of names, some he recognizes, some he doesn’t. If Shane is not one of them, it means he’s a confirmed casualty.

“And…” Crowell pauses before the final name. His gaze lands directly on Ilya again, “Shane Hollander.”

Ilya can’t breathe. His world starts to tilt. The possibility that Shane is alive has narrowed to a much slimmer margin, but the possibility is still there. Maybe unlikely, but it’s there.

This also means there will be no answers tonight. Ilya does not think he can take much more of this, and he suspects a meltdown much worse than the one earlier is on the way. He can feel it building up inside him, like the way there are sometimes many small earthquakes leading up to a much larger one.

He will wait to let himself fall apart this time. Behind closed doors. No witnesses.

Beside him, David is struggling not to cry, his other arm around Yuna, who has buried her face in David’s chest. Most of the room is crying, so many of them just realizing that their person’s name has not been called.

“There are reports that Mr. Hollander was responsible for ensuring that at least two of the survivors got to safety before emergency services arrived,” Crowell says. “Regardless of the outcome, if these reports are true, Mr. Hollander’s courage will not go unrecognized.”

Ilya does not find this information comforting. He should, because it is a very Shane thing to do, but there is no solace in knowing he may have given his life for others. Ilya is selfish enough when it comes to Shane to want him to save himself instead.

Though if their roles were reversed, Ilya would not have left anyone behind if he could help it.

David is crying now and it hurts Ilya to his very core to see it. All he can do is put his arms around both of them and hold on.

“The search and rescue crews will be working through the night to recover those that are still missing and to identify the ones we’re not sure about,” Crowell continues, as if he hasn’t just completely devastated the majority of the people in the room without even acknowledging it. “We hope to have more information for you when we reconvene at nine tomorrow morning. I’ll now open up the floor to the press.”

That’s it. No offer of sympathy for the grieving families, no condolences, as if they’re already forgotten.

10:45 PM

Ilya is on his fourth drink, sitting in the dark of his hotel room, contemplating a future without Shane. He still has hope, but it’s being quickly suffocated beneath the slim odds of Shane being one of the lucky ones. After all, he’s one of the most recognizable players in the league. It doesn’t make sense that he can’t be identified.

Maybe he’s one of the ones that has not been found yet.

The vodka is not helping Ilya’s state of mind any, but he has no intention of stopping now. He needs the numbness it brings and it’s probably the only thing that will put him to sleep tonight.

Someone knocks lightly on his door and he ignores it. He wants to be alone with his thoughts and his memories, even if logically, he knows that’s the worst thing he could possibly do to himself.

The knock comes again, followed by Troy’s voice.

“Ilya? You in there?”

Ilya stares at the ceiling, considers not answering, even to tell him to go away.

“Come on. I know you’re there. Open up.”

Ilya switches on the light and gets to his feet. He sways a little from drinking too much too fast. Or just too much, period.

He stumbles to the door and flings it open. “What do you want?”

God, he sounds drunk.

Troy is alone in the hall, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. His eyes are red-rimmed and Ilya thinks maybe he’s come to deliver bad news. An announcement came while he was in here pouring vodka down his throat and ignoring the notifications on his phone. Shane is gone and –

“Can I come in?”

Ilya opens the door a little wider and waves his hand dramatically at the empty room. Troy sits on the bed that’s not rumpled and just looks at Ilya like he can see all the way into his soul.

“What is it?” Ilya grinds out. His throat is dry and raw and his eyes burn. He doesn’t need another drink, but he pours one anyway. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened. Just, me and Harris and Scott were going to go get drinks at the bar across the street. Thought you might want to come,” Troy says. He eyes Ilya’s double-pour. “Looks like you already got started without us, though.”

“I want to be alone.”

“I get that, but maybe you shouldn’t be.”

“Did Hunter say something to you?”

“About what?” Troy’s confusion is genuine. Ilya lets it go. He doubts the venerable Scott Hunter would out anyone, after spending so long hiding in his own closet.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Ilya swallows the rest of his drink and considers another. He doesn’t offer Troy any. “You go, have drinks. I’ll be fine.”

He isn’t fine. Far from it, but he’s not going to drag anyone else into his misery with him. He already crossed that line with Hunter earlier and he shouldn’t have. He regrets opening his mouth. He regrets letting his guard down.

Troy continues to sit there, looking at Ilya with his sad blue eyes. The raw empathy in his pretty face makes Ilya’s soul shrivel. It’s unwanted and undeserved.

“Do you want to talk?” Troy asks.

“No. I don’t want to talk. I want to sit here and drink all by myself but you are getting in the way.”

Troy winces at his tone but he doesn’t get up. Ilya decides he will have another. It will probably make him sick, but who fucking cares?

The way Troy is looking at him sparks something in his chest. Something that quickly ignites and then explodes like a bomb. Ilya is all out of tears, but his body doesn’t seem to know that. His swollen eyes burn and his fear and worry morph into an uncontrolled rage that burns straight through him.

And that rage has nowhere to go. Not without revealing everything. Not without turning Troy against him. Not without bloodying his knuckles and breaking all the bones in both of his hands. Not without throwing himself out a window as soon as he’s fucked up everything in this room.

Ilya pours his drink, shaking with unchanneled fury.

“So fucking stupid,” Ilya mutters. It’s not directed at Troy but at Shane. “He did not have to be a fucking hero.”

“Can you really say you would have done anything different?” Troy asks. “If it was us? If you could get Wyatt or me or Dykstra to safety, you’re telling me you wouldn’t do it?”

They both know the answer is yes, he would. If he died doing it, he would hope Shane would understand. He also knows that he wouldn’t stay so long that he died trying to save the lost causes the way he suspects Shane may have done. Because when Shane gets something in his head, he follows through, even when he knows he’s about to lose.

“What do you want from me, Troy? I don’t owe you anything.”

“Of course you don’t. It’s called being a friend, asshole.”

“If you were really a friend, you would be fucking Harris right now instead of bothering me.”

Ilya knows that makes absolutely no sense. He doesn’t care that it doesn’t. The point stands that those two keep circling around one another, wasting time, when they could just be fucking happy together.

Troy’s face turns bright red and he shakes his head, denying that this thing between him and Harris isn’t a thing. This is also fucking stupid. Both of them are so stupid. Ilya would give his right arm to be able to have the freedom to love out in the open and they’re wasting it.

He’s about to tell Troy to go get what he wants, that tomorrow is not a guarantee, but what Troy says next takes all the wind out of him.

“Look, I know. Nobody told me, I just kind of figured it out.” Troy pushes long strands of dark hair from his eyes and looks up at Ilya with the same kind of empathy only Shane shows him. “And you don’t have to talk about it or explain it because it’s not my business.”

Ilya doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this information. His drunken brain is tripping over the words and implications. He could deny it. He could confirm it. Instead he chooses silence.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you do want to talk, or you just need a friend, I got you, okay?”

“Thank you. But I am okay.” Ilya sinks onto the bed, perched at the end of it, clutching his empty cup in his fist. “You should go. Harris is probably missing you.”

“I’ll go on one condition,” Troy says. He gets up and picks the bottle of vodka up off the dresser. “This goes with me.”

“I don’t think so.” Troy’s face is blank but his gaze is unwavering. “You think I’m going to drink myself into a coma.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Then take it. Fuck!” His own petulance is annoying and he is very aware that he’s being a drama queen. That awareness is not enough to make him take it down a notch. “Just fucking go.”

Ilya sprawls out on his back, his feet still on the floor, and the room starts to spin.

He does not remember Troy leaving.

January 14, 2021
7:35 AM
Houston, TX

Ilya is dreaming of his mother. Or at least, he thinks it’s her. The dream is different this time. He is the one inside the cottage, looking out at the lake, where someone is lying comfortably in the hammock.

He steps closer to the window, his eyes dazzled by the sunlight glittering on the water, but he realizes it’s not his mother there, it’s Shane. His eyes are closed and his is smile soft, content, and he’s bathed in sunlight, one arm dangling limply – lifelessly – toward the ground.

Ilya, in a panic, heads toward the back door, but it isn’t there. It’s just a floor to ceiling pane of glass.

He must be mistaken. Maybe the door is further down.

But there is no door, anywhere. Not in the bedroom. Not in the front hall. It’s all glass, and when he looks outside, the lake is gone, the trees, the hammock, all gone. It’s the rink in Regina, instead, where they played their first Prospect Cup, and the boy he faces off against on the other side of the glass is not Shane Hollander.

Frantic, Ilya looks for Shane among the Canadian players, but he does not see Shane’s number or anyone who looks like him.

There are only two people in the stands, sitting just behind the bench.

His mother, and Shane.

Ilya waves, but they don’t see him. They’re laughing together, as Ilya knew they would be if there was ever a universe where they might meet. His mother hugs Shane, kisses his cheek, musses his hair the way she used to rough up Ilya’s wild curls when he was a boy. Ilya’s heart hurts because he knows what this means.

Shane and Irina have never met one another in his dreams, no matter how hard Ilya has tried to make that happen.

They are together now and that means –

Ilya wakes with a start, Shane’s name on his lips, his heart racing. A cold sweat clings to his skin and his stomach rolls with last night’s over-indulgence. There’s a sour smell in the room, he’s not sure what it is, but it’s not helping his unsettled guts.

His alarm is going off and he silences it, then curls up beneath the blanket with his phone clutched in his hand. He peers at the screen through swollen, aching eyes and sees dozens and dozens of notifications, texts, and missed calls that he doesn’t have the energy or the will to pursue.

He feels awful and it’s his own fault. His head hurts worse than his last concussion did and his throat feels like he swallowed handfuls of glass.

Ilya closes his eyes and imagines that Shane is next to him, warm and soft and smelling of seaweed shampoo. He can almost feel the warmth of Shane’s breath on the back of his neck, the weight of his arm draped around his waist, fingertips gliding idly over his abdomen.

He could stay here all day in this fantasy, beneath the blanket with the curtains closed.

Thank you for the time we did get.

Ilya wrenches himself up out of bed with a ragged gasp, a voice in his head screaming no, no, no, as he lurches toward the bathroom, not sick but suddenly desperate to shower off all of yesterday, along with the scent of alcohol coming out of his pores.

He stands under the hot stream of water, letting it pound against his scalp and neck in hopes of soothing his blistering headache.

It does help. A little. So does being clean. Also, the two bottles of water from the mini fridge he chugs to rehydrate. He is still horribly hungover and everything hurts – his head, his eyes, his throat, his stupid heart, but it’s more manageable now that it doesn’t feel like his head got run over by a truck.

He gets dressed – jeans and a Cens hoodie that smells like Shane’s laundry detergent, then finally, he sits down to thumbs through his notifications.

The photos from last night are posted everywhere and he’s tagged in several of them on his socials. The one of him wiping Jackie’s tears after she got the news that Hayden survived has a mind-boggling 300K likes.

Ilya doesn’t remember crying in that moment, but apparently, he was.

He only skims the comments, which range from crying emoji’s to troll comments about taking his asshole card away, to others calling him a class act.

Ilya snorts at that. A class act would not have been as insanely jealous as he was in that moment.

The only other thing he looks at is a text from Troy.

[Troy]: Did you survive the night?

[Troy] Shit sorry that was an asshole thing to say. Are you okay?

[Ilya] I am fine. I want my vodka back.

[Troy] fuck you it’s 8am

As he exits out of his messages, Yuna texts him that she and David are heading downstairs for breakfast. Ilya shoves on his shoes and grabs his wallet, his phone, and the pack of cigarettes he bought last night.

He finds Yuna and David at the breakfast buffet, which is a bit more upscale than he’s used to. There’s an actual line cook taking orders like an actual restaurant and trays of fresh southern American style biscuits, which Ilya adores drizzled with melted butter and honey. He’s still not hungry, but it’s been roughly 24 hours since he last ate anything and he needs fuel. A diet of vodka and soft drinks will not sustain him.

“Good morning.” He winces at the roughness in his voice, at the way it cracks, and how he sounds like he’s got a cold. “This looks good.”

“Do you want an omelette?” David asks and gestures at the cook’s window with a pair of tongs. He doesn’t sound any better off than Ilya does. “Made to order.”

“No. Just scrambled, I think. And biscuits.”

Yuna is quiet this morning. It’s easy to read the stress in her posture and in her puffy eyes. She offers him a weak smile before turning toward the tables in the dining room, clutching a plate that only has fruit and a cup of yogurt on it, and a cup of coffee. Ilya fills his own plate, adding some breakfast sausages to his biscuit and eggs.

At the table, Yuna picks at her fruit without much enthusiasm.

“Do you want one of my biscuits?” Ilya asks and pushes his plate toward her.

“Oh, no thank you. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Me neither, but it will get us through the day.”

Yuna nods at her plate and Ilya is officially worried. This must be so hard for her, and for David, and Ilya doesn’t know that there is anything he can do to comfort either of them. He’s having a hard enough time managing his own feelings.

He reaches across the table and places his hand lightly on her wrist. “Yuna, what do you need from me?”

It’s something Shane does all the time and Ilya finds it helpful. It gives Ilya the opportunity to say what he needs, without having to ask for it. He just doesn’t know if it will help her.

“You being here is enough.”

“You will tell me if you do need something, yes? Anything. Just ask and I will do it.”

Her face crumples a little but she nods at her plate. Ilya feels guilty for making her feel bad.

David takes his seat, and the three of them eat in silence, the weight of the situation settling in on them. Ilya tucks in but he doesn’t really taste anything. It does settle his stomach some, and the coffee takes a little of the edge off his headache.

After, they head back to the conference room, where only five or six people sit together, whispering softly to each other. There is no press.

Ilya realizes that the people in this room are the only ones who don’t know the fate of their loved ones.

It’s not long before a woman enters the room, wearing a polo shirt with an unfamiliar logo on it. Ilya is relieved that it’s not someone from the league.

“Hollander?” she asks. Ilya holds his breath as the three of them stand. “Hi. I’m Linda Campos. I’m a representative from Houston Methodist Hospital. If you could come with me, please?”

They follow her across the hall into a smaller, unoccupied room, and she invites them to sit down. She looks at Ilya curiously.

“He’s family,” Yuna says automatically. Ilya squeezes her hand under the table. “So… I’m guessing you have news?”

“Maybe. I have a couple of photos I’d like you to look at, but I want to warn you, these may be very upsetting, so I want you to be prepared for that. I know this is hard, so take a moment if you need to.” Her empathy is genuine and Ilya appreciates that, especially after the way Crowell and Ms. Tolbert acted yesterday.

“I’m ready.” Yuna’s posture straightens and she looks to David, who gives a slight nod, then to Ilya who is not prepared, but ready to get it over with. “Yes. We’re ready.”

The first picture is of a man of Asian descent, obviously deceased. The sight of it turns Ilya’s stomach, but it isn’t Shane. He isn’t someone Ilya recognizes either.

“That’s not him,” Yuna says. “Not even close.”

“Okay,” Linda says. She quickly puts the photo back into a folder and withdraws another. “How about this one?”

This one isn’t Shane, either, but Ilya does recognize the man in this photo.

“No,” Yuna says.

“That is Reginald Miitka,” Ilya says. “He is starting goalie for the Voyageurs.”

“Miitka, you said?” She sits back in her chair and puts the picture away, looking thoughtful. “Let me make a phone call and I’ll be right back.”

Ilya is so tense, it feels like someone could play a concerto on his nerve endings. Neither Yuna or David speak. Ilya barely breathes.

Linda returns after what feels like an hour but is only minutes and sits back down.

“You’re certain this is Mr. Miitka,” she says to Ilya.

“Yes. I am certain.”

“What does this have to do with Shane?” Yuna asks.

“One of the survivors was admitted as Mr. Miitka, based on the ID in his coat pocket,” she says. “However, we now know that this patient is not Mr. Miitka, as his family identified his body this morning.”

“Are you saying it might be Shane?”

“Maybe,” she says. “It’s hard to tell due to his injuries.”

“What kind of injuries?” Yuna asks. Her hand tightens around Ilya’s. He squeezes back. “Are we looking at… disfigurement?”

Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat. His mind conjures the worst things – terrible burns and lacerations.

“I don’t have that information. I’m sorry,” she says. “Just that his injuries are severe enough to make identification difficult. You have to understand, yesterday was chaotic for everyone on our end and we had to assume a lot of information in a short amount of time. In this case, a mistake was made as far as Mr. Miitka’s identity due to the incorrect ID cards and the fact that during the short time he was conscious, he only spoke Russian.”

“Shane is learning Russian,” Ilya says.

Linda blinks at Ilya, trying and failing to hide her surprise.

“What did he say?” Ilya asks. “Do you know?”

“Maybe. I know they made a note of it, because it seemed like something that might mean something to his family. Give me a moment to find it.” Linda scrolls on her laptop, searching for something. “According to one of the trauma nurses, he kept saying something about a squirrel. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Yuna’s brow furrows and she looks to David, who only shakes his head.

“Oh my god,” Ilya murmurs.

It does mean something to Ilya. So much so that he’s shaking.

I can’t wait to see you, moya belka.

Squirrel? I actually like that one. It’s cute.

Then I will call you my pretty Canadian squirrel from now on.

“I know what it means. Is something I said to him.”

“What?” Yuna asks. “Like an inside joke?”

“Do you know that game we play?” Ilya asks. His voice is unsteady, almost a whisper, and he doesn’t trust it not to fail him. “The one where I test his vocabulary by calling him random nouns, like refrigerator or grapefruit?”

The same hope Ilya feels sparks up in her eyes as she nods.

“I called him a squirrel,” Ilya says. “The night before.”

“Oh.” Yuna takes a breath. Her grip on his arm tightens. “Then it has to be him, right?”

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Ilya, would it?” Linda asks.

Unable to speak anymore, Ilya only nods.

She smiles when she says: “He was asking for you.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

January 14, 2021

10:31 AM

Houston, TX

Ilya’s stomach twists as the elevator doors open to a wing dedicated specifically to the Neuro-ICU, where only the most critical brain injuries are treated. In the Uber on the way here, Yuna googled the hospital and found that it has one of the best neurological departments in Texas, with state of the art operating suites, and she was comforted by that information, but Ilya is not. 

There’s a reason there has been so much focus on athletes and brain injuries in recent years. He worries about the long-term effects – difficulty regulating emotions, confusion, personality changes. It’s a major risk in contact sports, and he knows more than a few who are not the same person they were before a serious injury. 

It’s very quiet on this floor. No overhead pages, no voices above soft murmurs. The silence only heightens Ilya’s anxiety. 

At the desk next to the entrance to the ICU, Yuna speaks to the clerk softly and passes on the card they were given before they left the hotel. A nurse is summoned and they’re led into an open area with a round desk, which is surrounded by rooms with wide windows and doors. It’s also quiet here, except for the soft beeps coming from monitors behind the desk and the whispered conversations of nurses and caregivers. 

It’s so quiet, Ilya can almost convince himself his own racing heartbeat is the loudest thing in the room. He can hear the oxygen rushing into his lungs with every breath, like waves crashing against the shore, then receding back into the sea.  

A tall, slender man with a soft spanish accent greets them as soon as they check in with the nurse at the desk inside the main area. “I’m Dr. Reyes. You are the Hollanders?” 

“Yes.” Yuna takes Ilya’s arm, claiming him as family. “Are we able to see him?” 

“Of course. Follow me.” 

Ilya’s heart is beating so fast now, he thinks it might actually explode inside his chest, so fast it actually hurts. The rush makes him dizzy, a little bit nauseous, like he’s just sprinted an entire marathon without stopping. He’s not going to pass out, but it feels like he could if a single, unexpected thing happens to tip the scales.

He also has no idea of what he’s about to walk into. No idea of how bad it’s going to be. It’s terrifying to think Shane might have to live with something so debilitating, it might cause him to suffer for the rest of his life. Horrible scars, lost limbs, brain damage, lifelong trauma –

Dr. Reyes leads them to a room, where beyond the wide glass window there’s someone on the bed, lying motionless and hooked up to what must be a dozen different machines. Ilya can’t see his face from here, but he’s filled with a wild and desperate hope as all three are ushered inside. 

Ilya steps toward the end of the bed and it suddenly gets very hard to breathe. 

Shane’s face actually is unrecognizable – like he went sixteen rounds with Ryan Price and lost, twice. Ink-black bruises ring both of his swollen eyes. The right side of his face and part of his forehead are mottled in a combination of purple-black and wine red and green, and there’s an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth and nose. 

The swelling and bruises are bad enough, but the tubes snaking out of his shaved head are far scarier. The tubes are filled with a clear reddish-yellow fluid and they drain into bags on a stand beside the bed, a single drip at a time.  

There’s also a cage-like halo traction around his left leg and pins stuck into his skin, holding a broken bone in place. Frankenstein-like staples and stitches snake around the back of his left calf. 

Looking at Shane now, Ilya can understand why it must have been hard to figure out who he is. Saving his life would have taken priority, and there have been at least two surgeries since yesterday – the drains in his head, the pins in his leg. 

But it is Shane. Though they nearly blend into some truly horrific bruising, Ilya would know those freckles anywhere. He’s intimately familiar with the shape of them, with the patterns they paint on his cheeks. He’s spent hours, years, a whole decade studying them, admiring them, kissing them, touching them, revering them.  

So there is no question that this poor, battered man on the bed is Shane Hollander. 

When that understanding fully hits him, Ilya almost goes to his knees as something loosens inside his chest. It’s a kind of relief that he’s never felt before, as if his own life has been unexpectedly spared. 

In a way, it has been.  

Shane is in very bad shape, but he’s alive, more or less intact, and that’s so much more than Ilya expected to find here. 

He has to repress the urge to climb into bed with him, hold him, breathe him in, feel his heart beating in his chest. Every single cell in his body wants to, needs to, and not being able to do any of that is a new and vicious kind of torture. 

Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat and dries the moisture in his eyes with his sleeve, every bit of his attention focused only on Shane. He only hears bits of the conversation between Yuna and the doctor. 

…immediately taken into surgery…blood types didn’t match…great physical shape…very lucky…

He’s very aware that this is probably career-ending, not that this is Ilya’s biggest concern, but it would be a major issue for Shane. He’s honestly not sure how Shane would handle not being able to play anymore. That was not something they’ve ever talked about – what they would do if an injury or an illness took them out of the game for good. It was always a possibility, but one they both avoided thinking too hard about. 

Yuna probably had a plan all mapped out for Shane’s post-hockey life already. 

Ilya, however, does not. Maybe he needs to fix that. 

“Why don’t we all take a seat?” Dr. Reyes suggests. “There should be enough chairs.” 

Ilya moves a pair of chairs away from the wall and places them next to the bed, then ushers Yuna and David to them. He takes his own seat on a stool on the other side, as close to Shane as he can get, and he takes Shane’s hand in his, curling his fingers around it. 

Shane’s hand is warm, but he doesn’t respond to the touch. 

Ilya’s relief doesn’t last very long. As the doctor begins to catalog Shane’s injuries, Ilya becomes very aware that his recovery may be both painful and lengthy. 

“Shane’s head took quite a beating,” the doctor says. “He sustained two skull fractures, one in the frontal area near his right eye socket, the second to the parietal at the crown of his head, and he has nasal and zygomatic bone fractures in his face. We’re looking at significant soft-tissue damage as well as severe swelling on his brain. All are consistent with blunt-force trauma, so it probably happened on impact.” Reyes says. “If so, it’s a wonder he was even able to get up and move around afterward.” 

“Adrenaline, maybe,” David muses. His gaze is fixed on Shane, worry lining his brow. “Survival instinct."

“Both are entirely possible,” the doctor says. “We know a lot about what the human body is capable of, but not everything. Sometimes, when someone is put in extraordinary circumstances, superhuman feats are not unheard of.”

Ilya thinks of Wyatt and his superhero comics. He pictures Shane in a superhero costume. A sexy one. 

Reyes points to the bags on the stand behind Ilya. “We’ve installed drains to syphon fluid off his brain and to help reduce the swelling. Those should come out in a week or so. Maybe two, if we’re still seeing output, but Shane’s responding a little better than anticipated, so if I were a betting man, I’d say closer to a week.”

“What should we expect in terms of long-term damage?” Yuna asks. “Will he be… himself?”

“It’s hard to tell at this stage. Brains are weird and recovery varies wildly from person to person. I’ve seen two very similar injuries result in completely opposite outcomes,” he says. “But we’ll know more after we test for cognitive function once the swelling comes down.” 

“So it’s a crap-shoot,” David says. 

“Unfortunately, yes.” 

That isn’t very reassuring, but Ilya will take whatever he can get. Shane being alive is enough. Whatever else that means, he’ll deal with it. 

“Okay. So what else?” Yuna asks. 

“He fractured his left tibia and a sustained severe laceration to his calf. Bad, but neither are life threatening. Maybe not even career-ending, but that’s for sports medicine and his team doctor to determine,” Reyes says and gestures to the halo. “Other than that, the rest of his injuries are surprisingly minor. Bruises, mostly. Ribs. Shoulder. A bit of smoke inhalation. He’s very lucky to be alive.”

Yuna smooths her fingertips across Shane’s forehead and Ilya longs to do the same. He wishes he could fold Shane up in his arms and hold onto him – he wants to put all his broken pieces back together, to fix him and promise he will never let anything bad happen to him ever again. 

To know there is nothing he can do but wait leaves him helpless and a little more broken himself. 

“When will he wake up?” It’s the first thing Ilya has said since he walked into this room. “Soon?”

“We have him heavily sedated right now. We’ll probably keep him that way for a few days.” 

“For the pain?” Ilya’s voice is much smaller than he wanted it to be. Almost childlike.

“That, and for his own comfort. He was agitated when he came out of surgery yesterday.”

“What does that mean?” David asks. “Agitated?”

“He was not a fan of, well, anything, really,” the doctor laughs a little. “He knows some very colorful phrases in Russian, apparently.” 

“And who taught you to talk like that, Hollander?” Ilya smiles at Shane and squeezes his hand. “Such disrespect.”

“I can’t imagine where he might have learned it,” Yuna says dryly, but she smiles fondly at Ilya, then turns an apologetic smile toward the doctor. “I’m so sorry. Shane’s usually very polite.” 

“We’ve heard much worse.” Reyes says. “I promise.”

“Is that normal?” David asks. “Russian isn’t his native language. English or French would make more sense.” 

Ilya rubs his thumb over Shane’s knuckles. “Maybe it is because we have been practicing a lot lately. Maybe it is a memory.” 

“That is possible, especially if it’s something he’s been putting some effort into. Like I said, brains are weird and mysterious and sometimes they do strange things. There’s so much we still don’t know about them,” he says. “Like, we still don’t really know why we dream, or why those dreams are about the things they’re about. Some researchers believe they’re just the brain’s way of processing garbage information. Others believe dreams are tied to our subconscious fears, needs, or wants.” 

“Is the second one,” Ilya says. “For sure.” 

Yuna and David are looking at him, curious. Maybe a little worried. 

“I have been dreaming of my mother a lot lately,” he explains without thinking. “That is not garbage information.” 

“Of course it isn’t, son,” David says, soft and reassuring. 

Yuna tears up a little.

Ilya is going to have to get a handle on himself. The walls he worked so hard to construct around himself are crumbling one stone at a time and he is the one kicking them down. He’s allowing himself to be too emotional and he’s carrying his feelings too close to the surface, letting out thoughts he would usually keep to himself. 

That is dangerous. Very dangerous. 

He is not being careful about Shane, either. Two people in the last 24 hours have realized there’s more than just friendship between them. Maybe they suspected before, but Ilya all but confirmed it by being so obvious, and now he’s sitting here, holding Shane’s hand in front of someone they have just met. He’s a doctor, yes, and was probably very discreet, but what if he gossiped to a nurse, who told her friend, who told two more friends? 

This is how rumors get started and Ilya is already very aware that people have been speculating about him and Shane online, tucked away in smaller corners of fandom spaces, as they have been for years. It would not take much to fan those flames. A reddit post from an eyewitness. A dissection of last night’s insta post. A photograph of him hugging the Hollander’s. 

He and Shane have spent years protecting this secret, and Ilya, in his panic and worry, has forgotten how important it is to maintain public boundaries. He hasn’t been capable of dealing with all of it and he has unintentionally let things fall through the cracks.

If Ilya had his way, he’d smash down all the walls and let the stones settle where they fell, but that isn’t his decision to make alone. Without Shane’s input, that can’t happen, and Shane is in no state to give him permission.

Reluctantly, he releases Shane’s hand and tears his eyes away from Shane’s swollen face. It kills him to have to do it, but it’s necessary. 

The conversation has moved on while Ilya tuned out. They’re discussing how soon Shane can go home.

The sooner, the better as far as Ilya is concerned. 

11:57 AM

Ilya slips downstairs for a cigarette while Shane is taken for tests and Yuna and David fill out paperwork. Visiting hours for the ICU don’t open back up until three, so Ilya has some time to kill. 

He stands beneath a structure designated for smoking that looks like a city bus stop, smoking his first, and hopefully, last, cigarette of the day. Three women in pink scrubs join him, looking curiously as they sit down on the bench. Ilya only acknowledges them with a nod and a tight smile, unwilling to engage in conversation right now. 

With the end of the cigarette pinched between his lips, he sends Jackie a text to find out what hospital and what room number Hayden is in. Might as well check in while he has the free time.  

His phone starts to vibrate and he expects it’s Jackie calling but it’s not Jackie, it’s a video chat request from Rose. 

In all the chaos, Ilya has forgotten about her completely, even though she’s one of Shane’s closest friends. 

“Rose Landry,” he drawls. “How are you?”

“Oh my god!” she says. “Finally! I’ve been texting and calling since yesterday. I’ve been so worried about both of you, you have no idea!” 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, and he means it. The women on the bench have stopped gossiping and are looking at him with too much curiosity. One of them cranes her neck, trying to see his screen, so Ilya wanders away, across the parking lot, so they won’t be overheard. “Things have been… crazy. I have not been checking my phone.” 

“Please tell me he’s okay,” she says with genuine tears in her eyes. “The news is reporting he’s missing.” 

Ilya is surprised it hasn’t been widely reported yet. Then, he remembers what he dealt with yesterday and it isn’t surprising at all. Shane’s name will probably be the last one announced, simply for the drama of it all. 

He gives Rose the short version of Shane’s injuries, which don’t describe how terrible Shane looks, or how still he is, or how scared Ilya is of what comes next.

“That’s awful. But it could be so much worse,” Rose says. “At least he’s alive, right?”

Ilya agrees, reluctantly. It could have been a lot worse. It could have been any of those things Ilya pictured and it wasn’t. He’s grateful for that. 

He’s grateful Shane is alive, but it could also be so much better. Shane could be awake and talking and holding his hand, with only minor injuries to contend with.

“Please keep me posted, okay?” Rose says. “And, hey, I’ll be free for a few weeks as soon as this film wraps. I promise I’ll come visit as soon as I can get away.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Shane would like that.” 

“I gotta run, but please update me. Don’t forget, okay? Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye-bye.” 

Ilya considers another cigarette, but Jackie texts back with a room number at this hospital and he decides it’s a sign. He shoves the pack back into his pocket, wishing he’d had the willpower last night to choose not to buy them. It’s a habit that no matter how hard he tries to kick, he always comes back to in times of stress. 

He stops at the cafeteria on the way and grabs a coffee for himself and a caramel latte for Jackie, then heads up to the orthopedic ward and takes the elevator up to the 6th floor. 

The door of Hayden’s room is shut, but Hayden is visible through the narrow window. There’s a thick plastic brace from his shoulders up to his jaw and both his eyes are ringed in black, just like Shane’s, though his face doesn’t seem to be nearly as swollen. 

Muffled voices bleed out into the hall and Ilya hesitates, then knocks lightly before opening the door and peeking inside. 

Jackie is there, sitting on a padded bench by the wall. In the opposite corner, JJ Boiziau sits in a chair that looks like it’s barely containing him. He’s wearing a surgical scrub top and sweatpants, weird foam slippers, and his head is bandaged, but he doesn’t look too horribly banged up otherwise. If he’s supposed to be in a room of his own, he’s clearly escaped. 

JJ scowls at the sight of him. “The fuck are you doing here, Rozanov?” 

“JJ, don’t start,” Jackie commands. “Come on in, Ilya.” 

Ilya ignores JJ and holds out the coffee for Jackie. “Thought maybe you could use this.” 

“Yes,” she says emphatically. “Thank you. Is there any news about Shane?” 

“He is alive. In very bad shape, but alive.” Ilya is aware that he’s going to have to repeat that phrase all day and wishes he didn’t have to.  

“Oh, thank fuck!” JJ practically shouts. “What took them so long?”

“They thought he was Miitka.”

“How the fuck did that happen?” Hayden slurs from the bed. He’s lying so still, Ilya was not aware he was awake. “They don’t look anything alike!”

“Shane was wearing his jacket. Miitka’s wallet was in the pocket. They didn’t figure it out until later.” 

JJ’s face scrunches up. “He was not wearing Mitty’s jacket.” 

“He was when they found him,” Ilya shrugs. He is curious about what JJ and Hayden remember. “You saw him after the crash?” 

JJ looks away, guiltily, as Ilya drops onto the bench beside Jackie and sips his own coffee, waiting. 

“I helped him get Hayden free. He wanted to save everyone,” JJ says, “like a dumbass, and then he pushed me off the fucking plane, right behind Hayden.”

So JJ is maybe a hero, too. Interesting that Crowell didn’t mention that last night, when JJ was probably the only one of them that was capable of speaking clearly and probably told this story to someone well before the press conference. 

“You did not see him after that?” 

“Emergency came right after. It happened very quick.” JJ shrugs. “I did not see anything.” 

“I don’t remember shit,” Hayden mumbles. “Just the ground, then boom. Then here.”

“And how are you feeling, Hayden?” Ilya asks, and he means it. 

“Pretty fucked up. But I can wiggle my toes, so that’s good,” Hayden says cheerfully. His feet move under the blanket as if to prove it. “Drugs are good, too.”

Ilya looks at Jackie.

“Two fractured vertebrae – one in his neck, one in his back, broken collarbone, dislocated shoulder, concussion,” she rattles off. “He was downgraded to stable condition this morning.” 

Ilya winces. Surely, the neck and back injuries will end his career. Still, better than paralysis or death. “Ouch.” 

“So you have seen him? Shane?” JJ asks. 

“Yes. Earlier.” 

“What room is he in? I want to visit.” 

“You can’t. Sorry,” Ilya says, but not in a mean way. “He is in the ICU. Family only. Very secure.” 

JJ scowls and sits forward, perched on the edge of the chair like he’s about to launch himself at Ilya. 

“So how the fuck do you get to see him and no one else does?” 

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. Any other time, he wouldn’t mind getting into it with JJ, who has always fucking hated him, but Ilya is not in the mood. This isn’t a game, they’re not on the ice, and Ilya has other things to worry about than JJ’s feelings. 

“The Hollander’s. Maybe if you ask nice, they will tell the staff you are his brother.” 

“Is that what they told them about you?”

“No.” Ilya doesn’t elaborate. 

JJ curses under his breath in French. Ilya knows enough by now to recognize the word bastard.

Jackie’s phone rings and she smiles. “Oh, it’s the girls.” 

She answers and Ruby and Jade’s faces appear on her screen. Both are fighting for space in the frame. Only the top of Arthur’s head is visible.

“Hi!” Jackie says, then frowns. “What have you done to your hair?”

“Grandma did it for us!”

“Wow. Okay,” she says. “Are you behaving?” 

“Yes,” they say in unison. It’s not convincing. “Ruby won’t let me play with Sparkle Surprise.” 

“Did you ask nicely?”

“Yes,” Jade says. 

“What did Ruby say?”

“No.” 

“No is a complete sentence,” Ruby says sassily. Ilya suppresses a laugh. He might be the one responsible for teaching her that, but he will never admit to it. “And she’s being greedy. She doesn’t need two of them!” 

“You have one of your own, Jade. Play with that one.” Jade whines and Jackie ignores it. “Guess who’s here with me, guys? It’s Uncle Ilya!” 

Both girls cheer. Arthur does, too. 

Jackie hands him the phone and Ilya puts on his brightest smile. “Hello ladies! You’re looking very beautiful today.” 

They’re dressed up in church dresses, with gobs of plastic beads around their necks, and their hair has been teased into very 80’s styles. Lots of hairspray, probably. 

It is very cute and Ilya ignores the longing in his chest for a family of his own. 

“Guess what?” Ruby holds a bottle of nail polish up for him to see. “Grandma got us new nail polish! And guess what color it is?”

“Blue?” Ilya says. It’s obviously red.

“No, silly! It’s Ruby! Like my name.” 

“That is very exciting. Who knew your name was also a color?” 

Jade holds up her own bottle. “Mine is my name, too! Jade!” 

“When are you going to come over and let us do your nails again?” Ruby asks. 

“Soon,” Ilya promises, though he’s not sure how to make that happen with the present circumstances. 

“What color should we do?” Ruby asks. “My color is really pretty.”

“So is mine!” Jade snaps. 

“You can do one of each,” Ilya says. “Right hand, Jade. Left hand, Ruby. Okay?” 

That answer satisfies them. Arthur’s face pops into the frame and he grins, waving one very sticky-looking purple hand at Ilya. Most of his face is purple, too.

“Hello, Arthur! What have you been eating? You are purple!” 

“Oh, no, did one of you let him have markers again?” Jackie asks and takes the phone back. She moves to sit beside Hayden as the girls deny giving Arthur markers.   

On the other side of the room, JJ glares daggers at him. Ilya does not have the energy or patience for this.  

“Is there a problem, JJ?” 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“You get invited to see Shane but no one else is allowed. And now Hayden’s kids are calling you Uncle Ilya and you’re making playdates with them. What the fuck are you trying to do, Rozanov?”

“Hey. Kids on the phone,” Jackie scolds. “I just got Arthur to stop saying f-u-c-k and I really don’t want to have to start over.”

“Five dollars in the swear jar, buddy,” Hayden slurs.

“I think it is ten now,” Ilya says. “Or maybe fifteen.” 

“Come on, buddy. Pay up.” 

“Someone needs to explain to me why Rozanov is suddenly everybody’s friend.” 

“He’s not so bad,” Hayden says. “Once you get used to him.” 

Hayden probably would not have said that if he wasn’t on a bucket of drugs, but Ilya is unexpectedly moved by it anyway. 

“Thank you, Hayden.” 

Normally, JJ’s obvious jealousy and his irritating voice would not bother Ilya much. At best, it might get a snappy comment from him, but today it feels petty and stupid and JJ is upset about the wrong things, and that upsets Ilya.

He pitches his voice low enough that he won’t be heard over the conversation happening on the other side of the room. “Most of your team died yesterday and you are worried about me?”

JJ reels back like Ilya threw a punch. His eyes fill with tears and he turns his face toward Hayden, then toward the floor. Ilya feels bad to bring it up, but not bad enough to apologize for it. He’s not wrong. A lot of people died yesterday, a fact that Ilya has not let himself think too hard about yet, but if it was his team, he would be devastated, not worrying about what other people were doing. 

“I should go,” he says and pushes to his feet. “I will check in with you later, okay?” 

Jackie’s holding her phone up so the girls can talk to Hayden. Both are crying while Hayden does his best to reassure them that he’s okay. They don't sound convinced. 

“I’ll be here,” she says. “And give Shane our love, okay? And Yuna and David, too.”

“I will.”

3:00 PM

Ilya gets to spend the first thirty minutes of visitation alone with Shane. Sort of. He closes the door and draws the curtain to shield them from view, but it doesn’t totally hide either of them. He very badly wants privacy, just 10 minutes where he can touch and kiss Shane’s face without being seen. 

He only dares to kiss him once, on the forehead, and only when he’s sure there’s no one outside the door. It isn’t enough. 

Seeing Shane like this is so much worse than the time he got steamrolled by Marlow. That seems so minor compared to this. At least then he was alert and capable of having a conversation. Though drugged out of his head, he’d been coherent. 

This time, Shane is statue-still and he doesn’t respond at all to Ilya’s voice or touch. 

Ilya would give anything to have concussed, goofy Shane right now, smiling that dopey smile, filter half-broken and feeling no pain. 

He doesn’t know what happens next, but he hopes they’ll be taking him home soon. Maybe, once he is out of the hospital for good, Shane can stay with him in Ottawa for the rest of his recovery. He has plenty of space, a gym for any physical therapy he might need, a guest room on the first floor he can stay in, in case mobility is a problem. 

It’s not like either of their teams are going to the playoffs this year. For different reasons, of course, but Ilya will probably have plenty of free time to look after him once the regular season ends. 

Yuna and David will probably want Shane at home. He’s okay with that, too, since they only live a short distance away. He even understands it, but he would rather Shane be with him. Maybe for good. 

This whole thing has made him realize how much he does not want to continue doing what they’ve been doing if he can help it. The stolen hours are worth it, but they aren’t nearly enough, and the time between is slowly killing him. 

By the time Yuna and David arrive, Ilya has already worried himself into a funk – what if Shane doesn’t remember this thing they’ve built between them, what if his mental capacity is so reduced he can’t care for himself, what if he comes out of it a completely different man, and what if Shane leaves him slowly and in pieces, the way his father did, shedding one memory at at time until everything is gone, what if, what if, what if, on repeat until he’s driven himself half mad with scenarios. 

It helps to have company to distract him, though nobody talks much. 

Ilya’s okay with that. There isn’t much to say, and Shane never stirs, barely even twitches the whole time they’re there.  

They stay until visitation ends at 6 PM and they take an Uber back to the hotel. Ilya watches the city pass as Yuna leans her head against Ilya’s shoulder, while David discusses what to do for dinner, almost to himself. Ilya would be fine with something from room service or delivery, but he’s also fine with dinner out if that’s what they want to do. His appetite hasn’t quite returned, but he needs to eat, and he’s not picky about the choices. 

“I just saw a Tex-mex place across the street,” David says as they enter the hotel lobby. “I could go for some tacos.” 

“I could use a margarita,” Yuna says. “Several, in fact.” 

“I will buy you a whole pitcher,” Ilya promises. “Two, if you want.” 

Troy, Harris, and the captain Ilya couldn’t place yesterday are in the lobby when they arrive, discussing something as Harris frowns at his phone. They all look worn out, like they’ve just left a tough game and Ilya wonders what they’ve been up to. He thought maybe they would all go back home today, now that things are more or less settled. 

“I heard the news,” Troy says as he meets them halfway. His smile is tired but sympathetic. “Also heard one of the rookies made it out. Higgins, I think his name is?” 

“Oh, he’s a sweet kid,” Yuna says. “I’m glad to hear that. I know his mother must be so relieved.” 

Ilya doesn’t know him and can’t say he remembers playing against him. It is good news, though. Too few people made it out alive, and he knows how it feels to be one of the lucky ones.  

“Yuna, David, have you met Troy?” Ilya asks. 

“I haven’t. Troy Barrett, right?” Yuna offers her hand. “You played for Toronto before you were traded to Ottawa.” 

“Yeah.” Troy shuffles uncomfortably, almost shy, at the mention of his previous team. “That’s me.”

“I think they made a big mistake trading you, but their loss is Ottawa’s gain for sure. Once you find your footing, the Cen’s are going to be tough to beat with you and Ilya on the same line.” Ilya can practically see her hockey nerd wheels spinning. It’s a nice thing to say, and may even be possible, if Ilya can somehow manage to rally the team. “But what you did was very brave, Troy. Hopefully, something good will come of it.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” Troy doesn’t sound convinced. “Thanks.” 

“Have you guys eaten yet?” David asks. 

“We were just trying to decide where to go. Somewhere close. Been a long day.” Troy says. “They had us helping out with…”

Troy just lets that hang, but Ilya isn’t sure what he means. 

“With what?”

“It was mostly like, handing out paperwork to the WAGs and stuff so they could make arrangements,” he says. “Hit pretty hard, you know?”

Ilya still hasn’t gotten his head around the idea that the majority of the team is gone yet. He can imagine having to face the WAGs and family members would make it feel much more real than it does now. A slight shift of fate might have had Ilya and the Hollander’s in their place, having to make funeral arrangements so far from home, and he is not unaware of that reality. 

“It’s good of you to be here to help out,” Yuna says softly. 

Troy just nods and glances back at Harris and the other captain. “I should see what they decided on.”

“We were planning on trying the Tex-Mex place across the street,” David says. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Troy shuffles a little more, uncertain about being invited to dinner by Shane Hollander’s parents. Maybe he’s just being Troy, but Ilya thinks it might be because Shane is secretly one of his idols.  

“Harris!” Ilya yells. “Come get Mexican food with us! I’m buying margaritas for everyone!”

“Well, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Harris says. “But we have one extra, if that’s alright. Scott wandered off somewhere to talk to Kip.” 

“The more the merrier,” Yuna says. “Just give us a few minutes to get cleaned up?” 

Ilya stays downstairs with Harris, Troy and the unknown captain, who Ilya learns is Aaron Spectre, from Minnesota, only recently crowned captain after an undisclosed scandal that may or may not have involved drugs. From what Ilya can remember, Spectre is a mid player on a mid team, and Ilya can’t say they’ve ever even spoken before. 

If he’s okay hanging out with Hunter and Harris and not the others, he’s probably not terrible.  

They talk shop for a few minutes, then Ilya fills them in on Shane, Hayden, and JJ when Hunter returns. He keeps it clinical, now that he’s aware of how easy it is to slip up and how often he’s been doing it.

“How the hell are they going to replace a whole team before next season?” Spectre asks. “Sounds like JJ’s the only one who will be back. Maybe Evans, but he’s like a year out of diapers.” 

“They’ll probably pull players from the semi-pro leagues, make some trades, grab a few extra rookies to draft,” Hunter says. “Probably going to see a big shake-up in everyone’s roster in July.” 

Hunter is probably right, but Ilya doesn’t care much. He’s got a no-trade clause in his contract, so he’s not going anywhere, no matter what threats they make or how often Ilya uses it as a taunt. Not that Ottawa would want to trade the biggest name on their roster anyway. Even if that big name isn't winning games.

“If it was me, I don’t think I’d ever want to get on a plane again,” Spectre says. “Even if I walked away with just a concussion, that would be it for me, man.” 

Hunter looks thoughtful, then turns his gaze to Ilya, who ignores the unspoken question in his eyes. Ilya can’t answer it anyhow. He doesn’t know if Shane will ever play hockey again, let alone get on a plane. 

Hockey is Shane’s life. He will lose part of himself if he can’t play anymore. 

That is something to consider later. Ilya can only think about right now and the weeks to come. 

David and Yuna return and the group heads over to the restaurant, the conversation light and focused on playoff predictions. 

Ilya pauses outside the door of the restaurant and lies about needing to return a call. He dips around the corner to sneak a cigarette like a kid hiding from his parents. Which he kind of is. He knows Yuna knows he’s been smoking, and that is not a bear he wants to poke right now.

As soon as his cigarette is lit, Hunter peeks around the corner, with the mildest scowl of disapproval Ilya has ever seen. 

“Uh-oh,” Ilya says. “Am I about to get a lecture from dad?”  

“No. Even though you shouldn’t be smoking,” Hunter leans back against the wall next to Ilya and stares at the distant downtown skyline. “How are you holding up?” 

Ilya shrugs. He doesn’t really know. A lot of things are bubbling to the surface and that familiar sense of despair is starting to settle around him, overtaking the other fifteen things he’s feeling right now. 

“What are you going to do, Rozanov? You can’t keep this thing a secret forever, you know.” 

“The plan was after retirement,” Ilya says. “But I don’t know now. Maybe much sooner. Maybe never. It will depend on what happens next.” 

Hunter nods. “You ever thought about just pulling the trigger? Putting it out there and letting the chips fall where they may?” 

Ilya is suddenly very annoyed with this. It’s in good faith, and Hunter means well, but Ilya is not looking to kick more stones out of the wall yet. His priority has to be protecting this, not smashing down what remains. 

“Our situation is not like yours, Hunter. Kip was not your rival, or even another player. They could find a reason to fire me if it comes out.” Ilya takes a drag on his cigarette. “I am not a Canadian citizen yet and it will not be safe for me to go back to Russia. You don’t know what it’s like there for people like us.”

Hunter’s sideways glance confirms that it’s not something he’s ever thought about, and maybe he didn’t even know how scary it has become for those who are anything but straight and obedient. The laws and fines and threat of imprisonment are not the worst part of it by a long shot.  

“Defying Crowell yesterday probably wasn’t the way to go, then,” Hunter says. “You put a target on your back.” 

“I know. But I don’t regret it.” Ilya takes another drag and leans his head back into the bricks as he exhales a cloud of smoke. “I told you. It’s complicated and it is not only my decision.” 

“You could always marry him. You get citizenship, and if it comes out, what the fuck can they do about it, right? It’s not like they can force you to get a divorce.” 

Hunter means it as a joke, but Ilya takes it seriously. It was part of the plan, eventually. 

But maybe, it’s not such a bad idea. In theory. 

“They would find a way to punish us for it.”

There’s a long silence between them. It’s the truth and Hunter doesn’t even try to refute it. 

Ilya considers Hunter’s suggestion, though. He thinks about how he would propose to Shane. Maybe he would do the thing he said and cover the dock at the cottage with candles. Or maybe he would take Shane to New York, rent the penthouse of a classy and expensive hotel. Maybe they would take a carriage ride through Central Park and eat giant pretzels. Or go to Coney Island and propose on the boardwalk, or on the ferris wheel with all the carnival lights below them.

If he knows himself, it will be less organized or planned than any of that. Maybe once or twice, he’s wanted to ask Shane to marry him on a random Tuesday morning, both of them sleepy and tangled up in the sheets, awake but not ready to get out of bed. And while making Shane’s vile smoothie. Or watching Shane brush his teeth. And while making out in the shower. Or cooking dinner. While arguing about Ilya leaving stubble in the sink.  

Ilya is so much more likely to blurt it out when he can no longer contain his desire to ask. 

Hunter probably has no idea just how much Ilya loves Shane, or how scary and overwhelming it is sometimes, or how close to an unhealthy obsession it sometimes feels. He probably has no idea how precious this is, or how much Ilya has given up for it, or how hard Ilya is willing to fight to keep it.

Maybe Hunter feels that way about Kip, but Ilya can’t say for sure. Hunter loves Kip – that is obvious, and they’re very sweet together, but when they look at each other, Ilya does not see the same burning, consuming fire in their eyes that Ilya feels when he looks at Shane. 

Maybe, they’re just better at containing it than Ilya is. Maybe Ilya knows absolutely nothing about their relationship or what they choose not to show in public. 

“My advice?” Hunter finally says. “Get a lawyer. Maybe look into seeking asylum. Canada’s pretty good about granting it in cases like yours. You should also keep your agent in the loop and have a statement ready to go. Just in case.”

Ilya knows all this. He hasn’t done any of it, having gotten caught up in the limbo of depression and the passage of time between being with Shane and not being with Shane. 

He thinks… maybe he needs more help than therapy alone can give him. 

“We should go in,” he says to Hunter as he stubs out the cigarette and tosses the butt in a nearby trash can. “We are too late for the Early Bird special but maybe they will give you a senior discount if you show ID to prove you are a dinosaur.”

“You’re not funny, Rozanov.” 

“Ilya.” He figures Hunter has earned the right to call him by his first name. After all, Ilya has come to realize that Ilya and Rozanov are two distinctly different people. Just because Rozanov is a lonely asshole doesn’t mean that Ilya has to be. “We are not on the ice right now.”

Scott hitches an eyebrow skyward and gives him a little nod. “Only if you call me Scott.” 

Ilya smiles back and holds the door for Scott.

Dinner is subdued. Mostly shop talk that skirts around mentions of Montreal – nobody wants to rehash that right now, when it’s still so fresh and raw. It’s a continuation of the playoff predictions now that the Voyagers are out, this season’s break-out stars, illogical trades, who is underrated and overrated, like that dumb, cocky, and frankly annoying rookie from Anaheim that everyone hates. 

That kid isn’t on Ilya’s radar at all. He’s aware of him, yes, and how he’s trying very hard to be the next Ilya Rozanov, but in spite of all his brash talk, he hasn't even come close to beating Ilya’s rookie season scoring record. He isn’t likely to next season, either, but for some reason everyone thinks he’s the top contender for Rookie of the Year.  

Ilya doesn’t say much, he just listens as he sips his Dos Equis and picks at his shrimp tacos. Beside him, David does the same. 

The Hollander’s don’t stay long after they’ve finished eating, and they don’t fight too hard when Ilya insists on paying the tab. Yuna, who is flushed and feeling the effects of the margaritas, leaves him with a kiss on the cheek, a tight hug, and a promise to see him in the morning. David gives his shoulder a squeeze, calls him son in front of everyone, which gives Ilya an unexpected thrill, and promises the same. 

He sort of zones out for a while, his thoughts with Shane, spiralling a little, until Dallas Kent walks in with the guy from San Jose. He’s being loud already, laughing with his new bestie as they approach the bar. 

Across the table, Troy’s tenses, and Ilya smells blood in the water. 

Ilya thinks maybe it’s best to wrap this up. There are thirty different ways this can go wrong. 

And it does, very quickly. At the bar, Kent leers at a pair of young women seated next to him. The girls are friendly. At first. Looks like small talk, but when they return to their own conversation, Kent leans down and whispers something to the girl next to him, his hand pressed between her shoulderblades. 

Her whole demeanor changes and she brushes him off, but his hand comes back – the contact is obviously unwanted and unwelcome, and she pulls back, unsmiling as she shrugs him off a second time. 

Ilya is on his feet and halfway to the bar before he even realizes what he’s doing. 

“Just one drink,” Kent says to her. “Come on. I promise I’m not a bad guy.” 

“No. Thank you. I can buy my own drinks.” She holds up a margarita glass full of something pink. “I just want to talk to my friend, okay?”

“Bartender, get these ladies a pitcher of whatever they’re drinking,” Kent yells. “And keep ‘em coming!”

“I said we’re not interested,” the woman says. “Please leave us alone.” 

Ilya pushes his way between Kent and the woman, grinning meanly as he leans into the bar like a roadblock. 

“You are not trying very hard to beat those rape allegations, Kent. English is not my first language, but even I know what no thank you means.” 

“Fuck off, faggot.” 

“Aww. Your crush on me is very cute, but I am already taken.” Ilya turns to the women behind him, who are already moving to the end of the bar. “I am very sorry for his bad behavior.”

“Never figured you’d be one to cockblock, Rozanov,” the guy from San Jose says with disdain. 

“Oh, so you are like Kent here. Can only get a woman to sleep with you if you get her drunk.”

Kent’s fist comes out of nowhere and catches Ilya square in the mouth. Though the hit was pretty weak, Ilya’s teeth cut into his bottom lip and he instantly tastes blood. He pushes his tongue into the wound and then laughs at Kent, knowing that his bloody-toothed grin looks completely insane. 

“Take it outside,” the bartender says, but he’s not even looking at them. 

Troy and Scott materialize behind him, followed by Spectre. Ilya cocks his head at Kent and smirks. If it comes down to it, this will not be a fair fight, but it will be fun, and maybe what Ilya needs to blow off some steam. 

Not smart, but fun. 

“Oh look, it’s the whole Pride Parade,” Kent says. He smiles an ugly, hateful smile. “Guess I was right about you after all, Rozanov. Hollander’s dick must be fuckin’ magical if it converted the biggest pussy fiend in the league –”

Ilya lunges for him with an infuriated roar, not because he cares if Kent is right, but because Shane’s name is in his mouth. Again. He must not have learned his lesson the first time.

Boiling with white-hot rage, Ilya thinks Kent’s face will look a lot better after he smashes it against the bar a few times. Maybe then he will remember to keep his thoughts to himself and his mouth shut. 

Ilya almost gets a hold of him, but Scott hauls him back before Ilya can snatch a handful of Kent’s collar and bash his teeth in. Ilya fights it a little, spitting out a stream of rapid-fire curses in Russian, but he gives up when Scott says, “Remember what we talked about. Don’t give them any ammunition.”

“Fuck!” Ilya snarls and wrenches away from Scott to remove himself from this situation. He heads for the door before he actually does do something he regrets. 

Scott is right – the last thing Ilya needs is to catch charges from a bar fight with Dallas Fucking Kent, but god does he want to go back inside and send him straight to the emergency room. Even if he isn't worth it.

He rounds the side of the building and spits a mouthful of bloody saliva into the grass. Though the wound is not deep, it’s already sore and he can feel his pulse beating in the damaged flesh. 

Ilya lights another cigarette and sits down on the concrete sidewalk beneath the roar of a plane taking off. He watches it climb into the sky and bank to the southeast, red lights blinking on the tip of each wing. On its way, without trouble, and likely to land at its destination without a problem. How lucky for them.

As he comes down from the adrenaline rush, all the fury bleeds out of him. He suddenly wishes he was back at the hospital, sitting next to Shane, holding his hand while the machines around him chart his heartbeat and blood sugar and brain activity. He doesn’t want Shane to wake up alone, not knowing or understanding where he is, and with no one who loves him by his side to comfort him. 

The thought of Shane being scared and alone hurts Ilya to his very bones and that familiar weight settles in on him again, compressing both his heart and lungs. It’s the same thing he feels when he’s at home alone and Shane is a thousand miles away. The same one he felt after Shane walked out the door the morning after the Halloween party last year, an unravelling, a loss of control, that sense of drowning, suffocating. 

He should be beyond relieved that Shane is not one of the 26 people who died yesterday. That should be enough, but Ilya also fears that Shane won’t be coming back to him whole and unbroken once his body heals. He worries that Shane will carry the guilt of living when others didn’t, even though he saved the ones he could save. 

It will hit him hard, Ilya thinks. Some of those players had been Shane’s team mates for years, some of them for a decade. He knew them, and their families. 

That’s something Ilya needs to prepare for. Maybe sooner, rather than later. 

“You alright?” Troy asks from the corner of the building. “Kent’s gone. Bartender threw him out after he took a swing at Hunter.” 

“I have already forgotten about him.” Ilya is surprised that it’s the truth. He is only thinking of Shane now. “Am I in trouble, too?”

“Nah. Those girls vouched for you. Dallas started it.” 

Being a gentleman always pays off. One way or another. 

“How’s your mouth?”

“Ruby Pike hits harder than that.” Ilya finishes his cigarette and gets up. Tomorrow, he will throw the pack away, before he starts up again for real. “I think I should pay my bill and go to bed.” 

“Yeah. It's been a hard day for everyone.”

If Ilya puts it in perspective, today has been better than he thought it would be. Kent almost made him forget that. His own fucked up brain keeps trying to convince him everything about it has been bad. 

Inside, Ilya pays his tab and leaves a nice tip for the server, then a cash tip at the bar. He waits while the others settle up, and they walk back to the hotel together. No one says much. 

Harris, Troy, and Spectre get off on the same floor, leaving Scott and Ilya alone in the elevator. Scott looks like he’s about to impart more words of wisdom on him and Ilya is not in the mood to hear it. 

“What do you get when you cross a dinosaur with fireworks?” Ilya asks. 

Scott looks at him the way people look at irritating children, but Ilya can tell the question has thrown him off track, which is exactly what Ilya wants. 

“Dino-mite,” Ilya deadpans.

Scott stares at him. A second later, he snorts, his mouth twitches. He tries to hide it behind his hand, but he’s struggling not to laugh. 

Ilya is proud of himself for making Scott Hunter crack. With a dumb dad joke, of all things. He files that information away for future use. 

“The fuck is wrong with you, Rozanov?”  

“Was a good joke. Pike children told it to me.” 

“God, you’re so fucking weird.” 

“Yes, but at least I am never boring and I am not a thousand years old.”

Scott rolls his eyes.

After a moment, Ilya grows serious, the joke forgotten. 

“Thank you. For advice,” he says. “And for being a friend.”

“Anytime.” Ilya thinks he means it.   

The elevator door opens on Ilya’s floor. “Good night, Scott.” 

“Good night, Ilya.” 

As Ilya unlocks the door to his room, he realizes he has a lot of new allies. He’s not as isolated as he was before and that's something.

And maybe, maybe, he has a plan for the future. Courtesy of Scott Fucking Hunter. 

Chapter End Notes

Holy shit thank you to everyone who has left kudos or comments so far. Again, I am seriously overwhelmed by the response to this and I'm so grateful for everyone's kind words and support.

Love y'all.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Thank you to reader dontmindv for pointing me in the right direction regarding disaster drafts. Appreciate it! 💚

January 17, 2021

9:15 AM

Ottawa 

Ilya steps onto the ice, an hour before practice, to distract himself from the fact that he won’t be there to fly home with Shane tomorrow. Shane is finally stable enough to transport, via medi-jet, back to Ottawa, where he will stay in the hospital indefinitely. 

So far, Shane hasn’t woken up. He’s not likely to until he’s back in Canada.

Dr. Reyes assured them it was not something to worry about – Shane’s body needed time to heal and keeping him still and calm would help speed it along. Once he’s home, the sedation will be lifted, and Shane will wake up. 

But Ilya worries that the longer he stays asleep, the worse it will be when he wakes up. 

Ilya is anxious for Shane to come home. He’s anxious to hear his voice again. He’s been stewing in his own self-inflicted misery for days, his own stupid, broken brain conjuring scenarios that get worse and worse the longer he has to wait. 

Shane will be arriving around the time Ilya has to report for tomorrow’s home game against the Admirals. By the time it ends, it will be too late to visit. He will have to wait until the following day to see him again, and that thought is almost unbearable.  

Worse, he has to put all of this out of his mind and prepare himself mentally to play hockey, when all he wants to do is be at Shane’s side. 

So, he puts on some music and focuses all his energy on the rhythm of his skates against the fresh ice. He skates lap after lap around the perimeter, pushing himself harder than he usually does during unstructured skate training, aiming for speed and consistency rather than any specific goal. 

For a while, it’s just Ilya and the ice in an empty stadium. No thoughts, just movement, the joy of skating. 

It reminds him of skating with his mother when he was small. Before hockey. Before he was expected to carry the pride of his country on his back. Just the two of them, skating around and around, laughing in the cold winter sunshine. 

This is one of the few memories he has of Irina that isn’t tainted with signs of her misery and sadness. That day, she managed to shed her pain for a while and revel in the fun of just skating. 

It’s one of those memories that hurts too much. It’s precious to him but thinking about it is somehow worse than thinking of the bad memories. 

He needs to focus. Clear his head.  

As usual, Troy arrives early and he wordlessly joins in, following Ilya around and around the rink. He’s fast enough to keep up, and he does, without crowding or trying to make conversation. 

Troy is working through something, too. That’s been obvious since the trade, and it’s not just him trying to hide his crush on Harris. 

Ilya is glad Troy does not want to talk today. He’s in no mood for it either, being so torn between his obligations and his needs – a strange sort of fragility has settled in, an anxious and destructive brittleness that threatens to crack him in half. All it would take is one well-meaning question, one astute observation, to shatter the tenuous hold he’s managed to reclaim.

Skating helps. Pushing himself past his limits redirects some of his nervous energy, and by the time the others start to arrive, Ilya is more grounded, more rational, more able to see things clearly. So long as he can hold onto it, he can keep his head in the game. 

He does a couple of cool-down laps then skates over to Wyatt and Bood, who are seated on the boards in front of the bench, watching something on Wyatt’s phone. Ilya assumes it’s either superhero stuff or hockey stuff, because it usually is. 

Except it isn’t. Ilya hears it before he even arrives. 

“Guess I was right about you after all, Rozanov. Hollander’s dick must be fuckin’ magical if it converted the biggest pussy fiend in the league –”

Fuck. 

Ilya should not be surprised someone got video of his spat with Kent. He should not be surprised it’s on the internet. Every fucking thing winds up on the internet these days and he shouldn’t have expected anything different, but he wishes this hadn’t. 

“S’up, Roz?” Bood says. “You seen this yet?” 

“I don’t need to see it. I was there.” 

“I would’a put his lights out just for shit-talking a guy who rescued his teammates from a fucking plane crash. What kind of bullshit is that?” Bood asks. “Hollander’s a real one though, man. Kent took that way out of pocket.” 

Ilya shrugs. He’d honestly all but forgotten about Kent until now. It was stupid to get so angry when it was just Kent running his stupid mouth, but mentioning Shane both in that context and in light of what had just happened was more than he could tolerate in that moment. 

A bit of the anger from that incident bubbles up inside him, but he stomps it down and leans lazily over the boards, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal. 

“Any truth to the allegations, Rozy?” Bood teases. “Did Hollander’s magic penis cure you of your slutty fuckboy ways?”

“Yes. Is all true,” Ilya says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He lays the accent on thick. “Hollander is my boyfriend and we are in love. Is a beautiful thing and we will be married someday. Any questions?” 

Dangerous to say it out loud like that, but no one here will know he’s not joking. 

After all, Ilya has said a lot of crazy, outlandish things about himself and his mysterious absences over the last few years. He’s hinted that he might be a Russian double-agent working for the American CIA, that he’s a member of the Russian mob, that he drives for Uber, delivers pizzas, is a cashier at Costco, works at a strip club, and that he entertains lonely housewives on OnlyFans.

He doubts they’ll believe this any more than they believe any of that.  

Wyatt and Bood exchange a look. 

“What?” Ilya demands. “What is that look?”

“I, for one, fully support this illicit love affair,” Harris pipes up as he joins them. “Even if it isn’t real, sweet Jesus, let me have this.” 

Wyatt fist bumps Harris. “I’m a sucker for a good Romeo and Juliet story."

“You mean Romeo and Romeo,” Harris says with a little eyebrow wiggle.  

“The forbidden love trope is always a good time, regardless of gender.” 

Ilya tips an imaginary hat at Wyatt.  

“Imagine how nuts the press would go if it was real, though,” Bood says. “Like, holy shit, dude! Not only is Roz regularly pulling tens at the club, now he’s working his way through the Hottest Men in Hockey calendar, too? That shit would go off like a bomb.” 

“What month was Hollander?” Ilya asks. Even though he already knows.  

“May,” Troy and Harris say at the same time. Ilya laughs because of course they would know.

“You better watch out, Troy,” Harris says and pokes Troy’s shoulder. “You’re Mr. June, right?”

“Okay, but Ilya’s Mr. October,” Troy says to deflect. His blush is intense and very, very cute. “How is that supposed to work?”  

“Do I need to explain it to you?” Ilya asks. 

“Oh my god,” Troy mutters as Harris closes his eyes and fans himself. “I hate all of you.”

“Rozy loves himself everyday anyway, not just in October.” Bood grins. 

“When you are this hot, is hard to resist a little self love.”

There are groans all around. Ilya grins about having successfully redirected the attention away from Shane. It’s reassuring to know that not only would his team accept their relationship if they knew it was real, they would support it. Sure, they would take the piss out of him, but in a loving way. As God intended.

It also lifts his mood some. He hasn’t felt this light in days. Or laughed this much.  

“Bad news, Rozy,” Wyatt says. He holds up his phone. “Kent is Mr. December.”

“He could not handle me. Is too big,” Ilya says confidently. The others hoot and laugh. Harris actually screams. “Is true! Would make him cry!”

“Goddamn, Roz,” Bood laughs. “Is this you coming out to us or what?” 

Ilya grins but doesn’t answer him one way or another.  

“Okay, okay. Enough about Kent. He is stupid and boring. Is not my fault he has a crush on me,” He claps his hands and shifts gears. “We have practice in ten minutes and we are going to win tomorrow!” 

Bood snorts and looks at Ilya like he’s out of his mind. It’s true that New York is ranked number one right now, but they aren’t a better team. If he can manage to rally the Cens, really motivate them, maybe they can beat the Admirals. 

Ilya heads back to the locker room to put on the rest of his gear. Wiebe stops him on the way. 

“We need to talk.” 

11:30 AM

Ilya stares at Roger Crowell, whose frowning face fills the screen of Coach’s laptop, waiting for whatever bad news he’s about to drop. The fake golf course background keeps clipping into Crowell’s hair, revealing bits of the bare white wall of whatever office he’s appropriated in Montreal stadium.

“I do not like when my players suddenly become a liability, Rozanov,” Crowell says. “Twice now, you’ve created unnecessary drama and it’s starting to draw some very negative attention. I do not want, or need, negative attention. Particularly right now, when I have other, more important things to deal with.”

Ilya is torn between his natural rebelliousness and all the years he had unquestioning obedience drilled into him by his father. He chooses the latter. For now, he will listen and not speak. Not until he knows what the situation is.

“First, you disobeyed a direct order to comment on the crash, and instead chose to publicly proclaim your love for Mr. Hollander, which in itself is, frankly, bizarre and problematic.” Ilya opens his mouth to defend his statement, then immediately shuts it. The less he says, the better. “Then, you get into a bar fight with Mr. Kent, and that bar fight was posted on the internet, showing two of the league’s most recognizable names brawling over, what, a couple of women? So I need an explanation, and I need a truthful one, before this becomes a much bigger problem.” 

Out of Crowell’s view, Ilya clenches his fists against his thighs. He needs to talk to his agent, Farah, in case a statement needs to be issued. Maybe a lawyer, too. 

“You have seen this video?” Ilya asks. “Of me and Kent?” 

“Yes. I’ve seen it.” 

“Okay. Then you know that I did not put my hands on him. Do you think I should press charges for Kent putting his hands on me?” Ilya asks. “I will if that is what you think is best.”

He genuinely wants an answer to that question. Because it makes no sense that he is somehow the bad guy in this scenario. 

“No one is talking about pressing charges,” Crowell says. “We’re talking about conduct.”

“Then you are aware that he was bothering women at the bar.” 

“We are not talking about Kent. We are talking about your conduct, Mr. Rozanov.”   

Ilya doesn’t understand why he’s the one being questioned. He makes a gesture at the screen to convey his confusion – this is stupid and it feels like a waste of time but also like he’s about to be punished for something he didn’t do. 

“The language you used toward Mr. Kent was vile,” Crowell explains. “What you said to him in Russian, specifically.”

Okay. That’s fair. He didn’t exactly hold back.

“Kent’s behavior was also vile. Those women told him no. More than once,” Ilya says. “You would think someone accused of rape would try to be more respectful. Unless he thinks there is no punishment for it.”

“Again, this is not about Mr. Kent.” 

“Do you have a problem with what he said about Hollander? Or about me?” Ilya stares at him. “Hollander is still in ICU. Is very bad conduct to say those things about the league’s hero, no?”

Crowell’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer the question. He glares back like he wishes he could come through the screen and choke the life from Ilya’s body. 

Another small victory. 

“I am the one asking questions here,” Crowell says. “Which brings me to my next question. Are you in any way involved in a romantic relationship with Mr. Hollander?” 

Ilya’s stomach flips over and he freezes. It’s one thing for people to speculate. It’s another to be asked, point blank, by the league commissioner. 

He is very aware that he’s playing with fire here. If he lies and they are found out, his career will end. If he tells the truth, who knows what the consequences will be? They may allow him to continue playing, on paper. Maybe they will bench him until he quits. Maybe they will find a legal way to force a trade somewhere so far away from Shane, it will end their relationship, regardless of his contract. 

Ilya takes a breath, glad that he learned a long, long time ago how to hide behind a mask of stoicism. He feigns boredom and makes a show of leaning back in his chair, like he’s heard this rumor a thousand times, like it’s so silly and stupid that only a delusional fool would believe it. 

“I think you should stay off Tumblr, Mr. Crowell,” Ilya says as dismissively as he can manage. “Is full of made-up things about real people, for fun.” 

“So you refuse to answer?” 

Ilya almost answers with a snappy yes, but that is as good as confirmation. He does not want to give Crowell a reason to make this worse. 

“Is not worth my time, but it is very strange that you are so interested in my personal life all of a sudden, Commissioner. You didn’t seem to mind me sleeping with so many women,” Ilya shrugs. “And my personal life is a very boring subject these days. It has nothing to do with hockey.” 

“I’m only interested in how it might affect the league’s reputation. A relationship between you and Mr. Hollander would be very bad for optics,” Crowell says. “I’m sure you understand that.” 

It would be the league’s fault for building it up into something that it wasn’t to sell tickets. For that reason alone, Ilya couldn’t care less about the optics of it all. 

He would bet his favorite car that the league stood to make even more money in merchandise sales than they did with Hunter. If they were smart, they would leverage it if he and Shane were ever to admit it publicly. 

But that would make them look like liars. 

“Answer the question, Mr. Rozanov.” 

Ilya very clearly reads the warning in his tone. It makes Ilya want to do his worst, to dig in his heels and say terrible things to him. Instead, he considers his next words very carefully. 

“This feels very much like harrassment. I am not answering any more questions without my lawyer present,” Ilya says. “If that is all, I am missing practice.” 

“I’m benching you, pending an investigation.” 

“Into what?” Ilya snaps. “Some stupid internet rumors about who I may or may not be dating? Do you do this for every player or only the ones you think might be gay?” 

“That has nothing to do with it, I assure you. We don’t care about anyone’s sexuality, so long as it stays out of hockey,” Crowell’s fury bleeds through the screen. “You are being benched for misconduct in Houston, Mr. Rozanov.” 

“And what about Kent? Will he also be punished?” 

“Pending the investigation, yes,” Crowell says. “But whatever is going on with you and Hollander, you are to immediately discourage these rumors. And put an end to whatever relationship you may have with him. Is that clear?” 

Or what?

Ilya has to resist the urge to pick the laptop up and hurl it across the room. 

“My lawyer will be in touch,” Ilya says.   

Ilya disconnects the call before Crowell says anything else. He gets up and paces the office, seething. 

And scared. Because he’s just done the thing he did not want to do and he’s not so sure he’s going to get out from under the microscope so easily. 

4:00 PM

Ilya’s spent most of his day on the phone. With Farah, with the lawyer she recommended, with Yuna, and even Scott Hunter, who has already gone up against the commissioner at least once. 

Hearing sane voices helps quiet his fears of being fired and deported. There isn’t anything they can legally do to him – they can’t fire him for the post on instagram, or for being close with the Hollander’s, no matter what threats Crowell makes. At worst, he pays a fine to the league for his language in Houston, suffers through being benched for a game, and goes right back to it for the next one. 

Any other actions taken by Crowell will be seen as retaliation. 

Ilya has no intention of making any statements or doing anything to discourage the rumors. He knows enough about internet spaces to know that defending or explaining will only fan the flames. Like everything else, something will come along to distract people from this and the rumors will die down.

So long as Ilya doesn’t do something by accident to make it worse. 

He has a plan now, sort of. Tomorrow, he will get the ball rolling on seeking asylum as a path to citizenship. Should the worst happen, Farah has assured him that his work with the hockey camps shows he has value as a trainer or a coach outside the league and in a country where hockey is practically a religion, there would be plenty of work for a former NHL player of Ilya’s caliber and skill. 

The money is not the same, but Shane talked him into a few boring investments a while back which will help. And there are always endorsements, though they won’t be quite as lucrative as his current ones. All the sports ones would probably drop him, but he does have a handful of fashion brand ambassadorships that would be pleased to keep him on. It’s boring work, but it pays well for what it is.  

It’s not a rock solid plan, but the ground beneath him is more stable than it was yesterday. 

David calls, but nothing has changed. Shane is still asleep. There are still tubes in his head. HIs face still looks like he was attacked with a baseball bat. 

Ilya still can’t be there with him, and he’s still out for tomorrow’s game. Had he known, he would have stayed in Houston so he could fly home with them.

He’d banked on the game as a distraction from this. With that option gone, Ilya is intensely restless and bitterly lonely. The house is too big and too quiet and it leaves him with far too many thoughts he has no business thinking about. Still, he lays on the couch, staring at the ceiling until the sun starts to set. When he finally gets up, he’s not sure why he did. 

For a while, he paces the house with the lights off while snow falls beyond the window. He’s always liked the way fresh snow seems to glow, the way the world gets so quiet, but tonight it just leaves him with a sense of isolation that he can’t shake. There’s a heaviness in the air, too, but that might just be his imagination. 

It’s not the first time he’s had a night like this, but it is the first time he hasn’t been able to text Shane to confirm that he’s not the last person on earth. He wants to reach out to someone, but there’s no one to call, there are so few people he trusts, and Ilya is not keen on being anyone’s burden anyway.  

What would he even say, if he could? 

I want to crawl out of my own skin. I am going crazy. I am not okay. I want to disappear.

They would have him locked up if they knew how fucked up he was. Or how dark his thoughts.

Eventually, he finds himself outside on the back porch, in just his house slippers, sweatpants, and one of Shane’s soft sweaters – a poor choice for the weather, but he doesn’t feel the cold as he smokes his cigarette and stares out at the city lights reflecting on the river. The view is beautiful,  and normally he loves it, but tonight it only depresses him more. 

The world feels so empty, and Ilya’s loneliness is so deep. He wonders what it would feel like to walk into the river, to let the frigid current overtake him and sweep him downstream. 

His phone rings, distracting him from these thoughts.

It’s Troy, who never calls – none of them do anymore. It’s such a surprise, Ilya actually answers. 

“Oh. Hey,” Troy says. “I wasn’t expecting you to pick up.”

Ilya pushes down the swell of guilt. He’s done this team no favors by making himself unavailable. 

“Is everything okay?” Ilya asks. 

“Have you seen the news? Or checked the group chat today?” 

“No. Why? What happened?” 

“Crowell’s called up a disaster plan thing to rebuild Montreal,” Troy says. “They’re making announcements about who’s getting traded tonight.” 

Ilya is mildly alarmed.

“Why haven’t I heard about this? Wiebe did not say anything.” 

“We all just found out about it thirty minutes ago.” Troy clears his throat. “I mean, I figured Hunter was right when he said they’d probably do something like this at the end of the season. Feels too soon, you know? It only happened four days ago.”

Ilya doesn’t even know how any of that works. Only that it involves teams giving up players to rebuild a team. This is probably all explained in the handbook or whatever, but it’s not something he ever thought he needed to look into – he never really imagined a scenario like this one, but for as indifferent as he’s been for most of this season, he does not want to leave Ottawa, or the Centaurs. 

Though trades and moves are part of the job, Ilya does not want any of the Centaurs to leave Ottawa, either. Many of them have been here for years. They’ve built homes and lives here. They have families here.

The timing feels suspect. Most of the victims haven’t even been buried yet, but maybe he’s just being paranoid after Crowell’s call earlier. It’s more likely a choice made to keep the Voyageurs revenue stream flowing than a targeted campaign to terrorize him.

“Is it going to be broadcast, or just posted on the official site?” 

“ESPN,” Troy says. “At eight.” 

Ilya is surprised to see it’s not even seven yet. It feels so much later. He’s not sure he’s going to make it through the night alone with time at a standstill like this. The thought of sitting in this house, spiralling all by himself, feels dangerous. Like he really might walk straight into the river if left unsupervised. 

“Do you want to come over?” Ilya asks impulsively. “We could watch it together. Maybe bring Harris, too?” 

There’s a long pause.

“You’re inviting me to your house?” Troy asks slowly. His surprise only further deepens Ilya’s guilt. 

“I could use some company,” Ilya admits. 

“Yeah, alright. It’ll probably just be me. Harris is working on twelve different things right now and I’m just in his way, so…” 

“So you are together.” 

“I don’t know.” Though Troy’s voice is soft, Ilya reads his happiness loud and clear. “Maybe. I need to figure some things out.”

Ilya is happy for them, but also jealous. For so many reasons. 

“I will text you the address,” Ilya says. He needs to do something about dinner. There’s nothing edible in his fridge and he’s not in the mood to make anything. “What do you like on pizza?” 

“Pizza’s not on my –” 

“If you say it is not on your diet plan I will un-invite you.” 

Troy laughs. “I'm not picky. Nothing weird though.”

“What is weird?” 

“I don’t know. I saw some weird stuff in LA. Like grapes and walnuts with goat cheese.” 

“That is disgusting. Grapes do not belong on pizza.”

“Exactly. Anything else is fine, though.” Troy pauses. “Oh. Haas just texted me back. Mind if he tags along?” 

“Is fine. So long as the other kids stay home. I don’t feel like babysitting tonight.”  

Ilya places an order for pizza and breadsticks, then turns on the TV while he tidies the place up. He only half listens to the sportscasters speculating on how it will shake things up for playoffs and who might be pulled to fill Montreal’s new roster. 

“With JJ Boiziau the only player returning from the original team, we’re definitely going to see a very different Montreal going forward.” 

“Yeah, Bob, this will be a brand new team when they step onto the ice next week, and without Hayden Pike and Shane Hollander, who have been fixtures in Montreal for more than a decade, this is going to be a hard pill to swallow for some fans.”

Ilya rolls his eyes at the way sportscasters can spend ten minutes saying nothing of substance and still keep their jobs. 

“In other news, both Dallas Kent and Ilya Rozanov have both been benched for poor conduct, after a video went viral of the two having a verbal and physical altercation at a bar in Houston.” 

Ilya curses at the TV and double checks that he hasn’t left his socks on the living room floor. He feels like he’s forgetting to do something important, but he can’t remember what it is. He looks around, but nothing seems out of order.  

“I gotta say, Kent’s not looking great here, Brett. This is a guy who’s been chased by allegations of sexual assault all season.” 

“And you can clearly see in the second video, Rozanov actually intervenes. Even apologizes on Kent’s behalf.”

“Kent’s also the only one throwing punches. He took a swipe at Scott Hunter, for no reason.”

“Picking a fight with Hunter is like picking a fight with a teddybear.”

Ilya laughs because it’s true. Scott has gotten into a few fights over the years, once with Ilya even, but he’s never been eager to brawl unless pushed to his very limits.

They continue discussing it but Ilya tunes the rest out. At least ESPN is being sane about it, unlike Crowell, who very badly wants to paint Ilya as a villain. 

Troy texts that he’s arrived and Ilya punches the button to open the gate, then texts Troy to come inside. 

Luca, looking totally star-struck even though he’s been here before, follows Troy into the foyer.  

“Nice place,” Troy says as he hangs up his coat next to the door. “Own or rent?”

“I own it. Hollander helped me find it when I signed with Ottawa,” Ilya says. “If you are ever looking to buy, Hollander’s the guy to ask. Very into real estate.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“Pizza will be here soon,” Ilya says and leads them both to the living room. “What do you want to drink? I have beer, coke, ginger ale, or some fancy water, tastes like grapefruit. I think that is Yuna’s.” 

“Ginger ale?” Troy asks, one eyebrow raised. 

“Something wrong? Do you want one?” 

“I’ll take a beer.” 

“Haas?” 

“Beer.” 

“Okay, but only one. Is your bedtime soon.” 

“I’m twenty!” 

“We know,” Ilya teases. “I’ll be right back.”     

He grabs 3 beers from the fridge. When he returns to the living room, Troy and Luca are looking at the photo on the mantle of Shane and Ilya at the CCM photo shoot. The one Ilya gave Shane for Christmas is hidden away somewhere in Shane’s house in Montreal, where it will stay until they go to the Cottage this summer, but Ilya couldn’t bear the thought of hiding it away. He’d had his own copy printed, which he proudly displays since no one but Shane and the Hollander’s ever come over anyway. 

This is what he forgot to do earlier. 

Fuck. 

It’s not like the photo is particularly revealing, but some might think it’s a strange thing to display in his living room. Which it is, considering that the world thinks they’re only reluctant friends. Not the sort of guys who would display pictures like this in their houses without other photos of friends to go along with it.  

Shane would freak out if he knew Ilya forgot, but Ilya realizes he doesn’t care who sees it. 

“This is a great shot,” Troy says. “Is this from that old CCM ad?” 

“Yes. They did not use this one, though. Not serious enough.”

“You are both very young,” Luca says. “But you don’t look like enemies.” 

“Was a very long day,” Ilya says. “Commercial shoot, photo shoot, voice recording. We were both tired, I think. Started laughing and couldn’t stop. Director was very irritated.”

“How old were you guys in this?” Troy asks. 

“Nineteen. Just after the draft.” 

Oh, to do it all over again, knowing what he knows now. He would make different choices. Better ones. He would make the most of the time they did get together, instead of running away. 

“How’s he doing?” Troy asks as he sets the picture back down. He’s looking at Ilya thoughtfully, and in a way that leaves Ilya feeling like he’s transparent. “Any better?”

“No change. His parents are bringing him home to Ottawa tomorrow.” Ilya doesn’t want to talk about Shane. Everything is too close to the surface. “We should sit. Draft will be on soon.” 

Ilya sits, but immediately receives the notification that the food has arrived. He gives the driver a big tip and carries the boxes to the living room and drops the pizza boxes on the coffee table. He grabs some napkins and paper plates from the kitchen,   

By the time everyone has served themselves, the event begins with Crowell giving a recap of the crash, which Ilya does not watch. He doesn’t want to see that again. Ever. The thought of it makes him physically ill. 

Crowell introduces the new Head and Assistant coach, both brought up from the minor leagues, and both very American. Both need translators for the French.

“Montreal won’t like that,” Troy says. 

“I don’t think they will like any of this,” Ilya says. "You're right. Is too soon." 

Crowell then explains how this works – fourteen skaters and one goalie will be selected via draft from the existing teams. Each team is allowed to protect five of their players, leaving the rest their roster up for grabs. Additional open spots are back-filled with players from the minor leagues. 

“I hope I am not one of them,” Luca says quietly. 

“I hope not either. You are a very good player. A lot of potential,” Ilya says. "And we like you."

Luca blushes, left nearly speechless by the compliment. It’s true though. All Luca really needs is confidence. 

“I don’t want any of the guys to go,” Troy says. “I know we kind of suck, but I really like this team.” 

“We don’t suck. We are just too used to losing.” 

The new coach, Albie Jameson, starts calling out names.

Ilya is surprised to hear Cliff Marlow among the first ones called. He should be one of Boston’s protected players. He’s been with the team for eleven years and he’s basically their entire defensive line. 

Then again, Boston likes young, aggressive players, and Cliff has had a couple of serious injuries the last two years and is getting a bit long in the tooth compared to the rest. It’s a major loss for Boston, as far as Ilya is concerned.

It’s been a while since they’ve spoken. Ilya had been well liked by his Boston teammates, but Cliff was the only one he might have called a friend. He’d been pissed that Ilya left for Ottawa of all places, and they’d fallen out of touch after that. Only saw each other when they played against each other these days, and barely spoke even then.

Next is Aaron Spectre, the Minnesota Captain he met a few days ago. He’s not a stellar player, but it seems weird they don't care if they keep their Captain or not. Ilya had liked him well enough. Decent guy, not a bigot. For all Ilya knows, with a good team behind him, the guy might actually be great, but who knows if he’s even going to be a Captain in this new configuration. 

Then, it’s that asshole kid from Anaheim that nobody likes. Maybe he’s a bigger problem than he seems, if Anaheim is not protecting their infamous Rookie of the Year prospect.  

And then – 

Dallas. Fucking. Kent. 

“Toronto must really want him gone,” Troy says, “now that he’s looking more and more like a liability.” 

“That is what Crowell called me today,” Ilya says. “A liability.” 

“Yeah, what the fuck is up with you getting benched for Kent being a dick?” Troy asks. “You didn’t even hit him.”

Not for lack of trying, though Ilya is now very glad Scott held him back.   

“Was what I said to him in Russian.” 

“What did you say?” Luca asks. 

“I don’t want to teach you bad words, little one.” Ilya pats Luca’s head. Luca looks flattered by the attention. 

“Tell us,” Troy says. “I wanna know what you said that was so bad it got you benched.” 

“Was probably the part where I called him a scum-bag piece of shit rapist cunt.” Ilya turns to Luca. “Don’t use language like that. Is not nice.” 

Troy laughs. “Jesus Christ. I love it.” 

“I don’t. Would be better if I was playing tomorrow.” 

 “Yeah. I wish you were playing, too. Now we have no hope of winning.” Troy sighs and grabs another breadstick. “Coach is having me center tomorrow.” 

“Is not a bad idea. You are a stronger center than Holmberg. And you are fast.” Ilya fixes his gaze on the insurance commercial on the television. “Bood will have your back.” He hitches his thumb at Luca. “This guy, too. Very reliable. Always where he needs to be.”  

“I’m just so fucking sick of losing.” 

“I know. Me too.” 

The commercial ends, and they’re back to announcements. No one from the Cens has been called yet and that makes Ilya nervous. He does not know if his no-trade rider applies in this situation – he doubts the owners would be okay with losing the biggest name on their roster, but it’s not like he’s lived up to their expectations, either. 

A few more names are announced, and then: Tanner Dillon. 

“Oh, thank God,” Troy laughs in relief. “If it had to be anyone…”

“At least it’s him,” Luca finishes. It’s the first time Luca has ever said anything remotely bad about a teammate. Ilya grins at him. “He’s not a bad guy. But very stupid, right? It’s not just me?” 

“Is not just you. He thought meat is made in the grocery store. Thought farmers raise cows for fun,” Ilya says. “Always pushes when the door says pull. Doesn’t know left from right.” 

“He was very confused when he found out french fries are made from potatoes,” Luca says. “And he still thinks Switzerland is a place that was only invented for movies.” 

“How does he get to practice without getting lost?” Troy asks. “Jesus.” 

“Is a good question,” Ilya says. He sighs and watches as he recognizes a few more names. “Their problem now, not ours.” 

Pelzer, the goalie from New York. Besson, a defenseman from Arizona. Roscoe from Vancouver. A few others he doesn’t know. Then four more from the minor leagues. Ilya used to pay attention to the semi-pro leagues, but not so much anymore. He doesn’t know any of the names called.

He hasn’t really paid attention to much at all lately. What he does notice now, is that there is not a spot saved for Shane. But why would there be? He is not returning this season, and he might not return next season. Or ever. 

Ilya’s not sure how he feels about this new Montreal team. There is a lot of talent there, but talent is useless if the team does not click. Ilya should know that better than anyone. 

“Where is the restroom?” Luca asks.

Ilya points him toward it. “Second door on the left.”  

Once he’s gone, Troy relaxes into the couch a little more, his arms folded over his chest. 

“I guess the upside of you getting benched is that you get to see Hollander tomorrow,” Troy says as the program moves on to speeches about building a new Montreal team. “Something to look forward to?” 

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. “Yes.” 

“Do you think he’ll ever play again?” 

“Hard to say. I hope so,” Ilya says. He grabs another slice of pizza. “I have always loved playing against him.” 

“You guys sure don’t go easy on each other.” 

“No. We never have.” Ilya pauses. “I think I love playing with him even more, though. We are a very good team.”

“You're always so in sync at All-Stars. If you guys ever ended up on the same team for real, everyone would shit themselves.”  

Ilya allows himself just a second to imagine that. Never having to be separated by their respective team schedules. Never having to figure out how to make the most of 2 hours. Getting to play together, with their own secret competitions between them to keep things interesting. 

“We would be… what’s that word?” Ilya says, trying to recall the word Scott likes to call him. “Insufferable. Would drive everyone crazy.” 

“It would be amazing, though.”

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs. “A guy can dream.”

Ilya doesn’t tell him that it actually would be a dream come true. 

January 18, 2021

4:05 PM

Ottawa

Ilya arrives at the hospital over an hour after he planned to be there. His day has been full – he started his day with an intense 4-hour work-out to make up for how much he’s been slacking in all this chaos, followed by a call with Farah about what Crowell legally can and can not do to him, even if his relationship with Shane is revealed, then a drive across town for a very long meeting with an immigration lawyer about his options for staying in Canada permanently. 

He’d had to disclose some things in both meetings that left him feeling emotionally chafed, not because he hadn’t wanted to mention them, but because saying them out loud had really driven home the scope of just how complex his life has suddenly become. 

Or maybe it’s always been complex and only now is he seeing that. 

So, he arrives at the hospital in a custom-made Tom Ford suit that makes him look and feel like the super-spy he jokes about being, feeling wildly out of place among the staff and patrons. Normally, Ilya likes the way people stare when he’s dressed this way, but today, he just wishes he could disappear. He’s hyper-aware of how visible he is here – everyone knows his face and his name and he would love, just for once, to be able to fly under the radar.

He should have gone home to change, but as he’d left the lawyer’s office, he had a sudden desperate need to see Shane and drove straight here without stopping. 

David is the only one in Shane’s room when he gets there. He’s beside the bed, holding onto Shane’s hand as he stares blankly at the tubes snaking out of Shane’s head. 

He looks tired, older, and Ilya’s heart hurts for him.  

“Look at you,” David says when he notices Ilya in the doorway. “That’s a nice suit. Very James Bond.” 

“I had a meeting with a lawyer about citizenship.” 

“Oh,” David looks surprised. Yuna must not have mentioned it. “That’s a good idea.” 

“How is he?” Ilya unbuttons his suit jacket and sits down. 

“They doped him up for the flight. Didn’t want to take the chance of him waking up and panicking, but they took him off the heavy sedatives when we got here,” David says. “Opened his eyes for a minute maybe an hour ago. Doctor says he should be coming around soon, but he’ll be in and out for a while.” 

“That is good news,” Ilya says. “Did he say anything?" 

“Just your name.” 

Ilya’s eyes get moist immediately and his heart does something very complicated inside his chest at the thought that he’s what is on Shane’s mind, in spite of everything. He’s quietly feared that Shane will not remember him, but it’s reassuring to hear that he must if his name is the first thing he said. 

“Where is Yuna?” 

“Not sure. She ran out of here holding her phone and freaking out about an energy drink or something.” 

“Endorsement thing, maybe. That disgusting purple thing he did last year.” 

“There are too many for me to keep up with.” David rubs his eyes. Ilya empathizes. “I think she needs the distraction of managing something right now.” 

“They are a lot alike.” 

“Too much, sometimes,” David says. “It’s best just to get out of their way when they get something in their head.” 

Ilya takes Shane’s free hand and gives it a squeeze. Shane’s fingers twitch in his and it gives Ilya an unexpected thrill to get a response – a small one, sure, but it’s something. 

“Do you think he can hear us?” Ilya asks. 

He dares to reach out and touch Shane’s cheek. Just a light brush of his thumb against his freckles, taking care to keep it light enough that it won’t cause him pain, if he can feel pain at all in this state. 

“I’d like to think so.” David says. “Otherwise, I’ve just been rambling to myself for the last three days and everyone thinks I’m crazy.” 

Ilya thinks it’s sweet. He would want someone there to talk to him. Even if he couldn’t hear it, maybe he would feel it and be comforted by the presence of another. 

“I don’t think it's crazy.” If Ilya was alone, he would talk to Shane, too. “Maybe it helps.” 

David lets go of Shane’s hand and pushes to his feet with a sigh. “I’m going to go find something to drink. And then track down my wife before she has a nervous breakdown over energy drinks. You want anything?” 

“No. I am okay. Thank you.” 

David pulls the privacy curtain all the way shut so that Ilya can’t be seen from the corridor and closes the door behind him. In the silence that follows, Ilya realizes this is the first time he’s truly been alone with Shane since the day after Christmas, but it feels like forever since then.  

They’d had a fight that day that ended with him sending Shane away. Shane had not understood or even realized how much Ilya gave up, just to be with him, and Shane had barely been able to say that he would do the same. 

That had burned Ilya so much more than getting his feelings hurt about Bood's party. They were both stupid and there was so much left unsaid, even after they made up. Ilya suspects Shane still doesn’t quite get it, but Ilya forgives him for not being psychic. They’re both at fault for being so terrible at communication.  

That, more than anything else, needs to change, and Ilya has to be the one to do it. 

Ilya says some of those unspoken things now in Russian because it’s easier – how terrible he feels most of the time, how he still grieves for his mother, how lonely he is when Shane isn’t around, how badly he just wants to be able to hold Shane’s hand and kiss him in public and how it kills him that he can’t, and how deeply, obsessively in love he is.  

Maybe Shane can hear him. Maybe not. Maybe it’s a practice run for the real thing, a dress rehearsal for the talk they eventually need to have. 

“I meant it when I said I would give up more for you,” Ilya says. He brushes a thumb across Shane’s bruised brow. “I want forever, too. Whatever the price.” 

Ilya is very tired all of a sudden. Bone tired. His heart and his mind, exhausted. All he wants to do is close his eyes and fall asleep with Shane next to him. 

It’s not comfortable, but he drops his head beside Shane’s and rests a hand against his chest so he can feel his slow, steady heartbeat beneath his palm. If there was room on the bed for the both of them, he would crawl into it and lay his head there instead and let himself fall asleep to the rhythm of it, taking comfort from the fact that Shane is still here. 

He doesn’t mean to doze off. A gentle uncertain touch against the back of his hand wakes him – Yuna, come to tell him visiting hours are over, probably. 

When he sits up, he and Shane are still alone, but Shane’s swollen eyes are open, a bit glassy, but he’s looking up at Ilya and his hand is on Ilya’s, warm fingers curled lightly around the base of his thumb.

All of Ilya’s other burdens fall away and he bursts into tears. 

He presses soft, breathless kisses to Shane’s face – forehead, temples, cheeks, chin, his lips – and he loses his breath entirely when Shane kisses him back. Shane’s lips are chapped and dry, and he's clearly too weak to put much into it, but Ilya thinks it might be one of the best kisses he’s ever had. 

Because Ilya has not been forgotten.

“You are awake, moya belka,” Ilya says as he draws back so he can see Shane’s beautiful, bruised face. “I missed you.” 

Shane’s lips move, his throat bobs, but nothing comes out. There’s a flash of frustration in his eyes that Ilya kisses away – this time the corners of his mouth, his jaw, his Adam's apple, the hollow of his throat. Ilya’s reward for this is a soft sigh and the brush of fingertips against the base of his neck, tangling weakly in his curls. 

“Is okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Ilya sits back, wishing that he could heal Shane with just kisses alone. “It will come to you when you’re ready.” 

Shane’s eyelids grow heavy. Ilya wants him to stay awake, to stay with him, but he needs his rest. This will have to suffice for now. It will have to sustain him. Even if it isn’t enough. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says. “Always.” 

“...lyublyu,” Shane murmurs.

As his eyes flutter shut, Ilya thinks that maybe, someday soon, he’s going to marry Shane Hollander.

The rest of the world be damned. 

Chapter End Notes

Thanks so much to everyone who was kind enough to leave kudos and comments!

Chapter 6

January 18, 2021

9:35 PM

Ottawa

“We are in the final moments, folks. With less than a minute to go, the Ottawa Centaurs and the number one ranked New York Admirals are tied 2-2.”

Ilya stands in front of the Hollander’s television, on pins and needles. Yuna clutches his arm as onscreen, Troy successfully steals the puck from Scott Hunter and takes off toward the Cen’s goal like he’s been lit on fire. Troy fakes to Bood, then slides the puck to Luca at the last second. Luca takes the shot without even a beat of hesitation. 

It goes in the top right corner, clean and easy, as if no one was even defending the goal. 

Troy slams Luca into the boards in celebration, followed by Bood, who smacks poor Luca’s helmet with so much enthusiasm, Ilya fears he’s going to give the kid an accidental concussion.  

“This is incredible, Brett. We expected to see a completely different game with Rozanov benched, but the Cens have really pulled off an upset tonight.” 

“Yeah, this is a team we’ve seen rely heavily on Rozanov to do most of the work all season long. To watch them pull this off without him really says something about what might be going on in the room right now.” 

“It looks like Barrett’s coming for Rozanov’s job.”  

“Well I don’t know about that, but if they keep up this kind of momentum, we may actually see the Cens in the playoffs this year.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. It’s way too early to be making that kind of prediction and it's only one game.

But god, wouldn’t that be something. 

As he watches his teammates celebrate the win they secured without him, he feels a mix of both pride and anger. 

Where was this team all season? 

He knew he wasn’t doing anything to inspire anyone to play better or work harder – that’s his fault, but maybe they really were better off without him. He certainly wasn’t doing them any favors, and maybe his absence really does say something about him, and this team, and not in a good way.  

“Do you want some ice cream?” Yuna asks. “I got white chocolate raspberry. Sounded like something you would like.” 

Ice cream won’t take the sting of disappointment and self-loathing away. He should say no, his diet has been absolute shit lately, but sweets have always been Ilya’s weakness. Yuna knows this about him. She also knows him well enough by now to know he’s got mixed feelings about the game’s outcome. 

And she got raspberry because it’s one of his favorites, in any form. Not for herself, but for him. It would be ungrateful to say no.

“Yes, please,” he says, unable to keep the note of dejection out of his voice. 

“Hey,” she says and places her hands on his biceps. “Ignore all that stuff they’re saying, okay? Except the part about you carrying the team. Because you have been and you know it.” 

Ilya only nods. After a moment, he sits down on the couch to watch the post-game interviews, hoping to see some justification for what just happened. It wasn’t like New York was playing like shit tonight – they put up a fight, but Ilya’s team fought back, and in a way Ilya wasn’t accustomed to seeing.  

Yuna returns with two bowls of ice cream – David went to bed an hour ago, so it’s just the two of them. She hands him the one that looks like she put half the carton in it.

Ilya can’t say he’s not happy about that. 

He can almost picture Shane’s face, all scrunched up in disgust and telling him he eats like a toddler. In response to imaginary Shane’s scolding, Ilya takes a defiant bite and lets it melt on his tongue, savoring the silky texture and sharp tang of raspberry.  

Yuna settles down beside him and rests her feet on the ottoman. Ilya does the same. 

“Troy, what can you tell us about tonight’s win? How in the world did you guys pull off such an upset without Ilya Rozanov?” 

Troy is shirtless and visibly uncomfortable in front of the camera – like Shane, without the prepared answers and media training. 

“We did it for Ilya,” Troy says. “He’s always got our backs. Figured it was time we had his.” 

Bood’s head pops into the frame, his face flushed and sweaty. 

“We love you, Roz.” He blows a kiss and pops back out, leaving Ilya humbled and emotional. Off-screen is a chant: Cap, Cap, Cap!

Ilya has never loved this team more. 

“See? I told you they're wrong,” Yuna says. She nudges his foot with her own. “They love you.” 

“So the rumors that Rozanov’s lost the room aren’t true?” 

“Not at all.” 

“Can you give us a comment on your former teammate, Dallas Kent, being benched now that it appears he might not be as innocent as he seems?”

“I’m not talking about that. That’s all for the night. Thanks guys.”

Luca is clearly the star of the game. Ilya feels like a proud father. They replay both of Luca’s goals in slow motion, and then him getting crowded into the boards in celebration. He’s all smiles during his interview, but a little like a deer in the headlights. Ilya figures he’s about to blow up all over socials, purely for the fact that he’s adorable.

“I should call them,” Ilya says. 

“That’s a good idea,” Yuna says. “Do you want more ice cream?” 

“Oh, no. Thank you. You have spoiled me too much already.” 

He sends Troy a video chat request, which Troy accepts immediately. 

“Shut up, guys! It’s Ilya!”

“What the fuck was that?!” Ilya demands, though he’s smiling. “You have all been holding out on me!” 

Most of the team gathers behind Troy. They all look so proud of themselves. As they should be. 

“I don’t know, we all just got kind of pissed off about the Kent thing and we took it out on New York,” Troy says. 

“And you wait until the game that I am not playing to go out there and commit murder.” 

“We murdered them in your name, though,” Bood chimes in. “Didn’t even see us coming.” 

“Like a bunch of snipers,” Dykstra adds.

“I am so fucking proud of all of you,” Ilya says. “But Haas! Where is Haasy? Luca! Come here!" 

Luca’s flushed face pops into the frame, looking scared that he’s about to get yelled at. Like he’s about to apologize for whatever he did wrong.

“Two goals. One assist. Fucking incredible job, Hassy. Do it again next game, yes?” 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll try.” 

“I fucking love you guys,” Ilya says. “This is the best team in the league. I don’t care what anyone says.” 

There’s a chorus of awww and Dykstra accuses him of turning soft, but Ilya takes it because it’s true.

“Hey, did you get to see Hollander today?” Wyatt asks. “Troy said you might swing by the hospital.” 

“Yes. He was awake for a little while. Not long, but… I am here at his parent’s house now to watch the game.” He turns to Yuna. “Do you want to say hi?” 

“Sure.” Yuna leans into Ilya’s shoulder and waves at the room full of sweaty, half-naked hockey players, all high off a rare win. “Incredible game, guys! I’m so proud of you for putting my hometown back on the map.” 

“Hi, Mrs. Hollander,” a chorus of voices say.  

“Yuna," she says.

“She is our new team mom. She has adopted us,” Ilya says and drops an arm around her shoulders. “Everyone say thank you, Yuna.” 

“Thank you, Yuna.” 

“Oh, stop,” Yuna says, but Ilya can tell she really likes it. He can tell she’s getting ideas.  

“We should take our new team mom to Monk’s,” Bood says. “Introduce her to the WAGs.” 

“Maybe next time,” Yuna says. “It’s been a hard few days.” 

“Yeah. I get that. Give Shane our well wishes,” Bood says. “We’re all thinking of him.”  

“Thank you. I will.” 

“Okay, okay, I can smell you all from here. Go take a shower, you filthy animals,” Ilya says. “And hopefully I will see you at next practice.” 

“We better,” Troy says. 

“I don’t know. Maybe if I stay away, you will make it to playoffs.” 

“Hell no. You’re not leaving me alone with all these weirdos,” Bood says. “They need their king back!”

Ilya ends the call and Yuna’s arm drapes around his shoulders. “See? I told you.”

“Yes, yes. You are right.” He presses a kiss to her temple. 

“I always am.” 

January 19, 2021

9:00 AM

Ottawa

Shane is awake when Ilya arrives the next morning, exhausted from a long, sleepless night – every time he’d tried to close his eyes, he was consumed with worries about Crowell, hockey, Shane’s recovery. And if not that, then the images of the plane crashing, the aftermath, the loved ones of the deceased crying when they realized they were not one of the lucky ones. 

He’d lifted weights for a couple hours last night to tire himself out, took a long, hot shower, then wandered the house for a while, knocked back a couple shots of vodka, did a load of laundry and even folded it, and still, he’d only finally drifted off some time around six, only to get back up at eight. He’s feeling it now, both physically and mentally.   

Yuna and David have both gone back to work, leaving Ilya to visit Shane alone. He’s glad for that – they would both clock the state he’s in and insist he take something to help him sleep. 

Pills are a last resort for Ilya, be they for sleep or pain. 

“Ilya,” Shane says when he enters the room. His smile is closed-lipped and weak, but happy, and his hand lifts to reach for Ilya, only to be stopped by the strap around his wrist, binding him to the bedframe.

Ilya touches the restraint and frowns. “Are you being difficult?” 

Shane’s jaw works, his lips purse, and his eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t answer. That same flash of frustration Ilya saw yesterday comes back and stays there until Ilya smooths a hand over his brow. 

He’s reminded of how his father was, not long before he died. He showed the same kind of frustration when he couldn’t remember a word, his mouth working to find it as if he was chewing on it.

That thought fills Ilya with dread and fear that Shane is not going to come back from this resembling his former self. 

Shane’s tongue pokes at the feeding tube taped to the corner of his mouth and Ilya remembers he brought some balm for Shane’s chapped lips. Ilya settles onto the stool beside the bed so he can be as close as possible and removes the small tub of balm from his pocket. He opens it and scoops a small amount on his index finger. 

“Words are hard right now, yes?” Ilya says gently. He applies the balm to Shane’s bottom lip, taking care to smooth it evenly over the cracked skin, then moves on to his top lip. “Maybe this will help.” 

He doubts it will. The problem isn’t chapped lips. However, the act of caring for him gives Ilya some small bit of agency where otherwise he has none. 

“Better?” Ilya asks. 

Shane presses his lips together, rubbing the balm in as he settles back into the pillows. He gives the restraint on his right wrist a tug and sends Ilya a pointed look. Ilya is glad that he long ago learned to read Shane Hollander and his pretty, expressive face. He’s seen this look a thousand times – a wordless plea, a want he doesn’t know how to ask for. 

“I’m sorry. They have to stay there for now.” Ilya does wonder why they’re needed, and if maybe Shane became combative and confused at some point. “They are for safety.”

Shane doesn’t seem confused, though. Aside from his apparent trouble saying anything more than Ilya’s name, he’s not having trouble understanding what’s being said, as far as Ilya can tell. 

Ilya takes Shane’s wriggling hand in his and it stills. The frustration melts out of Shane’s face and his eyes soften and grow watery. 

“You are looking better today,” Ilya says. “Almost pretty again.” 

His face is less swollen, his eyes are open wider, though they aren’t exactly as sharp or clear as they should be. The bruises are still hideous, but those will fade eventually. 

It’s all the rest that Ilya worries about.

“Are you in pain?” Ilya asks. “Blink once for yes, twice for no.” 

Shane rubs his thumb against the back of Ilya’s hand and his fingers curl around Ilya’s. His grip is too weak for Ilya’s liking. Painkillers, Ilya assumes, dulling his senses. But better than nothing.   

This is hard. As hard as losing his mother. As hard as watching his father slowly lose his mind. It’s different from either of those, but it hits the same way – like a knife in the heart, like shards of glass in his guts. All of it, out of his control, all his efforts to make things better in vain. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Ilya asks. “The crash?”

“Ilya,” Shane says and squeezes his hand. 

“Yes. I’m here.” 

Shane gives a small nod this time, but Ilya doesn’t know if that’s an acknowledgement that yes, Ilya is here, or if he’s saying yes, he remembers. 

Ilya feels like he’s going to crumble to pieces right here. He would give anything to have Shane whole and unbroken. He would give up hockey, trade places with him, sell his soul, just for him to be like he was before this. He wishes he could take Shane home and take care of him until he’s himself again. He’d make a cozy nest of blankets on the couch and put a pillow beneath his broken leg, and he’d make David’s chicken soup and spoon-feed it to him if need be. 

More than that, he wishes Shane could speak to him and tell him what he needs right now. Anything. Ilya would give him anything, everything, here, now, forever.   

He brushes his free hand over Shane’s forehead and dares to press a kiss to his temple, then the tip of his nose, aching to have more of him than is even possible right now. It’s not even sex he wants, it's physical contact – the weight of Shane’s body draped over him, skin to skin, the feel of his heart beating against his own, the rise and fall of his breath beneath his palms, his warmth and smell, the taste of his mouth. 

Who knows how long before he can have that again. Who knows if he ever will. 

When Ilya pulls back, Shane is smiling, eyes closed. The freckles that Ilya so adores stand out, in spite of the bruises and Ilya cradles the left, less injured side of Shane’s face, his thumb drifting over those freckles with great care.  

Footsteps alert him to a visitor, pulling him sharply out of his longing and admiration, as reality’s interference always does. Ilya sits up straighter and he lets go of Shane’s hand as the privacy curtain is pulled back, even though he never wants to let go of Shane again. Ever.

“Good morning, Shane,” the nurse says. “How are we today – oh. I didn’t know we had a visitor.” 

“Good morning,” Ilya says back. “How are things looking?” 

“I’m only here to check vitals,” she says and offers a small smile. “I’m sure the doctor will be through soon.”

Shane yanks his wrist against the restraint and makes a sour face at the nurse. Ilya laughs softly at his petulant expression, as if this is the nurse’s fault. 

“Do you know why he is handcuffed to the bed?” Ilya asks.  

Shane makes a snorting sound that might be a laugh. Ilya lifts an eyebrow at him, curious. That might need to be a discussion for later, once he’s well again, if Shane’s amusement is any indication of his interest.  

God, he hopes so. That would be fun – Shane unable to touch him, Ilya touching whatever parts of him he can reach, teasing him until he begs, totally at Ilya’s mercy –

Too much right now. Best not to imagine it at all. 

“He kept trying to take out the feeding tube last night.” 

“Ah. So you were being difficult,” Ilya says. “Is not a surprise. Hollander can be very stubborn when wants to be. Are you also saying bad things to the staff in Russian again?” 

Shane looks back at him with blank, innocent eyes. 

“Not as far as I know, but he’s asked for someone named Ilya a few times this morning,” the nurse says. 

Ilya’s heart gives a hard squeeze of love and fondness. He aches to kiss him like he means it. 

“Is that so?” 

“Oh–” the nurse is looking at Ilya with wide eyes. “I thought I recognized you from somewhere. Ilya Rozanov, right? You’re the one he’s been asking for?”

“We are old friends.” 

“Must be good friends,” she says as she checks the bags attached to the tubes in Shane’s head. “If your name is the one he knows.” 

“Yes. For many years now. We run a charity together, we were rookies together, play All-Stars together. We’ve known each other for a long time.”   

“So you don’t actually hate one another?” 

“No, just friendly rivals these days.” 

Ilya leaves the discussion at that. Fortunately, the nurse moves on. “I hear you’re a favorite at the children’s hospital. And not just with the kids.”

“I am Mario Kart champion. Undisputed.” 

She laughs and writes something on a clipboard by the door. “Alright. Someone will be up in a few minutes to do some imaging.” 

“For his head?”

“Yes. It’ll be quick, though. Just a handheld sonogram. Nothing invasive.” 

“Okay.” Ilya says. “Thank you. For taking good care of him.” 

“You’re welcome,” she says with a sincere smile. 

Shane waves at her as she leaves. Sort of. His fingers wiggle and he gives the restraint a hard yank again. Ilya presses his wrist to the mattress. “I know. It sucks, but you can’t take out your tubes. Stop doing that and they will let you go.” 

Shane sinks into the pillow again. This time, his eyes drift shut. 

They stay that way for the rest of the morning. 

January 28, 2021

3:30 PM

Montreal 

The Centaurs have been on the road for almost two weeks, with two extra games added to their trip to make up for the ones missed – New Jersey, Boston, Raleigh, Nashville, Tampa, Sunrise, and finally, they’re back home in Canada, about to play Montreal’s brand new team. 

Ilya is exhausted. It’s not just the added games and the lack of recovery time between them. He’s spent every night of this road trip staring at the ceiling of whatever hotel room he’s in, sometimes alone, sometimes with Troy as a roommate, unable to sleep. When it’s time to get up, Ilya is too weary to peel himself up off the mattress, his body aching and his mind slowly descending into unwanted despair, but he forces himself to do what he’s supposed to do. He talks to the press. He plays the lovable asshole and menace for his team. He goes on the ice, he scores goals, makes assists, puts on a good show, and then he does it again the next night. 

The team has played phenomenally on the road, winning every game except Nashville, and he should be riding that high, but his every thought is consumed with worries about Shane and the lack of progress he’s making. Yuna updates him every day via video – most days from Shane’s room, and there is some progress. The drains have been removed from his head, he’s been downgraded from intensive care, he’s started physical and speech therapy, but he still isn’t talking – it’s just Ilya’s name, maybe a random word or two when he can find it, a yes or a no. He can identify things by pointing to pictures of them, but he can’t say the words and it frustrates Shane so much, sometimes it brings him close to tears. 

Ilya should know better than to expect him to bounce back overnight and be the Shane he remembers, and he should be patient, knowing that recovery takes time and it’s only been a few weeks, but all he can think about is Shane staying the way he is now, forever. Unable to tell him what he wants or needs. Unable to consent to anything or argue with him about stupid things. Unable to offer the challenge Ilya’s always loved. 

If so, Ilya will still take it. He’ll adjust. Better than no Shane at all, but Ilya would prefer the one he knows and loves. 

If so, he’ll move Shane into his house in Ottawa. Quit hockey. Take care of him. Get him whatever care he needs. Be there for him, no matter where the road leads, the way he wasn’t there for his father. 

As he steps off the bus in Montreal’s parking lot, Ilya gets a sense of how wrong it feels to be here. He should be playing against Shane’s Voyagers tonight, not this cobbled together mess of a team. They shouldn’t be playing here at all – it feels disrespectful, like this place will be haunted by ghosts now, angry that the league has already forgotten them. 

Ilya missed the memorial held here a week ago, as most players in the league did because of the make-up games on top of their regular game schedules. He didn’t watch it, but some of the others did. 

Wyatt told him it was nice, if not performative. Troy said they really milked the crying widows for everything it was worth. Yuna accepted an award on Shane’s behalf, which she admitted to having mixed feelings about – should have waited until awards season, when it wasn’t a slap in the face to the ones that didn’t make it, the ones that Shane couldn’t save. 

He’s glad he didn’t go. No disrespect to the lost players. He just doesn't think he could make it through without breaking down, with thoughts of what might have happened swirling around inside his head. 

And once the memorial was over, everyone, including the news, stopped talking about it. Now the focus on how the new Montreal was going to perform. 

Ilya doesn’t care what happens tonight. He’s too worn down to care, and he just wants it over with so he can see Shane in person. Maybe then, he can sleep again. 

He follows his team at a distance; they’re unusually subdued as they approach the building, as if they’re as reluctant to be here as he is. The overall mood is somber, in comparison to the celebration of their unexpected victories over the last several days. 

The commissioner is here, somewhere inside. Ilya worries he’s going to get benched again for some invented reason, though he hasn’t done anything to earn more of Crowell’s wrath. 

Nothing much has come of Crowell’s demands, in spite of the threats he made. Ilya can only assume that means his lawyer is doing his job – the league can’t legally force him to squash rumors or deny a personal relationship. Not with any player in the league as long as the hockey side of it remains professional. 

Ilya has a feeling something else is coming. A rule change or an anti-fraternization policy, which would be problematic in itself. Lots of guys have friends on other teams and spend time together outside of the game. There are players who are related playing on the same team, brothers who play for different teams. Even a player who is married to some big-wig in his team’s front office marketing department. 

He doesn’t want to think about that too hard. It might not even be an issue, if Shane does not return to the league, and Ilya doesn’t have an answer to whether or not he will. 

They head into the room, Ilya tailing them as his tired body pre-emptively protests the punishment it’s about to receive. Inside, he drops his bag and sits down on the bench in front of the stall where his jersey and equipment awaits. 

For a minute, he just stares at it, wishing for all the world he didn’t have to put it on tonight. He could fall asleep on this bench right now and be fine with that.  

One more game. He can get through this. Then he can go home, sleep in his own bed, and go see Shane in the morning. 

He should be spending tonight in Shane’s arms, here in Montreal. He would be, if not for –

God. He’s so fucking tired. 

His phone rings and he answers. “Hello, Yuna.” 

“Hi. Just calling to let you know David and I will be at the game tonight to cheer you on. Usual seats.” 

Ilya is moved, as he always is, by their support. “You do not have to do that. You should stay home with Shane.” 

“We took today to check in on his place, so we’re in town. No one’s been there since before the accident,” she says. “The fridge wasn’t pretty. Kale doesn’t keep for very long.” 

Ilya hasn’t even thought about that. He’s glad they handled it before it got too bad. Kale doesn’t smell good when it’s fresh, so Ilya can only imagine what it’s like when it isn’t.

“Also, David would like me to tell you he’s wearing a Cens Rozanov jersey tonight.” 

Ilya’s eyes burn with tears that he’s not going to let go of here, in front of the others. He’s so tired, it almost happens anyway. 

What did he do to get so lucky? To find people who love him so openly and without question?

“And you will be wearing Shane’s?” 

“That’s right,” she says. “But I’ll be rooting for you.” 

“I love you guys,” he says, feeling a little shattered on the inside. “Thank you. For coming.” 

“You can thank us by winning tonight. There’s some chatter online,” she says and Ilya detects deep disapproval in her tone. “People saying it wouldn’t be right for Montreal to lose their first game after what happened.” 

“They want us to throw the game?” 

“They’re not saying that explicitly, but yes,” she says. “I think Shane would hate that.”

“He would hate me for it.”

“So you know what to do, then.” 

“Yes. I know exactly what to do.” 

7:43 PM

Montreal 

They’re in the 3rd period against Montreal, the score 6-1 in the Cens favor. Every time Ilya steps onto the ice, the crowd boos. 

He expected no less from this crowd, but it’s louder than usual. The Cens are winning a game that at least some percentage of the fans think they should give away out of mercy, but the Cens are mostly winning without even trying.

Ilya feeds on their hate. Hell, it might be the only thing keeping him upright at this point – he honestly feels like shit, and he’s definitely not playing the best game of his life tonight. His body and mind are tired and he’s skating like the rink is made of cold oatmeal, but they’re still stomping Montreal in spite of their collective exhaustion. 

Montreal’s play is disorganized and chaotic and none of them seem to know how to work together. Ilya could give them a little bit of grace, since this team has only been practicing together for a week at most, and he might, if they weren’t so focused on the wrong things. 

The kid from Anaheim, Declan Miller, hogs the puck, and on the rare occasion he does pass, Tanner Dillon can’t find it, as usual. Their goalie is favoring his right side – probably hurt, and it’s painfully easy to take advantage of that. Kent is too focused on going after Ilya to pay attention to anything else, and most of the others have no idea what they’re supposed to be doing. 

In fact, only Marlow and Spectre have it together, but their combined efforts amount to a waste of energy. The rest are playing worse than a pee-wee league.  

Kent is out for Ilya’s blood tonight, though, which might be fun to exploit if Ilya didn’t feel like laying down on the bench and taking a nap between shifts. He has no intention of fighting Kent. He doesn’t have the energy and it’s more fun to let him stew in his own juices than give him what he wants anyhow. 

“And they say we are terrible team,” Ilya says to him as they line up for the drop. “Kids at our hockey camp would beat you with their eyes closed.” 

“Fuck you, homo.” 

“Oh, did you think that one up all by yourself? Must be why I smell burning plastic.” 

Beside him, Troy chuckles. 

“Not gonna deny it?” 

“What is there to deny? You share one very sad, overworked brain cell with the rest of the homophobes. Is fact. Everyone knows this.” 

Kent’s face twists into something ugly and he shoves Ilya. Hard. 

Ilya immediately drops his stick and holds his hands in the air, skating backwards to avoid any incoming punches. Normally, his gloves would already be off and Kent would have a bloody nose, but Ilya’s taking the high ground here. The commissioner is somewhere in the building and Ilya does not want to have another chat with him or wind up benched again, even if it would only be for All-Stars.

Better to make sure everyone sees that Kent can’t control himself. 

The refs send Kent to asshole jail, Ilya laughing in his wake. He blows Kent a kiss as Kent glares through the plexiglass and raises his middle finger. 

“Cut it out, Rozanov,” the ref tells him. “You’re just antagonizing him.” 

“Yes, but you would not have anything fun to do if I didn’t,” Ilya says. “Is job security, yes?”

“You wanna join him?” 

“Only if you come with me.” Ilya punctuates it with a wink and a flirtatious grin.

“Watch yourself,” The ref struggles not to smile. He stares down his nose, failing to pull off being stern. “One more and you get five minutes. You gonna behave?”

“Yes, but only because you asked me so nicely.”  

Miller skates up to take Kent’s place, his arrogance plain and his youth even plainer. 

“So, I hear you think you are me,” Ilya says as he moves back into position. 

“I’m better than you, old man.” 

“I have hat trick this game and you have nothing. Not even an assist,” Ilya says with a shrug. He pretends that his knees aren’t shaking and that he hasn’t broken out in a cold sweat. “You can call me old when you have something to back it up, kid.”

“Back it up? Like you and Hollander?” 

Ilya ignores the twinge of anger in his chest. Kent has obviously told him to use Shane to get under Ilya’s skin, and Ilya isn’t going to let that happen. Even if it would be fun. 

“Aww. You sound jealous.” Ilya grins around his mouthpiece. “Hollander is much prettier than you.”

“Fuck you.” 

“You are terrible at flirting, kiddo. Bad at hockey, too.” 

The puck drops, Ilya wins it and he takes off, passing to Troy as Marlow looms in front of him. Ilya skirts around him and charges after Troy, but as he catches up, Ilya’s ears start to ring and his vision tunnels. 

Something is wrong. His heart is beating too fast and suddenly, it’s very hard to breathe. His skin grows cold and clammy, his legs tremble worse than before. He doesn’t see what happens with Troy, or the puck, he can only hear a chorus of boos and the scrape of skates against the ice as Troy smashes Bood into the glass.

Everything starts to spin, his vision darkens, and his legs fold like a cheap card table. He fights to stay upright, but he hits the ice knees-first, as if all of his bones have disappeared. 

The last thing he remembers is Bood yelling his name, Troy’s worried face a blur above him. 

9:21 PM

Montreal

Ilya wakes in a hospital room, with no memory of how he got there. He’s not in any pain, and nothing feels broken or injured, save a mild ache in his knees and a dull throb between his eyes – the beginnings of a headache, but not a terrible one, he doesn’t think. There’s an IV of clear fluid stuck in his arm and a monitor clipped to his index finger, but all of his limbs seem to be intact, and his head, too. 

Troy is sitting by the wall scrolling his phone, but he looks up when Ilya shifts into a sitting position and asks, “What am I doing here?” 

“You passed out,” Troy says. His smile is nervous and relieved at the same time. “End of third period you went down without being hit and wouldn’t wake up.” 

Ilya sort-of remembers getting light-headed, then feeling like he’d lost all control of his body. Everything after that is gone.  

He feels fine now. Tired, and his muscles are sore, but otherwise, fine. 

“Why are you here?” Ilya asks. 

“Worried about you,” Troy says. “The Hollander’s are here somewhere, too.” 

“Is Yuna bossing the staff around yet?” 

“Maybe a little.” 

“I’m okay,” Ilya says. “Is nothing to worry about.” 

“You hit the ice like a ton of bricks.” Troy’s face is unreadable. “I know you haven’t been sleeping.” 

Ilya shrugs because what else can he do? Lie? 

“You should go home. I will be okay. And even better when I can go home, too.” 

Which will be tonight, if Ilya has any say in it. 

“The Hollander’s offered to drop me off when we get back to Ottawa. I leave when they do.” 

As if summoned, Yuna bustles in, followed by David, both still in their jerseys, wearing identical expressions of worry. After everything with Shane, they’re probably not terribly happy about visiting another hospital room, and Ilya feels guilty for adding to their worries. 

“I’m so glad to see you awake,” Yuna says. She warps her arms around him, holding him in a tight, and very welcome embrace. “You scared the daylights out of me.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not sure what happened.” 

“The doctor said it was a combination of low blood sugar and exhaustion,” Yuna says. He senses he’s about to get scolded. If so, he probably deserves it. “Did you eat anything at all today?” 

“Just toast, this morning.” 

“Ilya –” 

“I haven’t been very hungry,” he admits. He doesn’t mention that he has to remind himself to eat most days. “I think maybe I forgot.” 

“You have to eat, son,” David says gently. “I know it’s stressful right now, but with the amount of calories you burn every day, you need fuel, even when you don’t think you do.” 

“I know. I’m very sorry to make everyone worry.” He smiles a little and nods to David’s Cen’s jersey, hoping to deflect. “Red is a good color for you.” 

“Don’t change the subject, mister,” Yuna says. She straightens up and puts on her business face. “Okay. The doctor said you are free to go tonight, so here’s what’s going to happen. We are going to go find some greasy, high-calorie fast food, and then you are going to get some sleep. Troy, do you have anywhere you need to be tonight?” 

“Not really,” Troy says. Which means Harris is probably busy making posts and gifs of the game – Ilya’s not sure where they stand yet, and Troy is being very quiet about it, but he also knows that Troy would have gone home on the bus with the rest if he had plans to hang out with Harris. 

“Then, we’ll stay at Shane’s place tonight and drive back tomorrow morning,” Yuna says. “Troy, if you need some extra clothes, I’m sure something of Shane’s will fit you. If not, we can do some laundry.” 

Ilya looks at Troy with some amusement, trying to picture him in one of Shane’s many Voyager’s hoodies. Ilya almost offers to lend Troy one of the Cen’s hoodies that’s surely lurking in Shane’s closet, but he doesn’t want to confirm Troy’s suspicions beyond what he’s already confirmed without saying out loud. 

“Thanks, but I’ve got an extra set of clothes in my bag.” 

“Okay then. I’ll get the doctor so we can get you unplugged and checked out.” 

David sits as Yuna hurries from the room, ever the momager. The worry hasn’t left David’s face, and Ilya wishes he could make that look go away. 

“So, how bad did we embarrass them?” Ilya asks. 

“Seven-two,” Troy says. “Felt really good.” 

It does feel good. “Who got the last one?”

“Bood.” 

They might actually have a shot at playoffs if they keep this going. That’s not something Ilya thought was possible this year. 

The timing can’t be worse though, when all he wants is to be home with Shane. He figured he’d have all of playoff season to spend with him, and he’s deeply torn between what he should do and what he wants to do. 

Shane would not want him to throw away his chance to take this team to the playoffs, and though their chances of making the finals are slim to none, it’s a step in the right direction. It will prove Ilya is worth the salary, and the team worth showing up for, and Shane would not forgive him if he chose not to follow through. 

That might be the only reason Ilya hasn’t walked away already. He doesn’t want to risk Shane’s anger if he does come back from this intact. 

If he doesn’t, well, that will be a different story. 

10:49 PM 

Montreal

Fresh from the shower, Ilya pulls on a pair of sweat pants and a hoodie he foraged from Shane’s closet, trying not to crash out over being in Shane’s room without him. 

Their room. Just as Ilya’s room at his own house belongs to the both of them. At home, one of Shane’s hockey books – an unofficial biography of Gretsky, is on the nightstand, where it’s been for months, untouched, a spare pair of reading glasses beside it. A tangle of spare phone and tablet chargers reside in the drawer. 

It’s the same here, though more organized, all of Ilya’s belongings tucked neatly into little trays in the drawer – his lip balms, various compression sleeves and braces, tubes of arnica for bruises, charging cables – all of them have their place. In the closet, there’s a shelf designated specifically for Ilya’s clothes, all washed and neatly folded. 

He wonders if Shane sometimes wears his things when he isn’t here, the way Ilya sometimes wears Shane’s because the scent of his laundry detergent smells like home. He wonders if Shane thinks the same of Ilya’s. 

Ilya is drained, but he’s not going to sleep tonight. At least, not well. Being here only worsens the problem of how deeply inside his head he’s gotten. The night ahead of him is long, and he has no outlet to deal with that in a house full of people. 

Quietly, he heads downstairs, keeping his footsteps light in case everyone else is already asleep. He’s not hungry, after wolfing down two burgers, a mountain of fries and a chocolate shake at Yuna’s insistence, but he grabs the Snickers bar he hid in the pantry months ago, and heads into the living room, planning to watch a movie with the subtitles on until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. 

Troy is already there, bundled up under a blanket, watching Bambi of all things. 

“This is terrible movie, Troy,” Ilya says. 

“It was my favorite when I was a kid,” Troy says. “I don’t remember it being so sad.” 

The only thing Ilya remembers about it is that Bambi’s mother is killed in the first five minutes. Not something Ilya ever wants to watch again. 

“Cars is better,” Ilya says. “Despicable Me. Shrek. Also good.” 

“You watch a lot of kid’s movies, huh?”

“I did not get to see many when I was a kid,” Ilya admits. “Was hockey and only hockey for a long time. Sometimes I need something less serious, something I don’t have to think too hard about.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Troy exits out of Bambi, much to Ilya’s relief and puts on How to Train Your Dragon, instead. “Have you seen this one?” 

“Yes. Is also good. The dragon is a cat, and also a dog.” 

Troy nods. “Yeah, kind of.”  

“You are not sleeping.” 

“A lot on my mind. I might have fucked up with Harris.” 

“Not possible.” 

“I told him I just wanted to be friends.” 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “But you don’t want that.” 

“No. It’s just, he’s out and I’m not and I don’t want to be a secret he has to keep.” 

Ilya can relate to that, heavily, but Troy can come out if he wants to, and he can see Harris publicly and still play hockey. Ilya doesn’t have that luxury. 

“I’m thinking about coming out,” Troy says. “But my dad… he’s like Kent and all the other guys. He’d probably disown me.” 

“What about your mother?” 

“I’ve almost told her a bunch of times.” Troy sighs. “I think she’d be okay with it, but there’s always that chance, you know? That she won’t be.” 

Shane never came out and said it, but he struggled with that too. He wanted to be so perfect, and a part of him believed that being gay was an imperfection, something to be ashamed of, a glitch in his programming that he thought he could debug if he tried hard enough, even when he knew, logically, that was not correct. 

“You don’t want her to be disappointed,” Ilya guesses.

“Yeah.” Troy rubs his eyes and stares at the TV. “Hollander’s really lucky his parents are so supportive.” 

“They’re great,” Ilya agrees.  

“They seem to like you a lot.” 

“I am lucky, too.” 

Troy infers his meaning. He’s quiet for a while, watching the movie with a troubled expression that tells Ilya he’s not really paying attention. 

“Can I ask you something?” he finally says. “I don’t mean to pry, but… how long?” 

“How long, what?” Ilya asks, even though he knows exactly what’s being asked. 

“Never mind. It’s not really my business. I’m just curious, is all.” 

Ilya weighs the pros and cons of admitting it, really admitting it, out loud to Troy. It’s one thing to blurt it out in Houston in a moment of raw, broken weakness to the one man brave enough to come out on live television. It’s another to admit it to someone he sees everyday. 

He thinks Troy can be trusted. After all, Troy trusted him enough to come out to him, enough to share his budding relationship woes with Harris. It’s just that maybe too many people know now, there are rumors fueled by Ilya’s own Instagram post, and the more people that know, the more likely it is to come out before they’re ready. 

But Troy already knows, so what’s the harm in talking about it? Shane gets to talk to Hayden and Rose, so why can’t Ilya have Scott and Troy?

“Years,” Ilya finally says. 

“Years,” Troy echoes. “It’s serious, then?” 

“Very.” He’s suddenly having a hard time keeping his eyes open, or his feelings in check. “If you want to be with Harris, be with him. If you want to come out, do it. You might not get tomorrow, Troy. Do what makes you happy. Believe me, I would if I was able.” 

Troy gets quiet. Ilya can feel his stare in the darkness. 

“I’m sorry. This must be really hard.”

“Is not your fault,” Ilya says. He stifles a yawn. “I should try to sleep.” 

“Me too.” 

“Tell Harris good night for me.” 

Upstairs, Ilya falls into bed, immersing himself in the scent of freshly laundered sheets, along with the scent that lingers here that Ilya can only define as Shane. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to sleep here without him tonight, when by all rights, Shane should be here right now. 

And it sucks so bad that he isn’t. For the first time since he was a child, Ilya cries himself to sleep. 

But at least, he finally sleeps. 

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

January 30, 2021

10:00 AM

Ottawa

Shane is not in his room when Ilya arrives at the hospital, but JJ is. He’s sitting in a chair by the wall, the freshly healed cut on his head shining brightly under the fluorescent lights. It must have been deep and nasty, and Ilya can still see the dots along the edges left by the stitches that held his skin together. 

He looks tired.  

JJ startles when he sees Ilya, shifts into a defensive posture, and glares. “What are you doing here?” 

“Good Morning, JJ.” Ilya ignores the question, strolls into the room, and takes the stool beside the bed. “Have they taken Hollander for tests?”

“I don’t know. The nurse said he would be back soon.”

JJ’s still giving him that wary look, mixed with some kind of attempt at defiance. He doesn’t think Ilya should be here. 

“I did not see you in Montreal last night,” Ilya says. “You did not play?” 

“I am still on injured reserve but I will be at All-Stars.” 

“Ah. And how is your head?” 

“Fine. No headaches.” JJ is tense now, eyeing him like he’s a predator, about to pounce and rip out his throat. “I guess I will see you there.” 

“No. I am also on reserve.” 

Ilya got a call from Coach first thing this morning informing him that due to his collapse on the ice last night, it was decided by the team doctor and the front office that sending Ilya was not in anyone’s best interest. Including Ilya’s. They want him to monitor his blood sugar for the next few days before allowing him to play again, in case it’s a bigger issue than it seems. 

It’s nothing more than exhaustion and lack of food, but this team, at least, cares about their players. Ilya can’t say the same about most others. 

Not that Ilya minds not going to All-Stars this year. He’s been many times, nine so far and it’s no fun without Shane. Nobody but the rookies really enjoy it anyhow – most would rather have the time off, and anybody who is not Shane is usually happy to stay home. Shane thinks it’s an honor to be chosen. It’s cute, but Ilya would rather have that time together instead of participating in the same stupid competitions every single year. 

Even if playing on the same team with Shane has secretly become the highlight of his year after leaving Boston. 

“I saw you go down last night,” JJ says. “What happened?” 

“Was in shock about how terrible your new team is.” 

“Fucking asshole.” 

“Is true. Miller is not as good as he thinks he is, and he wants to be me, but he will never come close. Dillion cannot find his way out of the locker room without help. Goalie played injured and Kent should be in jail. Spectre did not get the ice time he deserved and Marlow ran defense all by himself,” Ilya says. “They are not… on the same page. I know you saw that. Could be a good team, in time. Maybe. If they do not try to make Kent your star.”

“He is not Shane,” JJ says in agreement. 

“Nobody is Shane,” Ilya says, emphatically. “Not even close.” 

“Are you saying he is better than you?” 

“No. Nobody is me, either.” 

Sometimes, Ilya thinks Shane is better than him, simply because Shane is more passionate about the sport than Ilya is. He loves it more. He eats, sleeps and breathes it. For Ilya, it’s something he’s very good at, and he does love it most of the time, but he’s always seen it as a means to an end – a way out, freedom, money, attention, competition. 

Lately, those things matter less than they used to. Compared to Russia, he’s much freer here, but there are still restrictions. Ilya, and every other player, is essentially owned by the league, subject to their demands and required to punish their bodies in exchange for their salaries. The money is nice, but expensive things don’t bring Ilya joy anymore, and they never did for long, anyway. Once the sparkle wore off, things were just that – things. 

Attention is a double-edged sword, and can quickly turn from adulation to hatred in an instant, and not the kind of hatred that Ilya enjoys. Right now, Ilya has the wrong sort of attention on him, and that leaves him less sure of himself than he usually is. 

And competition? Shane is his only real competition. It has always been that way and there is no other player in the league who has ever given Ilya the kind of challenge Shane gives him. There is no one who makes his blood sing that way on, or off the ice.

“It will not be the same without him there,” JJ says. 

“It already isn’t the same.” 

This is the first conversation he’s had with JJ that didn’t escalate into JJ shouting insults or expressing unjustified outrage. Ilya suspects that JJ is very protective of Shane but unnecessarily so. Shane is a grown man who can fight his own battles, not some fragile little flower with petals that bruise so easily, but he wonders how supportive JJ would be if he knew what Ilya really was to Shane. He suspects he would be far less accepting than Hayden was, and it took Hayden a long time to get used to the idea. 

“Did they give you an award at the memorial? For your bravery?” Ilya asks. “I did not watch.” 

“No. But I was not brave like Shane.” JJ bites his thumb nail and avoids Ilya’s gaze. 

Ilya nods, but he detects something deeper than sorrow in his face, a mix of something like guilt and shame. 

“But you helped Shane get Hayden out, yes? That is what you said.” 

“Yes, but I just wanted off that plane. Even if Shane hadn’t pushed me, I would not have gone back in.” 

Even if JJ had wanted to help rescue others, it would not have changed things. Most of the passengers died on impact or very soon after. There was no saving them. What little Ilya knows of the details, this is one that he does know, just by seeing footage of the wreckage.  

JJ is quiet for a minute. “I was hiding under the seats. Too much of a coward to come out, I don’t know that I would have if Shane had not yelled at me to get up and help him.” 

For the first time, he feels bad for JJ. Being confronted with his own limitations in such a terrible situation, learning that fear could rule him must be a hard thing to accept. Every man wants to believe he would transform into a superhero in a dangerous situation, but sometimes when it comes down to it, it just isn’t so. 

Fear is powerful, after all. 

“So now you know. I am a fucking coward.” 

“I don’t think that is true,” Ilya says. “You were scared. It was a very scary thing. You still helped and Hayden is alive because of it. So you are also a hero, I think.” 

Ilya wonders why the league hasn’t acknowledged JJ in the same way they have Shane. He can think of ten different reasons, maybe. Old-fashioned racism. Doesn’t fit the narrative. Shane is the league’s golden boy, JJ is not. No room for two heroes, when only a handful survived. 

“Did you tell anyone you helped with Hayden?” 

“Yes. They know.” 

“And they didn’t say anything. That is not okay, JJ.” 

“Too late to do anything about it. It’s done.” JJ looks at his feet. “I don’t feel very heroic, anyway.” 

JJ deserves his flowers, too. Ilya may not like him much, but he does believe in giving credit where it is due. 

A tall orderly in green scrubs enters the room and nods at them in acknowledgement. Shane is behind him, holding onto a walker for dear life. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt instead of a hospital gown, and his cheeks are flushed with exertion. The determination that Ilya finds so compelling twists Shane’s face into a sneer as he takes careful, slow steps into the room. 

As Shane toddles further into the room, Ilya sees the halo on Shane’s leg has been replaced by a bright blue fiberglass cast, and though his steps are cautious and uneven, he’s upright and doing his best. 

That is so much more than Ilya expected to see this morning. So much better. It gives him a bit more hope that Shane will bounce back. He’ll be okay. He just needs time.  

The bruises on his face have faded to random brownish-greenish-yellow splotches with the exception of some remaining blackish-red ones around his right eye and across the bridge of his nose. He almost looks like himself again – sure, his eyes water, his brow beads with sweat, but Ilya’s not sure he’s ever seen Shane Hollander look more beautiful than he does now. 

He holds his breath as the orderly patiently guides Shane toward the bed. Shane finally notices Ilya there and breaks into a huge, toothy smile so unlike his usual smile that Ilya can’t help but grin back. Shane murmurs Ilya’s name, left too breathless by the effort of walking to put much force behind it. 

Ilya almost cries in relief, but he’s done too much crying lately, so he holds back and stands up to allow Shane room to maneuver himself toward the bed.

Shane lets go of the walker and pushes it aside before anyone can stop him. He stumbles forward and in the next instant, his arms are around Ilya, his battered face buried in Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya gives up his fight against tears because this is worth crying over. He doesn’t care if anyone in this room clocks that they’re more than friends, he doesn’t care what they think. Shane is hugging him, and that is so much more important to Ilya than anything else. The rest of the world can burn for all he cares. 

“You are walking,” Ilya whispers. 

Shane’s arms tighten around him, his breath warm on Ilya’s neck, and Ilya holds onto him with everything he has in him. Shane trembles from the effort of standing, but it’s okay, because Ilya is too, and he has strength enough for both of them.  

Ilya wants to cover his face in kisses and shower him in praise for being so strong, but he’s aware that JJ is watching with wide eyes and the orderly is standing aside, waiting for Shane to let go. 

If this is all Ilya can have right now, he wants to savor it for as long as he can. Whoever is waiting can keep waiting. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says. “I am so proud of you.” 

Shane’s murmured response is muffled, but Ilya hopes he’s saying it back. He wants to believe that he is. 

“Alright, let’s get you back into bed,” the orderly finally says. “Tough physical therapy session today.” 

Ilya doesn’t bother to let the orderly intervene. He guides Shane back to the bed and eases him down onto it until he’s sitting on the edge, facing Ilya. “Okay. Do you need help?” 

Shane blinks at him, jaw working, chewing on his words like before. Ilya’s heart gives a small beat of disappointment, but he notes that Shane’s eyes are so much clearer, if not still a little vacant. Shane doesn’t move, so Ilya rearranges the pillows, then hooks an arm behind Shane’s back, one behind his knees, and lifts him up onto the mattress. 

“Good?” Ilya asks as he places a pillow under the cast, then covers him with the blanket. “Comfortable?”

Shane gives him a thumbs up. 

“Well, you just made my job easier,” the orderly says. “Lunch is on the way.” 

“Oh, exciting. Hospital food.” Ilya reclaims the stool. “So, thumbs up, thumbs down? Do you want to test it?” 

Shane shrugs one shoulder and gives another thumbs up. 

“Your parents are the best.” 

Thumbs up. Small nod. 

“You love when I eat McGriddles for breakfast.” 

Shane scowls and gives that an aggressive thumbs-down. Ilya grins.

“You think Scott Hunter is hot.” 

Middle finger. Ilya’s grin gets bigger. 

Ilya can work with this. It’s not ideal, but at least he knows for sure Shane understands what he’s saying. 

“Perfect.” 

Shane smiles shyly and reaches for Ilya’s hand, tangling his fingers with Ilya’s. Longing overwhelms Ilya for a second – he wants to gather Shane in his arms again and steal him from this place right now. 

He’d take Shane to the cottage, so that he can heal in his favorite place instead of inside these bland walls and these rooms that smell like industrial disinfectant.They could watch the snow falling through the bedroom windows. Ilya could read him the rest of that unfinished book about Gretzky on his nightstand. They’d walk around in warm fleece pajamas and drink hot chocolate by the fireplace, and Ilya would ensure Shane’s was compliant with his stupid performance diet. 

If only.  

“Why are you encouraging it?” JJ demands. 

Ilya has no clue what he means. He looks up at Shane’s friend, confused and annoyed by his tone. 

“You know he has a crush on you, right?” JJ says. 

Ilya almost breaks character – if JJ only knew. He manages, barely, to remain passive and stoic as he leans closer to Shane. “Is this true, Hollander? Do you have a crush on me?” 

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand and gives Ilya a thumbs-up. JJ makes an exasperated sound. 

Only then does he realize what JJ must be talking about. He extracts his hand from Shane’s as casually as he can and instead, allows Shane to hold onto his wrist. 

“What are you doing, Rozanov? You are straight and an asshole,” JJ says. “You are only going to hurt him.”

“Hollander, do you think JJ needs to mind his own business?”

Shane raises his middle finger at JJ. 

Ilya bursts out laughing. Once he starts, it’s hard to stop. The baffled look on JJ’s face doesn’t help. Shane’s annoyed face doesn’t help either. 

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” 

“Sorry. You aren’t my type.” Shane’s thumb brushes over the inside of Ilya’s forearm and it sends a shiver all through him. “I like them pretty.” 

JJ’s posture grows even more tense, as if preparing for a fight, but someone arrives with a cart laden with meal trays. Ilya frowns as a rolling tray is slid over Shane’s lap. He’s not impressed by what he sees. There’s a lump of pale yellow that he assumes is mashed potatoes, a serving of overcooked peas, and a slice of what may or may not be turkey drowning in a thin brown sauce. 

Shane isn’t impressed either. He stares at it like he would rather die than eat it and gives it a thumbs down. Ilya can’t blame him. Personally, he would rather forage for a meal in a dumpster than eat hospital food.   

“Go ahead,” Ilya says. “Eat.” 

Shane picks up the fork and knife, then pokes at the meat like he’s checking to make sure it’s actually dead. 

“They will not let you go home until you are strong enough, and the only way to do that is to eat,” Ilya says. “I promise, I will make you as many of your disgusting kale smoothies and boring, unseasoned egg whites on boring wheat bread as you want once we are home.”

Ilya bites his tongue and tries to hide his grimace over blurting out once we are home. Fortunately, JJ doesn’t catch it. And if he did, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

Shane tries the potatoes, his hand shaking as he ferries the pasty-looking lump to his mouth. Then, he takes a bite of the meat, chews twice and then stops. His hand raises to his cheek and he winces, eyes closed. 

“Does it hurt to chew?” Ilya asks. Shane gives him a thumbs up. Only then does Ilya remember Shane’s fractured cheekbone. “Okay, maybe smaller pieces.” 

Shane attempts to cut it into smaller bites, his left hand shaking, his grip on both utensils a little strange, like a child learning to use them. As if he can’t quite grip them correctly. 

“Do you need help?” Ilya would like to see Shane do this himself, but he also hates to see him struggling. “I can cut it smaller for you. Only if you want.” 

Shane hands the knife and fork over and Ilya drags the tray closer. Whatever this meat is, it’s truly disgusting. It’s soft and tough at the same time and obviously some strange processed thing that’s probably full of chemicals and too much salt. 

“Eat some of the other things while I do this. Use the spoon.” 

This is another thing that reminds him far too much of his father in that final summer. Ilya had to help him eat more often than not. Everything had to be cut into small pieces so that he didn’t choke.  

But this is different. The two things don’t compare. Shane is not deteriorating. He’s improving. The fact that he can feed himself less than three weeks after such serious head trauma is impressive. The fact that he was able to walk back from his physical therapy session is a hopeful sign. 

Shane is moving forward, not backward. Not like his father. There’s plenty of reason to believe he’s getting better. 

JJ watches silently as Ilya diligently cuts the turkey into bites no bigger than his thumbnail. Ilya senses he’s being judged. 

“Do you want to do this, JJ?” Ilya asks without looking up. “You think you can do better?”

“It isn’t that.”

“Then why are you staring.”

“I think maybe you are not the asshole everyone says you are.” 

Ilya glances up at him and sees the worry, the doubt, the confusion in JJ’s face, and he almost pities him. Ilya often forgets that not everyone can read people the way he can. Many only ever see what’s on the surface, and he suspects JJ is one of those people. 

“Not always,” Ilya agrees. “I know you don’t like me and that is okay. But, we both care about Shane, yes? We both want what is best for him. So you do not need to protect him from me. I’m not going to do anything that hurts him.” 

“Playing with his feelings hurts him,” JJ says. “It is not right.” 

“How do you know I am? Maybe is a private joke between us that you don’t understand. Maybe you don’t see everything,” Ilya says, “or know everything.”

Ilya finishes cutting the last bit of the turkey and pushes the tray back toward Shane, who has finished eating the potatoes, but only picks at the peas. 

“Okay, try again, moya belka.” Ilya hands the knife and fork back. He waits, watching Shane take a bite. Shane still winces, and his hands shake, but not as bad as before. “Still hurts?” 

Shane gives a thumbs up but keeps chewing, determined to see it through. 

JJ is still watching him and Ilya finally gives him his full attention while Shane struggles through his next bite. 

“What?” 

“What does that mean?” JJ asks. “Belka?” 

“Squirrel,” Shane says, without hesitation, which surprises Ilya into a laugh. It’s the first English word Ilya has heard him say since he woke up.

“Yes. Squirrel,” Ilya confirms. “Shane is learning Russian. Is vocabulary lesson.” 

“Lozhka.” Shane shows the spoon to JJ, who is understandably confused. 

“Yes. Very good,” Ilya says. “What is it called in English?”  

Shane tries and fails to form the word. He looks at Ilya helplessly and bites down on his bottom lip, concentrating.  

“How about in French?” JJ asks. “Do you know it?” 

Shane thinks about it. Blinks a couple times. “La fourchette.” 

“Close,” JJ says. “Fourchette is fork. You know that. What is spoon?” 

Ilya can see Shane getting upset – his brow is furrowed, his mouth turned down in a familiar half-scowl. Pushing him right now isn’t helpful and Ilya doesn’t want him to be frustrated. 

“Hey, hey, is okay, Shane,” Ilya says. “We will work on it later. Eat the rest of your delicious hospital food.” 

Shane answers with his middle finger, but he eats while Ilya and JJ watch in silence. When he’s done, he pushes the tray away and Ilya slides it toward the door. 

There’s a bit of the mushy peas in the corner of Shane’s mouth and Ilya blots it away. “That is not worth saving for later.” Shane rolls his eyes.

Ilya re-adjusts the pillows so that Shane is half-reclined, in case he wants to sleep. 

“Have you seen Hayden?” Ilya asks JJ. 

“Yes. He is home from the hospital, but they might have to do surgery on his neck,” JJ says. “It is not healing right so they’re changing the pins in it or something? I don’t know the details.” 

Ilya makes a mental note to call Jackie later, to check in. They’ve texted a little, but neither of them consistently. Jackie has a lot on her plate, and Ilya’s been on the road and too worn out to follow up as often as he should. 

“I am glad he is okay,” Ilya says. 

“Too bad he won’t play again.” 

Shane gives Ilya a questioning look and he wonders if anyone has even told Shane what happened. Ilya doesn’t want to do that now, with JJ here. He also doesn’t want to upset him when he can’t say how he feels about it. 

JJ looks at his watch. “I should go soon. I need to go home and pack for All-Stars.” 

“Okay,” Ilya says, then he is struck by an idea. “We should get a selfie with Shane before you go. For Instagram.” He pauses and turns to Shane. “Is that okay with you, Shane? If I post our picture on my account?”

Thumbs-up. 

JJ leans in close to Shane, an arm draped around him. Ilya leans in on the other side, his chin hooked over Shane’s shoulder. He takes three shots and shows them to them both. 

“I like that one,” JJ says and points to the 2nd shot. Ilya agrees. It’s a good one. All three of them are smiling. 

Ilya sits back and opens his Insta account. “I think everyone should know about you, JJ. Is not fair they did not give you any credit for saving Hayden. I will tell them, if you want me to.” 

JJ looks conflicted. “It will make the league look bad.” 

“Fuck the league. They did not tell the truth.” Ilya uploads the photo. “You will not get in any trouble for it. I will and I am okay with that. But if you don’t want me to, I won’t.” 

There’s a long beat where JJ doesn’t answer as he considers what to do. Then finally, he nods.

“Okay. Yes. Do it.” A bit of anger burns in his eyes. “If you do get in trouble, I will back you up.” 

Ilya Rozanov

@ilyarozanov81official

---

@mlh @montrealvoyageurs @ottawacentaurs

Great visit with the two heroes @shanehollander24 and @jjboiofficial of Flight 3771 today.

---

@hollandersunderpants: oh my god my poor baby looks awful

@voyageurvixen: Um. Two heroes? What did JJ do? Why wasn’t he mentioned? Why are we only hearing about this now, from Rozanov of all people? @mlh

@ilyarozanov81official: He helped Hollander get Pike off the plane @voyageurvixen

@bearsbabe: hollander ain’t playing hockey again

@censforeverbaby: this is a trio i never thought i’d see togethe

@voyageurvixen: @ilyarozanov81official if that’s true justice for JJ!!! 

@shanesfuturexwife: @mlh what do you have to say for yourselves?

@roselandryofficial: I love you @shanehollander24 @ilyarozanov81official See you soon!

@marlowcliffofficial: bro what?  

@scotthunter21: Best wishes for a speedy recovery @shanehollander24. @jjboiofficial Respect, man. Also, @mhl care to explain? 

@oogabungu99: uh oh rainbow brigade get their ass

@pikeapologist: seriously if this is true that’s so fucked up 

@jjboiofficial: Good to see you today @ilyarozanov81official and @shanehollander24. 

@ottawacentaurs: Love seeing players support one another! This is why you’re our favorite Captain @ilyarozanov81official! 

5:35 PM

The league’s response to Ilya’s post is weak. It’s just a brief statement to claim they “didn’t know,” which Ilya knows is a blatant lie. Now they’re doing damage control, and the fans aren’t having it. They’re demanding answers, as Ilya intended. 

He skims the responses and is satisfied that the message was received loud and clear, and he fully expects another conversation with Crowell, but this time, he doesn’t care. There’s nothing that he can say to justify erasing JJ from the story. Claiming ignorance when JJ is the only one who could have told them what happened is total bullshit. 

They fucked up and they know it. They can’t claim Ilya said anything wrong, either. 

Ilya’s going to have to walk a very fine line with this. Farah has advised him that as long as he stays on a neutral path while using their own words and rules against them, and doesn’t make any open accusations or false claims, there’s little they can legally do to him. 

Scott has been doing the same with his advocacy lately. Though the league advised him to tone it down, he turned the volume up without making it inflammatory. Rather than shrinking back, he’s leaning into it, doubling down, and Ilya plans to do the same. 

He’s also decided, after receiving a handful of DM’s and tags from homophobes and racists that he’s going to lean into that harder as well. Fighting homophobes by teasing and flirting with them is fun anyway, but he thinks it might make it easier for others to accept when the time comes to step out of this closet if he flaunts it a little more. He already has a reputation for saying wild shit, so if it leads people to think he’s an entire bowl of fruit salad, it won’t come as such a shock.

His team long ago accepted his natural flamboyant ambiguity without a problem. Hell, at this point, they’ve come to expect it of him. It wouldn’t be such a stretch to flex a little of that on his platform, too.

Presently, he’s sitting inside a bistro across the street from the hospital, sipping on a beer, waiting for David and Yuna to join him. He’s still feeling a little off, but it’s all in his head this time. He should be elated that Shane’s come so far, that he walked, said a few words, that he’s more or less on the mend, but that darkness is starting to creep in again. 

He wishes he could figure out a way to hold on to those good feelings for more than a few hours, but it never seems to last. That’s a problem, and he doesn’t know how to fix it without chasing some new high or finding a distraction to make the sadness go away. 

Maybe he needs to book an appointment with his therapist. The last time he saw her was just after Christmas, after the fight with Shane. Maybe she can help him figure out why his thoughts always go back to that same lonely, dark place, time and again, no matter what good things come his way. 

Yuna and David are all smiles when they arrive. Ilya notes that Yuna is clutching a thick packet that doesn’t look like it’s work or foundation related. 

“The doctor says Shane is ready to move on to a rehabilitation facility in a couple of days,” Yuna says. “Or, if we arrange for care at home, he can do outpatient treatment for his physical and speech therapy.” 

“So he can come home?” Ilya asks to confirm he’s hearing her right. “In two days.”

Yuna nods. Her eyes are brimming with happy tears. “Two days.”

“This is very good news.” Ilya’s mind is reeling, the hope that was being drowned in despair just moments ago is suddenly buoyed by the thought of Shane, safe at home again. “What is the plan?” 

“We wanted your input before we make a decision on what to do,” David says. “We know you’re not married or anything yet, but you might as well be, so your opinion matters to us.” 

Ilya wishes he could hug David for acknowledging his place in Shane’s life, and including him in this conversation. They could very easily decide this without him, as Ilya has no legal authority to make decisions on Shane’s behalf. 

“I have plenty of room and it’s private,” Ilya says, trying to damp down his excitement. “He can stay in the guest room downstairs if stairs are too hard. And I have the gym for physical therapy.”

Ilya hopes those are all selling points. The Hollander’s house is nice, and there’s no reason he can’t stay there, but Shane’s room is on the second floor, the house is not gated, and aside from a weight bench in the garage, there is no gym. 

Yuna is hesitant. “We were thinking of taking him home.”

He wants to tell her that his home is Shane’s home. That Shane is his home. That this is the better option, but she has the right to want him with her, too, and Ilya is not going to dispute that. 

“It’s not a bad idea, Yuna,” David says. “He does have more space, and I think Shane might be more comfortable there than in his old room. I’m sure you won’t mind if we stay over, right, Ilya?” 

“Of course not. You are always welcome to the other guest room if you want to stay there while I’m traveling. I don't care if you move in for a while if you want to,” Ilya says. “Or you can take him home when I’m gone if that is easier.” 

Yuna still looks unsure, and Ilya gets it. Shane is her son and it’s only natural that she wants to be the one in charge of his care. Even if she loves Ilya, it must be hard to hand that responsibility over to him. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, because I know you’ll take good care of him. I’m just worried that it’ll be too much,” Yuna says. “There’s a lot of pressure on you and I’m afraid you’re going to wear yourself out trying to do everything.” 

It’s a fair assessment, especially after he let himself get so worn out he passed out in the middle of a game, but Ilya thinks he can manage this. 

“I can do this,” Ilya says. “But if it gets to be too much, I will tell you, okay?”   

David and Yuna look at each other for a long, agonizing moment without saying anything. Ilya wants to beg on his knees to be trusted with this. 

“We can give it a shot, right?” David finally asks Yuna. “See how it works out?” 

Yuna bites her lip, still uncertain. 

“Please, Yuna,” he says quietly. “It will be less stressful for me if he’s where I can see him when I am home. And for him too, I think.” 

She takes a long, slow breath and then nods. “Okay. We’ll give it a try. But the minute you start feeling overwhelmed, I want to know about it.” 

“I promise I won’t let you down.” 

February 1, 2021

9:20 AM

Ottawa

“We are home,” Ilya says to Shane as he unbuckles his seatbelt and helps him out of the back seat of Ilya’s SUV. Shane is still too shaky to stand on his own without support, so Ilya wraps an arm around his waist and holds him close. “Is very cold out here. Let’s get you inside.” 

David and Yuna grab things from the back of the SUV – a folding walker that looks more like a wheelchair, a bag containing non-slip bath mats, and a few other assorted items, including a pharmacy bag containing Shane’s prescription for pain meds. 

Neither will be staying tonight due to a prior commitment in Montreal for David’s work, but they don’t seem too concerned about Shane and Ilya being here without them. Over the last two days, they’ve come up with a plan everyone seems comfortable with, arranged for a nursing assistant to check in, and set up both physical therapy and speech therapy sessions here at the house. 

The steps are covered with a dusting of fresh, powdery snow and Ilya doesn’t want to risk Shane losing his footing on the slick surface. He hands Yuna his keys and scoops Shane up into his arms like a bride and carries him up the steps to the door, eager to get Shane out of the cold.   

It’s warm inside and Ilya sets Shane back on his feet, removes his own wool overcoat, and hangs it on the peg beside the door. Then, he removes Shane’s. 

“Do you want to rest, or do you want to lie on the couch?” Ilya asks. 

Shane points to the living room. Ilya is pleased by this – he’s already made that nest of pillows and blankets he imagined, and now he’s thinking of how much he wants to just lie there with Shane, safe and comfortable in his arms. 

David unfolds the walker and Shane takes hold of the handles, shuffling forward one step at a time toward the living room. Ilya follows, in case he grows tired or unsteady, but Shane is determined to get there himself. 

It takes forever for him to reach the couch, but when he does, he eases himself onto it, keeping hold of the walker until he’s settled enough to let go. 

“Shoe,” Ilya says. “Can you take it off yourself?” 

Shane manages to get the shoe untied but struggles to slip it off his foot. Again, it’s his left side giving him trouble and Ilya has noted that weakness over the last couple of days. Hopefully, that can be addressed in physical therapy, or with time as his brain continues to heal. Hopefully, his words will come back, too. 

He moves the walker out of the way and stuffs a pillow beneath Shane’s cast, covering him with a blanket as Shane leans back. He smiles as Ilya crouches down next to the couch. “Do you want me to make you a gross smoothie?” 

Shane gives him a thumbs down. 

“Okay. How about a movie?” 

Also a thumbs down. 

“Can you tell me what you do want?” 

Shane reaches up and cradles Ilya’s jaw, his gaze sweet and soft, and Ilya almost falls apart because it’s the first time Shane has touched him like this since before the crash. He’s missed this more than he realized and he leans into it, dying for more. 

“Does anyone want some coffee?” David asks from the doorway. 

“I’ll have some,” Ilya says. To Shane, he says, “None for you yet. But maybe something warm? Hot chocolate?” 

“Ilya.” 

“I’m here.” 

Shane’s frustration is clear, but there’s nothing Ilya can do about it if he doesn’t know what exactly he wants. Ilya knows what he wants, but there’s nothing that he can do about that, either. 

Yuna brings Ilya a mug of coffee. Ilya takes it and moves to the end of the couch by Shane’s feet. David has made it strong, the way Ilya likes it and he wraps his cold hands around the cup to warm them. 

“The medical staff company called to let us know they can’t send anyone till tomorrow,” Yuna says. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.” 

“Did they say why?”

“Something about a scheduling conflict. This was last minute and they accidentally double booked, but they’ll try to send someone out to check in this afternoon.” 

“Okay. Not a problem for me.” Ilya looks at Shane. “What about you?”

Shane gives a thumbs down. 

“I think you should have everything you need,” Yuna says. She’s so anxious, Ilya is reminded of Shane when things don’t quite go as he planned. “If we forgot anything –”

“I will have it delivered,” Ilya says. “Is no problem.” 

“You’re sure you’ll be okay by yourselves tonight?” Yuna says. “Because I can stay –”

“Go. Have a good time, we will be fine.” He drags a spare blanket into his lap. “Maybe we will work on words for a while. Maybe just watch a movie. Or All-star game later.” 

“If the light starts bothering him –”

“I have his glasses, but I will turn off the TV if that happens. Maybe put on a hockey podcast instead.” 

“I’m sorry. You’re both grown men and I’m acting crazy.” 

“No, you are just being a good mom.”

“You’ve got this. I know.” 

David wanders in, clutching a pair of travel mugs, likely filled with fresh brewed coffee for the road. “We should probably hit the road soon.” 

Yuna checks the time. “Oh, we should.” 

She moves to the couch and presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead, then one to Ilya’s cheek. “Call us if you need anything. And send me an update before you go to bed, okay?” 

“I will.” 

“We’ll be back tomorrow around noon. Be good.” 

“Drive safe.” 

As soon as they’re gone, Ilya can’t resist anymore. He slides up next to Shane, between his body and the couch and wraps his arms around him, holding as tight as he dares. The knot that’s lived inside his chest for weeks now loosens and a little piece of his shattered world shifts back into place. 

It’s like he can finally breathe again. 

Shane shifts a little, allowing Ilya a little more space and settles into his arms like he never left them. 

God. To think he almost lost this for good. 

Shane is warm and happy. That’s the one thing he really knows for sure. There are a lot of things that are confusing right now, but this isn’t one of them. This is exactly where he’s supposed to be – enveloped in Ilya’s arms, surrounded by his warmth. 

He only sort-of understands what happened. He knows there was a plane crash, but he only remembers it in flashes. Fire. Smoke. The whole world coming apart at the seams. A man dying in his arms. Everything is in pieces, including himself, apparently. 

It all feels more like a dream than something that actually happened to him. Like a movie he watched a long time ago. 

Sometimes, he was sure his memories were just hallucinations. Coach Theriault could not really have been standing in the corner of his hospital room with a knife-like shard of metal sticking out of his chest and blood pooling at his feet. And Hayden wasn’t sitting in the chair by the bedside beneath a heavy cracked plastic object with just his legs visible. And Sammy, the flirty flight attendant, wasn't lying in the doorway telling Shane what a huge fan he was. No one was screaming his name, or sobbing pathetically, and there was no blood in his mouth. 

Those things felt real, though. So real, that he wonders if parts of them might be. 

The present is a little off, too. Sometimes it’s very clear what’s going on around him. He can follow conversations and he understands what’s being said. Other times, things get fuzzy. Words and sounds and people, all a blur, and time doesn’t really make sense anymore. Days pass with no memory of them, hours crawl by like weeks. 

That part happens less often now. That’s probably a good thing. He doesn’t like not being able to sort out what’s going on. He can’t plan ahead if he doesn’t even know what day it is.

But maybe he dreamed of Ilya’s mother once or twice, or hallucinated her, or maybe she really was there. On the plane, a row up, across the aisle from JJ. Sitting in the corner of the hospital room. Lying in the hammock at the cottage, bathed in sunlight. 

Shane has never seen a picture of Irina Rozanova – Ilya, tragically, doesn’t have one, but the woman in his dreams is an unmistakable feminine version of Ilya Rozanov with sad hazel eyes and golden gilded curls. 

He’d like to think she’s been watching over him, the way Ilya saya he sometimes feels her with him, but maybe she's been waiting for him. Or trying to tell him something. Maybe that part was just his broken brain conjuring things that weren’t real.  

It’s a nice thought, though. Comforting to not be alone in those moments when he felt like he was. He can understand why Ilya’s hung on to her memory so hard he feels her presence. 

If he could, he would tell Ilya about her, but words are a problem. He knows the words he needs, but his mouth and voice fail him. Sometimes, the wrong word comes out, and mostly in the wrong language, sometimes without meaning to. 

The speech therapist told his mom that the part of his brain that processes language and speech is damaged. It might get better with healing and some practice. It might not and it’s frustrating to not be able to communicate what he wants or needs. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get his mouth around the shape and sound of them.

Right now, though. This is what he needs. Just Ilya. Close to him. 

It’s so much better than being in the hospital bed, unable to do more than hold Ilya’s hand. 

“Are you okay? With me here?” Shane can only answer by burrowing into his chest.

Shane is not unaware of Ilya’s persistent worry for him. He’s seen it in every visit and he’s desperately wanted to reassure him that he’s okay. He will be okay. Maybe. He’s trying.

“You look like a baby bird with this haircut,” Ilya nuzzles the top of his head and his breath is warm against his scalp. “I do miss your beautiful hair.”

It’ll grow back, Shane thinks. 

“You are still pretty, though.” 

Ilya sighs and settles a little more, his grip loosening but still there. Shane wonders how much sleep he’s been getting. He’s looked stressed and worn out every visit that Shane has been awake for. He wishes he could tell Ilya he can rest now. It’s not like Shane plans to go anywhere. Probably couldn’t if he tried. 

Where is his car, anyway? Still at the airport? Does he even remember where he parked it? How long has it been there? Did someone take it home? Or is it just sitting there, racking up daily parking fees?

Shane wants to ask about that, too, but that’s too complicated a question. It can’t be communicated via thumb positions or a yes or a no.

Besides all that, he wonders how his team is doing without him. Are they losing because he’s not there? Has he been replaced? Who is the captain while he’s gone? How does he go to practice like this? If he doesn’t, he’s going to lose all the hard work he’s put into this, and he can’t afford that. He knows how long it takes to catch up after an injury. 

“I was so scared,” Ilya says. His lips brush across Shane’s forehead. “That you wouldn’t come back to me.” 

I’m here, Ilya. I’m okay. 

Shane tips his head back so he can see Ilya’s face. The worry he’s seen in that face is still there, but it’s more subdued, quieter. Shane brushes his thumb over the crease between Ilya’s eyes, smoothing it out, and watches Ilya’s face relax. 

“But you are here, aren’t you?” Ilya says. “You are home now.”

Shane answers him with a kiss. Not a stolen peck on the lips. A proper one. 

Ilya lets out a muffled sound, almost a whimper, and he kisses Shane back with sweet, restrained adoration – it’s tender, soft, gentle, and Shane melts into it as warm desire, far too dulled by pain medications to go anywhere, surges through his veins. It’s all Shane can give him right now, but his heart and mind want so much more. He wants to touch Ilya, feel his warm skin against his own, feel his weight pinning him down –

Ilya pulls back with a smile that is somehow both cocky and shy at the same time. His eyes are wet and his face flushed, but he's looking at Shane with so much pride and love, it makes him want to kiss him again. 

“Too much right now,” Ilya says, a little breathless. He presses his lips to Shane’s for the briefest moment, then cradles Shane’s jaw like it's something precious. “There will be plenty of time, once you are better. And when you can tell me what you want.” 

All the more reason to push through this… Brain damage? Mental block? Whatever it is, Shane is determined to get past it, no matter how insurmountable that task feels right now.  

He has to. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for all the kind comments, the kudos, subscriptions and bookmarks! When I started this, I never imagined it would get so much attention and I'm still blown away by that. Love y'all.💚

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Thanks so much for all the kind kudos and comments so far! Love y'all! 💚💚

February 1, 2021

6:30PM

Ottawa

Ilya watches as Shane carefully navigates a bowl of David’s homemade vegetable beef soup, prepared in advance and warmed for tonight’s dinner. Shane’s hand shakes as he moves the spoon from the bowl to his mouth, and he grips the utensil in his fist instead of holding it like a pencil. Any attempt to correct it results in Shane switching back to holding it in his fist. 

Beside the bowl is a plate with a grilled cheese sandwich, cut into small pieces, which Shane hasn’t touched. The sandwich is full of things that aren’t on his diet plan, but right now, Ilya doesn’t care about sticking to such a restrictive and regimented plan. Shane still has a lot of healing ahead of him and worrying about fiber and carbs and gluten is not helpful right now. 

“Eat some of your sandwich,” Ilya says. 

Shane pushes the plate away, toward Ilya, as if offering him the rest of it. 

“No. That is for you. I can make another if I want more.” Ilya pushes the plate back. “Eat.” 

A mulish expression hardens Shane’s face. It’s both violently attractive and extremely irritating. In general, Shane challenging him over anything is hot, but this is not the kind of challenge that Ilya likes. Arguing with Shane over food and diet has never been something Ilya enjoys. It’s not something he wants to fight over right now. 

“Your performance diet is on hold right now,” Ilya says. “This is your healing diet, and it is important, so eat.” 

Shane shoves a defiant spoon of soup into his mouth and pushes the plate away again. Ilya ignores it and returns his attention to the All-Stars game, which is much less interesting on this side of the screen than it is in person. It’s a zero-stakes game, the only real reward is maybe bragging rights unless some record has been broken during the individual competitions. Shane is the only person Ilya knows that’s ever broken one of those records. 

“This is not so much fun when we’re not there, right?” Ilya says. 

The spoon pauses halfway between Shane’s bowl and his mouth. His face twists in concentration, like he’s trying to figure something out. 

Again, Ilya wonders how much he’s been told, and if he has, how much he really understands about what happened. Ilya hasn’t talked about it with Shane at all. He’s been more focused on Shane’s physical well-being and not the tragedy that surrounds him.  

Ilya takes a bite of his second sandwich and watches Shane’s face shift from concentration to confusion. 

“...we’re seeing some great chemistry between Marlow and Boiziau on the defensive line. That’s a sign of great things to come for the new Montreal Voyageurs team.” 

“Absolutely right, Brett. Boiziau is fresh off of injured reserve and back on the ice only three weeks after the tragic plane crash that killed 26 people last month. That’s one hell of a comeback story and I’m excited to see how well these two players from rival teams are going to perform together now that they’re on the same team.”

“Yeah, this is a beast of a defensive line for Montreal and it’s looking like it’s going to be hard to get anything past them. But if we’re talking on-ice chemistry, I gotta say, All-Stars sure isn’t the same without Hollander and Rozanov absolutely dominating the ice.” 

“That’s a duo for the ages, Bob. If the stars ever aligned and they ended up on the same team, they would be unstoppable.” 

“Imagine the numbers they’d put up. Last season, Hollander was the league’s top-scorer with 49 goals and Rozanov second with 48.” 

“It’s definitely something to think about, but Inside sources are saying Hollander’s skating days are likely over due to injuries sustained in last month’s crash, Brett. Huge loss for the hockey world if that’s true.”

Shane’s spoon drops back into the bowl with a loud clatter and he turns to Ilya, as if demanding an explanation for that. Ilya sighs, regretting the coming conversation already. He hasn’t thought too much about having it, only about Shane’s reaction once the reality of it has sunk in. 

Ilya doesn’t want to push him too hard to remember, and he doesn’t want to try to force Shane to understand what happened. Doing so doesn’t feel right. Not helpful as Shane might say. His body is still healing and he’s obviously struggling already. Dumping this trauma on him before his mind can fully process it feels cruel and it might only confuse him more.  

But, maybe he can let Shane take the lead here. 

“Do you have questions?” 

Shane’s lips and jaw work, he blinks rapidly, then finally, “Yes.” 

Ilya’s not sure how to help with those questions if he can’t ask them. He remembers trying pen and paper with his father, with varying degrees of success. Less so, the closer to the end he got. By then, it was just chicken scratch or his name written over and over in hand that didn’t even look like his careful, precise writing. 

Pen and paper might work for Shane, but the tremor in his hands and the way he might hold the pencil could possibly make it illegible. 

“Do you want to try typing?” Ilya asks. That earns him a thumbs up. 

“Okay.” Ilya considers using Shane’s phone, then remembers that he no longer has one. He makes a note on his own phone to order Shane a new one. He rises to his feet. “I will be right back.” 

Ilya goes upstairs and takes his ipad off the charger and grabs Shane’s spare reading glasses off the nightstand. He takes a second to prepare himself for this. If Shane understands it at all, or asks certain questions and actually understands the answers, he’s going to take it hard. Ilya thinks he will, too. He hasn’t exactly processed the loss completely, either, and Shane understanding it may force him to. 

Back downstairs, Shane has finished his soup and moved the tray back to the coffee table. The sandwich remains untouched. 

Ilya sits down beside him and opens up the notes app on his ipad and hands it to Shane, along with his glasses. “Can you type your question for me?” 

Shane looks at him for a second, then back to the ipad. After a beat, he puts on his glasses. Ilya smiles fondly at the sight. He’s always sort of wished Shane wore them all the time, but then, maybe not. It’s always a treat to see him wearing them. 

“What do you want to know?” Ilya asks. “Ask me anything.”

Slowly, and rather clumsily, Shane punches letters on the screen.

not playing you starealls  

It takes Ilya a second to figure out what that means. The words are jumbled, out of order, but they’re words, mostly. It tells Ilya something about how Shane might be processing language, but he thinks he can work with this. 

“Starealls. I don’t know this word. Is that French for something?”

Shane gestures at Ilya, then the TV and Ilya realizes what he means. All-Stars.

“I’m not playing this year. No.” 

???

“Injured. Sort of.” Ilya doesn’t want to worry him. “Is nothing major, just very tired. Team doctor thought I needed to rest, but I will be back for next game, same as always.” 

Shane frowns and starts to type again. 

only JJ ??? 

“He’s the only player that was not hurt too bad in the crash, and he is better now,” Ilya says. “What do you remember about it?”

Shane frowns and adjusts the glasses, pushing them closer to his eyes with his index finger. Then he winces, because his nose is still broken. 

fire

Ilya finds that response chilling. Shane did what he did while the plane was on fire all around him. In spite of the danger, in spite of the fear he must have felt. He’d even taken measures to protect himself from it, using Miitka’s jacket to shield himself from the flames. That had been a very conscious and deliberate choice, severe head injury or not. 

not play me agin???

“You want to know why they’re saying you won’t be playing again?” 

This is a question Ilya does not want to answer. He doesn’t have a real answer to give, and he doesn’t want to be the one to break Shane’s heart. Ilya isn’t a doctor and he’s not qualified to say one way or another if hockey is now out of the question. 

“I don’t know, Shane,” Ilya says. “You were hurt very bad. Maybe too bad. We will have to see how much you recover before we talk about playing again.”

play me again

Shane chin lifts in defiance. He raises his middle finger, as if Ilya is the one telling him he can’t. 

“I hope you do,” Ilya says. “It is not fun without you.”

Ilya’s phone rings – a video chat from Jackie. Ilya accepts it, thinking this could either be good for Shane, or maybe only more confusing. 

“Hello, Jackie,” Ilya says. “How is everyone?” 

“Good.” She looks tired. “Just wanted to check in. I heard Shane came home today.” 

“Yes. He is staying with me,” Ilya turns to Shane, who is busy punching letters on the ipad again. “Do you want to say hello to Jackie?” 

Thumbs up. 

Ilya leans back and draws Shane carefully back with him so that they both fit on the screen. Shane waves, a little smile on his lips. 

“Oh my god, sweetie,” Jackie says. Tears form in her eyes. “It’s so good to see you! I’m so sorry I didn’t get to visit, but I’ve been so busy with Hayden and the kids and figuring out appointments and things.” 

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “We understand. How is Hayden?” 

“A pain in my ass,” Jackie says. 

“Swear jar,” Shane says. 

Ilya snorts. “This is what you remember how to say, Shane? Swear jar. How much swearing does Hayden do that this is what is stuck in your head?” 

It is strange, the words that come to Shane without prompting. Spoon in Russian. Squirrel. Now swear jar. Ilya doesn’t know what to attribute that to, other than he hadn’t been pushed into saying them when he said them.

“The swear jar went out the window the minute Hayden came home,” Jackie admits. “It’s a lot, even with the home care staff here to help.” 

“Is his care difficult?” Ilya asks. 

“It’s not that, it’s him,” she says. “He’s not a fan of being stuck in bed all day, and honestly, he’s in a lot of pain and doesn’t want to admit it. It’s driving me a little crazy.”

“Do you have help with the little Pikes?” 

“I finally broke down and got a nanny, but they’re running circles around her. I think Ruby’s made it her mission to make the poor woman quit.” 

“Get them a dog. Will keep them busy.” 

“Absolutely not. I don’t need anything else underfoot that I might trip over right now.” Jackie smiles. “Listen to me, whining. It’s not as bad as I’m making it sound. I should be grateful, you know?” 

“I know you are,” Ilya says. “Is a lot, yes? Shane has not even been home one day and he’s already being a brat about food.” 

Shane’s looking at him but Ilya doesn’t turn his head. Ilya can feel his glare, though. 

“Thank God Hayden is a human garbage disposal. That’s not a fight I have to worry about,” she says. “I bet you’re glad he’s home though.” 

“Yes. Very glad. And very grateful.” Ilya turns to Shane. “Are you glad to be home?” 

Thumbs up. 

“Well, I know it’s probably a ways out, but I know Hayden would love to see you guys. JJ was here a few days ago and really it meant a lot to him,” Jackie says. She sighs. “I can’t believe the league didn’t tell anyone about JJ. Hayden’s actually really angry about it.”

“Me too. That is why I posted it. Is not right.” 

“Well, I don’t want to keep you – oh, wait. Hayden’s awake. He wants to say hi, if that’s okay.”

 They’re treated to a view of the ceiling, then they take a walk through the house, which appears to be in a state of mild chaos, until they stop at a hospital bed. Jackie’s face comes back, then it’s Hayden, propped up in the bed, a heavy plastic brace still around his neck. 

“Hey guys!” Hayden’s voice is tight, tinged with discomfort. “Oh, man. Shane. Buddy. It’s really fucking good to see you.” 

Shane waves and his smile grows a little bigger. 

“I, uh, man.” Hayden’s getting emotional. He wipes the back of his wrist over his eyes and swallows hard. “Sorry. Just, Jesus, I don’t even know how to thank you. I mean, Jackie. The kids…” Hayden’s tears spill over and his voice breaks. “I owe you my life, buddy.” 

Shane’s frowning at the screen, clearly confused by Hayden’s pitiful state and by his words. He looks to Ilya, who debates with himself about how to answer this. 

“You don’t remember?” Ilya asks gently. 

“No.” 

“You and JJ saved Hayden from the plane.” 

Shane just blinks at Ilya, then turns back to Hayden, taking in his injuries. His eyes get misty and he pokes at the tablet again. 

hyaden sorry

“You want me to tell Hayden you are sorry? For what?” 

hurt 

“No. That is not your fault, Shane. You are the reason he’s not hurt more.” 

Shane’s mouth works around words that he can’t get out, brow furrowed. 

“I probably would have died if you hadn’t gotten me out, buddy,” Hayden says. He’s openly crying now. “That’s a big deal to me. And Jackie too.” 

Shane seems to be processing this, but Ilya’s not sure if he really understands. Without the memory to associate it with, or all the information, it might be a struggle to grasp what Hayden’s even saying. 

“Anyway, I’d love to see you guys,” Hayden says. “I’m going stir crazy here. There’s only so much TV a guy can watch and I’m pretty sure Jackie’s had enough of me complaining.” 

“Maybe soon,” Ilya says. “I am off this week. Maybe we can visit.” 

“Yeah, that would be great. You know, if you’re up for it.” 

“We will see. It will depend on how Shane is doing and his appointments.” 

“Yeah, I get it. You’re taking good care of him, though, right?” There’s an unspoken warning in Hayden’s voice. 

“Do you think I wouldn’t?” 

“I don’t pretend to understand what Shane sees in you, but yeah. I know he’s in good hands. Just sayin’. Be good to him, okay?” 

“I will,” Ilya says. “I will text Jackie about visiting, okay?” 

“Yeah. Definitely.”  

“Say goodbye, Shane,” Ilya says. Shane waves.

Ilya sets the phone down and Shane starts typing again, slower than before, as if he has to think about the letters first. When he’s done, he turns the tablet so Ilya can see it. 

What he’s typed aren’t real words as far as Ilya can tell. It’s not English, French, or Russian, it’s just strings of letters put together like words. Or maybe words, with the letters typed out of order. Ilya takes that as a sign that Shane has reached the limit of what he can handle today.

Ilya sighs and pushes the tablet back into Shane’s lap. “I am going to get some ice cream. Do you want some?” 

Thumbs up. 

Ilya is surprised. He fully expected a hard no and a scathing look. “Okay. I’ll make you a deal. You eat some of that sandwich and I will bring you ice cream.” 

Shane obviously isn’t thrilled with that bargain, but he grabs one of the small sandwich squares and shoves it in his mouth. 

“That’s better. I will be right back.” 

In the kitchen, Ilya scoops black cherry chocolate ice cream into two bowls, feeling a little overwhelmed already. He hadn’t counted on it being so hard to watch Shane struggle through simple tasks or struggle so hard to communicate. 

The ipad helped, to a point, but he also doesn’t want Shane to rely on it too heavily. He would rather Shane try to say what he needs to say first, then use the ipad if it won’t come out.  

He is not a speech therapist though. He could be going about this the wrong way and accidentally cause a set-back by trying to help with something he has no training in. 

Something else to worry about. 

But for now, ice cream.

3:08 AM

Shane is late. 

Fuck. Where’s his phone? 

Shane has never been late to practice before, but he’s late this time and it’s all his own fault. Should have been there an hour ago, and fuck, he left his phone on the nightstand but it’s not there anymore.

In a panic, he turns on the light and looks around, surprised to find himself in a room he doesn’t recognize and Ilya looking at him with sleepy, confused eyes. “Hollander. What are you doing?” 

“Late,” Shane says. “Fuck.” 

“What?” Ilya sits up a little more. “Late for what?” 

Shane opens his mouth to tell Ilya he’s fucking late for practice, but his mouth won’t make the sounds. He’s angry that Ilya let him oversleep. Angry that the alarm wasn’t set. Angry that he’s here, when he knows he shouldn’t be. 

He pushes to his feet and only then remembers the cast on his leg and the general weakness in his legs. He wobbles a little, bracing a palm against the mattress to steady himself as Ilya moves toward him warily. 

“Is okay. You are not late.” 

Ilya swings his legs over the edge of the bed and draws Shane to him by the hips. Shane tries to resist, still sure that he needs to be halfway back to Montreal by now and even more panicked because he doesn’t remember where he left his car keys. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, looking up with soft, tired eyes. “We don’t have anywhere we need to be.” 

But that’s wrong. Shane has practice. He has – 

Ilya takes Shane’s arms and loops them lazily around his shoulders; his cheek leans against Shane’s stomach and Shane’s fingers instinctively card through soft, sleep-rumpled curls. 

“It was just a dream, Hollander.”  

That can’t be right. He has practice. 

“Come back to bed,” Ilya says softly as he draws back, clutching Shane’s hand. “Please.” 

Shane’s legs are shaking and he’s so confused about what’s going on or why they’re in this room or why Ilya is saying he’s not late when he is. 

“Shane.” Ilya’s eyes plead with him – he looks scared. “It’s very late.” 

It’s not – 

Shane looks at the clock on Ilya’s nightstand, an unnecessary thing when everyone has phones now. His is gone, though, and he really needs to find it and check the practice schedule so he can show Ilya he needs to leave. He opens the drawer of the nightstand but it’s empty except for a pair of spare pillowcases and a lavender-scented sachet.  

“What are you looking for? Tell me.” 

Why can’t he speak? Why won’t the words come out like they’re supposed to? Why is he trapped inside his head like this? 

Shane lets out a hiss of frustration, his eyes burning and a sharp pinpoint of pain centered over his right eye, and sits heavily on the mattress, facing the door. His leg, inside the cast, itches. Everything is confusing – why he’s here, why there’s a cast on his leg, why his mouth doesn’t want to work right, why Ilya looked so terrified. None of it makes any sense.

Ilya slides up behind him, one leg on either side of him and his arms slip loosely around his waist. He rests the ipad in Shane’s lap. 

This. He remembers this. From earlier. All-Stars and Hayden and Ilya on reserve. 

“Tell me.” 

practice late need to go

That’s not right, but Shane’s not sure which part is wrong. The words are right, but he’s sure the order is off. He just doesn’t know how to fix it. 

“No, sweetheart,” Ilya says. He kisses the side of Shane’s neck. His breath against Shane’s skin is warm and heavy, triggering an urgent want greater than just a need for release. “There is no practice for now. Not for the rest of the season.” 

Shane asks him why with question marks. 

“You are injured.” Ilya’s foot taps the cast Shane does not remember getting. 

Shane doesn’t remember getting injured at all, actually. He remembers the hospital. The time speeding up and slowing down and Hayden with a heavy brace on his neck in a hospital bed, but that was yesterday, or maybe he just thinks it was yesterday. 

how

Ilya kisses Shane’s shoulder and he wonders how long it’s been since they fucked. Before Christmas? After that? They fought, the day after. He remembers being sent away without explanation, then feeling like an absolute shithead when he figured it out. 

But after that? Everything is a jumble. 

“You were in a plane crash,” Ilya says. “Do you remember?” 

Yes and no. The fire. The smoke. The screaming. The taste of blood in his mouth. The crushing pain in his head. The way Hayden screamed. 

Typing out a text as the world burned around him. Last words or a confession or a plea to stick around. Something. He doesn’t remember most of the things he wrote. Just that he had to say them.

Yes i wanted forever with you

Ilya sucks in a sharp, shuddery breath and buries his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. One of his arms tighten around his middle, then the other, his body shaking against Shane’s back. It takes a second to realize Ilya is crying. 

don’t cry 

Ilya doesn’t see it. Doesn’t look. Not until Shane shifts a little sideways and touches his face, brushing the tears from his cheek. 

“I’m sorry.” Said the same way he’d apologized for crying in Florida. “You are breaking my heart, Shane.”

He’s not sure why Ilya is crying, or how he’s breaking his heart, but Shane can’t stand it. He stands up on shaky legs and climbs onto the bed. Opens his arms and lets Ilya come into them. Tears spill onto Shane’s T-shirt, but he still can’t figure out how to ask him why. 

It’s a long time before Ilya says anything. Or maybe minutes. It’s hard to tell, being trapped inside his own head where nothing makes much sense and things are all mixed up. 

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” Ilya says in Russian. “You texted me and it was a goodbye. And I didn’t understand why. I thought I would never see you again.” 

Shane waits. Ilya settles in against him, his hair tickling Shane’s collarbone. Shane nuzzles into it, breathing in the scent of his shampoo, the familiar scent of that belonged only to Ilya.

“I need to tell you something. I don’t know if you’ll understand, and maybe you will be angry with me, but Hunter knows about us. I was so scared, I couldn’t hide how I felt about you, and he figured it out,” Ilya says. “Troy, too. Is my fault. All I could think about was you.” 

Hunter and Barrett know? God. That’s–

“You have Rose and Hayden. Now I have Scott and Troy. Is a good thing, I think. I am not so alone.” 

Shane wants to be angry, but wasn’t that part of what their fight was about at Christmas? How Shane had supportive friends and Ilya had none? It would be selfish to tell him it was wrong, but he’s trying to wrap his head around how bad it must have been if Ilya, who never gave anything away unearned, had opened up to them that way. 

He touches his lips to Ilya’s forehead and smooths back his hair. He loves that it’s always so much softer than it looks, like down feathers. 

“They will not tell,” Ilya says. “Scott is… Scott, and Troy has secrets of his own, and he does not ask many questions. He is a good friend, I think.” 

Ilya nuzzles Shane’s chest and heaves a sigh. 

“I wish I knew if you understand what I’m saying. I wish you could talk to me.” 

Shane wishes he could, too. 

February 4, 2021

10:00 AM

Ottawa

Shane is pissed he isn’t allowed to use the weight machines in Ilya’s gym during physical therapy. He’s not a fan of the low-impact exercises either. As far as Ilya can tell, the therapist is focusing on balance, hand-eye coordination, and stretching – all things that Shane values as part of his regular training, but are apparently a problem today.  

Ilya gets it. Shane is driven, and that translates into him wanting to jump back in with both feet. After all, why walk when he can run? He’s never been one to do things halfway.

As Ilya watches the therapy session, he notices how significantly reduced Shane’s reaction time is. The therapist tosses bean bags slowly, one at a time, for Shane to catch, but Shane misses two out of three every round. 

Frustrated, Shane stops trying to catch them after a while. He does not like games he can’t win, after all. 

His balance is off, too. He’s weak on his left side, and not just because of the cast. His grip is not as strong as his right side, and he does fewer sets of curls with the 1kg hand weight.  

Before, thanks to years of yoga, Shane could balance on one foot indefinitely, making only small adjustments to his posture when needed. Now, he sways and flails his arms within seconds, or steps off the balance pod completely.

Ilya can tell Shane is disappointed in himself, maybe even a little angry. The more disappointed he gets, the greater his frustration. And yet it’s still so much more than Ilya expected from him at this point. 

With some hard work, Shane might actually be physically able to return to hockey next season. 

So long as his brain injury doesn’t impair him. That’s Ilya’s biggest worry. That something has been lost for good, something he’ll never be able to get back, no matter how hard he tries or what therapy techniques they use.  

Still, it fills him with pride to see Shane working so hard, so focused and driven, in spite of all the things working against him.  

“What can we do outside of therapy to help him?” Yuna asks the therapist, Piet, a tall muscular man with a soft Dutch accent. “Shane’s going to want to do more than just a couple of hours a week, so I want to know exactly what activities are safe for him.” 

Ilya leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching Shane stretching his legs on the mat. There are beads of sweat rolling down the back of his neck, and his skin is flushed an attractive pink from exertion. In any other situation, Ilya would want to pin him to the mat and taste the salt on his skin and kiss him until neither of them could see straight. He hopes the day he can do that again is coming sooner than he thinks. 

“Low-impact yoga or pilates is a great option,” Piet says. “Beginner level tai-chi is another good one, especially for balance and coordination. Walking on the treadmill, though until the cast comes off, that should probably be limited to a warm up or cool down. I do recommend keeping sessions short for now. Overexertion can hurt the healing process a lot more than it helps and his attention span is pretty short right now.” 

Ilya agrees with the last part. Shane doesn’t seem able to focus on any one thing for long. He assumes that’s normal, given the givens.

“You can also do any of the exercises we did today, especially for hand-eye coordination since that seems to be his biggest struggle right now.” 

Ilya could be persuaded to take tai-chi lessons with him. Maybe even some yoga. Shane’s taught him a few things over the last couple of years and he has found some of the stretches helpful. It’s the stupid poses he can’t quite get past. 

He’s never studied any martial arts himself, never had much interest, unless street fighting as a feral teenager counted. It might not be terrible and he does find the fluid, graceful movements of tai-chi intriguing, and maybe he could personally benefit from channeling his own kinetic energy into something more focused. He also thinks Shane’s perfectionist brain would love mastering the slow forms and controlled power behind it. 

“Do you have a contact for tai-chi?” Ilya asks.  Someone who might do private lessons?” 

“Not on me, but I can e-mail the name and address of a reputable trainer.” 

“Great,” Ilya says. “Is something he might like to try, I think. And me, too.” 

Shane wanders over to the weight bench again and fiddles with the free weights as Yuna walks Piet upstairs. Ilya redirects him toward the bench by the wall. He pushes Shane into it and kneels in front of him, admiring the dark freckles standing out above his flushed, sweaty cheeks. 

“I am very proud of you.” Ilya gathers both of Shane's hands into his own. “You worked very hard today.” 

It’s a thumbs down. Just like Shane, to be unsatisfied with a stellar performance if there’s even a single flaw in it. Ilya kisses the back of Shane’s hand and brings his palm to his cheek. 

“Are you ready to take a shower or do you want me to throw bean bags at you for a while?” 

Shane rolls his eyes and points to the ceiling, indicating he’s ready for a shower. 

Navigating the stairs is no easy task. Shane hugs the wall and it takes a lot of effort for him to drag his left leg up to each step. Ilya refrains from intervening, as bad as he wants to. It’s better to let Shane do this on his own – for both training reasons and for the sake of his pride.  

In the bathroom, Ilya tapes a heavy plastic trash bag around Shane’s cast and instructs him to undress. Shane sits on the walker’s narrow seat and strips off his shirt, his socks, with trembling hands while Ilya adjusts the shower head to a soft, low-pressure rain setting that will prevent the water from hurting Shane’s head.

Ilya undresses too, and then guides Shane to the shower chair, and stands by while Shane slowly and methodically washes himself. It takes a lot longer than Ilya anticipated, and once again, he wants to help, but this is something Shane has to do for himself if he can. 

It still kills him to watch how difficult this is for him. 

By the time Shane is done, his exhaustion is apparent. His eyes droop and he struggles to pull on his T-shirt. Ilya relents and helps when it’s clear this is too much for him.

“You look very cute in grippy socks,” Ilya tells him as he tugs the fuzzy brown socks on Shane’s feet. Shane slaps at him playfully, his smile a little crooked, a little tired. “Is time for a nap, I think.” 

The speech therapist won’t be here until three and it’s probably best that Shane recharge a little before that. Ilya wants him refreshed and alert for that, since it seems much harder for him to focus when he’s worn out. 

Once he’s got Shane settled in the guest room, Ilya joins Yuna in the kitchen, where she has a bunch of paperwork spread out across the breakfast bar. 

“Is Shane asleep?” Yuna asks as Ilya grabs a coke from the fridge. 

“Yes. Or he will be soon.” 

“I thought he did good today,” she says. 

“He did very good, but he does not think so.” Ilya sits down at the breakfast bar and glances at the paperwork. “Is this hockey camp stuff?” 

“It is. I actually wanted to talk to you about it,” she says, excited. “I got some amazing news this morning. The Cens have donated a week of ice time at the arena this summer to support the camp. They’ve also made a donation to the foundation.” 

Ilya is pleased by this news. The owners are very good people. Very supportive of the community and local children’s causes. 

“This is great news,” Ilya says. “Maybe Montreal might be pressured to do the same if we promote the fuck out of it online.” 

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Yuna says with a smile. “It lowers our costs and it makes them look good at the same time.” 

“All of the coaches will share,” Ilya says. “Rose and all of her friends, too, I think.” 

“I’ll draft the post tonight,” Yuna says decisively. “Speaking of coaches…as much as I hate to say it, we might need to think about replacing Shane for the camp this summer. I don’t know if he’s going to be ready.” 

“Physically, probably. But coaching, I don’t know.” Ilya sighs. 

“Any ideas who we can bring in?” she asks. 

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “I will ask around to see who is interested. Troy, maybe. He was very sweet to the kids at the hospital.” 

“Great. Let me know what you come up with. I’d really like to get a line-up firmed up by the time we start enrollment in April,” Yuna says. “In the meantime, there’s a benefit next month for Hope for Hockey that might be good to attend. That’s the one that provides equipment and training sponsorships for kids who can’t afford it. I’ve been talking to their team about a collaboration by way of a juniors exhibition game in the off-season. They’re looking for coaches for the 15-17 year old bracket. Most will be Prospect hopefuls.”

“When is it?” Ilya asks. He’s intrigued by the idea, but he doesn’t want it to overlap with their planned trip to the Cottage or the Game Changers camp. 

“Probably early August,” Yuna says. “Not firm yet, but if you’re interested I know they’d love to have you.”

“Yes, I’m interested. I will give Ryan Price a call and see if he might want to help.”

“I think that’s a great idea. Ryan’s such a patient teacher.” 

“He really loves kids.” 

“So do you.” 

Ilya only nods. He doesn’t want to get into his feelings on having a family of his own someday. That’s something he craves, almost desperately at times, but he thinks it’s important to get his mental health sorted first, along with everything else about his life. He does not want his children to grow up able to see and feel his sadness the way he did his mother’s. She did not have resources, but Ilya does, and he owes any future family a whole and healthy man, not one who might burden them with his sorrow. 

“I was thinking of taking Shane to visit Hayden on Friday,” Ilya says. “Do you think it will be too much for him?” 

“I don’t think it’s a terrible idea. He doesn’t have any appointments,” Yuna says. “Though, I don’t know how much he understands about what happened yet.” 

“Not a lot, I don’t think,” Ilya says. “The only thing he said he remembered was fire.” 

“He said that?” 

“He typed it on my ipad.”

“That’s actually a very good idea,” she says looking thoughtful. “Did it work?”

“Some. His typing is confused, too, but is more words than he has said out loud. Most of it was about hockey.” 

“Hopefully the speech therapist has some other ideas or tools we can use,” she says. “It’s so hard not knowing what he needs.”

Ilya could not agree more. 

February 6, 2021

3:24 PM

Ottawa

“We’re going to try something a little harder,” the speech therapist, Marilee, says to Shane. “I want you to name 3 things in this room. It doesn’t matter what they are, just whatever comes to you easiest, okay?” 

Shane looks around, still frustrated by the abandoned flash card game they just finished playing, but also determined. His gaze falls on Ilya, who is sitting in an arm chair adjacent to the couch, watching, but not participating or prompting Shane with the right answers. 

“Ilya,” Shane says. That’s the one thing he’s confident about. Ilya is in this room with him. 

“I don’t think I count, Shane. We are trying for new words, yes?” 

“I’ll allow it,” Marilee says. “How about two more?” 

Shane recognizes everything. He knows the names and the words and this should not be this fucking hard but it is. 

“Take your time.” 

Shane lets his gaze drift around the room, and he almost says Ilya again, but only because that’s the only word his mouth seems capable of making. He settles on a pair of shoes by the coffee table. 

“Feet,” he says, then blinks because that’s not right. Ilya’s grin is wide and amused and Shane flips him off. 

“Yes, there are feet in this room,” she says. 

Shane shakes his head and points at the pair of shoes. He tries again to say it, but it doesn’t come. 

He wants to cry out of pure frustration. 

“You’re half right. Those go on feet,” she says. “Think about it and we’ll come back to it. What else?” 

Shane gestures at the potted plant on the table. “Tree.” 

Again, the wrong word.

“Close,” she says. “Same family. Do you want to try again?”

He nods, but the right words don’t come. The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated he gets and the harder it is to find. It’s fucking upsetting to fail at something so simple. And he’s still not clear at all about what happened or how. A plane crash. An injury. That he doesn’t fucking remember. 

“Shane, what year did we meet?” Ilya asks. 

“2008. Prospect Cup,” he says without even having to think about it. 

And why did that come out so easy when nothing else will?  

He looks at Ilya, who is smiling at him like he just invented rocket science or something. All Shane feels is a helpless sort of defeat. 

“Interesting,” Marilee says. “That answer was automatic.” 

No shit, Shane thinks. The question is, why?

“We’re on the right track, though,” she says. “You’re finding the words associated with the word you need, which is a good sign.”

She points to the potted plant again. 

“Do you want to try again?” 

Shane does not. He hates losing and right now he doesn’t have the patience for a game he’s not winning. He does anyway, but try as he might, neither word comes to him. 

The next exercise is easier. It’s a series of pictures – a car, a motorcycle, a bicycle, a delivery truck, and a basketball hoop. 

“Which one doesn’t belong?” 

Shane points to the basketball hoop. 

“Very good. Which one is the motorcycle?” 

Shane correctly identifies this one too. 

They go through all of them, several times and Shane is right every time. 

“What is this?” Marilee asks and points to the bicycle. 

“Bicycle,” Shane says, surprising himself at how quickly it came. 

They do it again with birds – a flamingo, a swan, a crow, and a duck. Again, several times. 

She points to the duck. “Which bird is this?”

“Loon.” 

Ilya’s smiling at him so softly and so lovingly, Shane wants to crawl into his lap and kiss him right on the mouth in front of God, his mom, and the speech therapist. 

“I guess it does look similar to a loon,” she says. “I’ll give you that one.” 

“Loon is sentimental for him,” Ilya says. “So maybe correct.” 

Shane doesn’t listen to what she says to Ilya and his mom after that. He pokes at Ilya’s ipad and finds himself on the league’s website, looking at both the recent scores and the upcoming game schedule. 

Everything looks off to him and he’s not sure why. Then he sees a week-long gap when they should have played, then after that, the Voyagers lost three games in a row, and that really doesn’t make sense for his team. 

And Ottawa beat them 7-2? Absolutely not possible, even with Shane gone. 

Wait. 

The player lineup is wrong, too. Kent is not a fucking Voyager and neither is Cliff Marlow. 

Actually, JJ is the only player that’s right. 

What. 

The.

Fuck. 

He holds up the ipad and points aggressively at the screen, demanding answers from whoever will pay attention to him right now. Ilya notices and gets up from his chair and joins him on the couch. 

Shane shows him and holds out his hands to ask why. Ilya’s smile falls and his eyes get very sad the same way they do just before one of them has to leave. 

“The league did an emergency draft after the crash,” Ilya says. “JJ is the only surviving team member who is still able to play. Is a whole new team now.” 

That makes no sense. A whole new team? Shane switches to the notes app and types out his question. 

whyrest of team where???

Ilya’s eyes grow even sadder. 

“They died in the crash, Shane.” 

Chapter 9

February 6, 2021

4:15 PM

“No.” 

Shane is looking at Ilya like he’s just told a cruel joke. And maybe it was cruel to say it out loud without preparing him for it first. Maybe he should have waited until he was sure Shane was ready to hear and really understand it, but he asked and Ilya didn't want to lie to him. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Is true.” 

“No,” Shane says. “No, Ilya.”

“Hey, hey, listen to me. I know this is hard. Was a terrible thing that happened. But it did happen.” 

Shane’s eyes are wild, wet along the lashline, and they burn with the kind of fury that Shane only directs at him on the ice. Ilya is sure that he’s done the wrong thing. Shane was not ready for this, but there’s no taking it back now. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says. “Is hard to hear, I know.” 

eyryvyone??? 

“No. Not everyone. JJ and Hayden are alive. And there was a rookie, I don’t remember his name.” 

“Beau Higgins and Pascal Evans are the other two,” Yuna supplies. She kneels beside Shane and takes his hand. He yanks it away. “Shane, listen to me. I know this is a lot and I’m so, so sorry. I know how much you loved your team. But we’re here for you. We’re going to help you get through this, okay?”

“No.”

Shane’s hands cover his ears and he collapses forward, taking slow, deep breaths against his knees. Beneath Ilya’s palm, Shane’s heart is pounding. This is to be expected, but it still kills Ilya to see him falling apart and not be able to do anything about it. 

“Why don’t we go lay down for a while?” Ilya says. Shane nods. 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Yuna says. She’s upset too, and that’s also Ilya’s fault. 

Ilya scoops Shane up off the couch and carries him to the guest room where he crawls into bed with Shane bundled in his lap. For a while, Ilya just holds him. There’s not much more he can offer. Condolences do nothing for grief. They’re just empty words, at least in Ilya’s experience. This is the best he can do and he can’t imagine what it would be like to find out that the majority of his own team, people he genuinely likes, are gone. He can’t say his reaction would be any better.

That must be a huge blow to absorb, especially in a situation like this and Ilya feels fucking terrible about upsetting him, even if it was inevitable. That little spark of hope he felt earlier, watching Shane find words on his own, even if they weren’t always the right ones, fizzles out as he starts to worry that maybe he’s undone all of today’s progress. He certainly wouldn’t want to get up and get on with it after hearing something like that.

Eventually, Shane’s breathing evens out and his heart stops racing. He lays limply in Ilya’s arms, his head against Ilya’s shoulder, smelling of seaweed shampoo and laundry detergent. Ilya breathes it in and holds on a little tighter. 

“I’m sorry I upset you,” Ilya says. “Do you want me to tell you what I know?” 

Shane shakes his head. His fingers work the fabric at Ilya’s collar, almost anxiously rubbing it together between his thumb and forefinger.

“Okay. When you are ready, you can ask me. I don’t know all the details, but I will tell you the truth.” Ilya kisses the top of his head. “I know this is very hard, but it’s okay to take your time.” 

Shane drifts off to sleep in Ilya’s arms. Ilya stays, wondering whether or not Shane truly understands what happened, and if he does, whether or not it’s going to stick. Ilya’s inclined to believe it might take a few tries, maybe several conversations, before it sinks in. Shane’s not even clear about what happened to him yet, so he can’t really expect something so big to make sense to him, and if it does, why it would be hard to accept. 

Ilya does not want to watch the crash footage ever again – bad enough the first time, and maybe he could show it to Shane, but he is reluctant to do that yet. It doesn’t make sense to upset him, only to have to do it all over again next week or the week after.

He sits there until daylight fades into dusk and he can hear David’s voice in the kitchen. Carefully, he extracts Shane from his lap and lays him down, covers him, and kisses his temple before leaving the room. 

In the hall, he takes a moment to collect himself. Yuna will be mad at him, he thinks. For saying it too early. For making Shane freak out. 

David is in the kitchen, pouring broth into a large pot on the stove. “Hey son. Heard we had a hard day.” 

“Was good until I told him about his team. Is my fault, I think.” 

“He was going to find out eventually. He wouldn’t have taken it well, no matter what.” 

“I know, but I feel terrible.” 

Yuna, red-eyed, enters the kitchen and immediately puts her arms around Ilya. Ilya hugs her back, relieved that her response to this is not announcing that they’re taking Shane home because Ilya sucks at this. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “He asked. I didn’t want to lie to him.” 

“I’m not angry with you. I’m sad for him.” 

“Me too,” Ilya chokes out. 

It’s hitting him now just how big a tragedy this is. There are 26 families having a harder time than they are right now. That is not a small number, and many of those people had children, wives, parents, siblings, friends that are all surely missing them tonight. Their lives have been destroyed, disrupted, upended, and Ilya has only been thinking of himself and of Shane. 

And he could so easily have been in their place. 

“Is he sleeping?” 

“Yes.” 

“Probably for the best.” Yuna says. “It’s a lot to process.” 

“I don’t know if he understands,” Ilya says. “Very hard to tell. He didn’t want to ask any questions.”

“Either way, sleep is good right now. We just need to give him some time.” 

Ilya pulls himself together, shakes it off, and focuses on what David is doing. 

“What are you making?” 

“Crab bisque,” he says. “Or, my version of it. It’s not authentic or anything.”

“Can I help?” 

“Sure. Chop some veggies for me.” 

Glad for something to do, Ilya dutifully dices red bell peppers, onions, and celery while David separates pieces of crab meat into a bowl. They work in silence for a while and Ilya appreciates having a task to focus on. It helps put things into perspective, gives him a purpose. Better than sitting in the dark feeling like an absolute shit about himself. 

He methodically washes the cutting boards and knives while David tends to his simmering concoction. Then David reduces the heat and shows him how to use an immersion blender to puree the contents of the pot. Once it’s cool enough, he uses the immersion blender again while David slowly pours in heavy cream. The result is a creamy, pale pink soup that smells heavenly. 

David dips a spoon into the pot and tastes it. “Might need a dash of black pepper.” He hands Ilya a spoon. “What do you think?” 

Ilya tastes and is surprised by how rich and delicious it is. “Maybe just a little. Is very good.”  

“Mind checking the bread for me?” 

Ilya opens the oven and the scent of warm French bread wafts out with the heat. The crust looks nice and golden. “I think this is ready, too.” 

He takes it out and sets it aside to cool for a minute before he slices it, thinking about how much he likes cooking with David. It’s almost meditative and David is a patient and calm teacher.

This is something his own father would never have allowed Ilya to do, nor would his father have ever bothered to do it himself. That’s what his mother and Polina were for. Women’s work, he called it. Undignified and unmanly, and his brother would have mocked him endlessly for this. 

David has proved that cooking for his family is an act of love and there’s nothing undignified or unmanly about it. It’s not something to be ashamed of, not something that’s beneath him, and Ilya respects that David genuinely loves feeding the people he cares about. Ilya also loves that David is willing to share the task with him. 

“I think we’re just about ready,” David says. “I can make Shane a tray if he doesn’t feel like getting up.” 

“I’ll go see if he is awake,” Ilya says. “If not, maybe we can save some for later.” 

Shane is awake, but he’s lying in the dark, staring at the wall with blank eyes.  

“Hey,” Ilya says. He sits on the edge of the bed and draws a hand over Shane’s too-short hair. “David has made crab bisque. Do you want to join us? Is very delicious.”

Shane pushes himself upright and swings his legs toward the floor. Without a word, or even a glance, he shuffles toward the bathroom, his gait uneven and slow. 

Ilya positions the walker just outside the door and waits as he hears the toilet flush and the sink turn on, but Shane doesn’t come out. Ilya waits for a minute, wanting to give him time to do what he needs to do, but when it feels like it’s been too long, Ilya goes in, worried something has happened to him. 

Shane is standing in front of the sink, holding onto the edge of the vanity for dear life, and staring at his reflection in the mirror. 

“Are you okay?” 

Shane just runs his palm over the three weeks worth of hair growth on his scalp and tips his head to inspect the wounds left behind by the drains. They’re tidy things – neat, precise lines of scabbed-over tissue, the stitches only very recently removed, but they’re still horrific to Ilya. To know they had to drill holes into Shane’s skull to relieve the pressure from swelling twists his stomach into knots. 

“Is your head hurting?”

Shane gives a thumbs down, but continues staring at himself. The expression Ilya sees there is blank, a little confused, like he doesn’t recognize himself. Ilya wraps his arms around Shane from behind and kisses his shoulder, wondering what’s going through his mind. He thinks it must be baffling to him to have found himself in this state without really understanding why. 

“Dinner is ready, moya cherepakha. Will you come with me?”

There’s a spark of recognition in Shane’s eye when he meets Ilya’s gaze in the mirror. 

“Turtle?” 

“Yes. Very good,” Ilya kisses his temple. “I love you.” 

Shane squeezes his forearm in return and smiles a little, which is good, but Ilya misses hearing him say it back. 

David already has bowls set out at the breakfast table in the kitchen, along with a basket of the warm French bread. Ilya worries the hard crust might be tough for Shane to chew, but if it is, soaking it in the soup will make it easier. 

Not that he expects Shane to eat any. Bread is still the devil, after all. But in case he does, he has a plan to make it easier.

Dinner is quiet, mostly. Yuna is trying to sort out Shane’s bills without having his passwords for accounts, and David watches Shane eat one spoonful at a time with his childish grip. He and Ilya are both pleased when he asks for more.

Of course, Shane rejects the bread, but that’s not a fight Ilya wants to have tonight. He’s mentally drained, tapped out, his reserves lower than they’ve been in a while. Shane is eating, his appetite is healthy, and that’s good enough for now. 

Ilya considers taking a walk around the neighborhood to clear his head after everything is washed and put away, but it’s so cold out, and he’s so low on energy, he decides against it. He’d rather just crawl into bed and go to sleep, even though it’s too early for that. 

No one else seems to have much energy either. Yuna’s too involved in Shane’s finances to be good conversation and David turns on a movie that no one seems to be watching. Especially not Shane, who stares emptily at the coffee table like he’s dissociating. 

The weight of it has finally settled in, Ilya thinks. No one’s lost hope, but the cruel reality has edged its way into their consciousness. He can tell they’re all feeling it. 

There’s a lot to be hopeful for. A lot of progress has been made over the last three weeks. Shane should, by all rights, not be this far along in his recovery, and that should make everyone happy, but it’s also so very hard to look at Shane and not ache to have him back the way he was. It’s hard to watch him struggle to catch a bean bag or answer a question. It’s hard to see him take 20 minutes just to wash his hair or walk across the living room or put on a single shoe. 

Ilya is a patient man. He’d like to think he’s a kind one, too, even if he isn’t always nice about it. He has nearly endless patience for Shane most of the time. With the exception of Shane’s obsession with unnecessary diets and the way he drives, Ilya can roll with almost all of Shane’s quirks – he loves most of them if he’s being honest because they’re what makes him Shane. That hasn’t changed and it will probably never change. He has no plans to stop being patient with him, especially not over something he can’t help. 

Shane isn’t the problem, anyway. Ilya is grateful he’s alive. He’s grateful that he’s here where Ilya can see and touch him and talk to him, and he’s grateful he’s making progress. That’s a blessing Ilya will never complain about. 

It’s his own stupid brain that’s the problem. He feels useless and out of his depth, as if there’s something else he could be doing to help and isn’t. As if there’s some key thing he’s missing, some important tool he lacks. He’s failing Shane in some way, letting him down when he’s needed most, and Ilya doesn’t know how to fix that. 

If he has any impatience with this situation, it’s mostly with himself and his idealistic expectations. 

He’s flying out on Saturday with the team – Detroit, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Minnesota, St. Louis, Columbus, and it’ll be two weeks before he’s home again. A lot could happen in that time, good and bad, and he will not be here for any of it. 

When David decides he’s going to turn in, Ilya isn’t far behind him, though it already feels like one of those nights where he isn’t going to sleep very well. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how worn down he is, he’s going to lie there and stare at the ceiling while his worries eat him alive. 

He retires to the guest room with Shane and the iPad, hoping that maybe Shane is ready to ask questions, or if he’s lucky, tell him what he needs to help him move forward. He’s not expecting either from him, but it would be nice. It’s been a long, hard day, and Shane needs as much rest as he can get, so if he isn’t up for it, Ilya can’t expect much. 

He turns on the TV to an 80’s comedy he’s seen a hundred times and crawls into bed beside Shane, who squints at the screen. Ilya turns it off again, to avoid triggering a headache. 

Gently, Ilya sets the iPad in his lap, his glasses on top of it. 

“Talk to me, Hollander.” 

Shane glances at him, then sinks back into the pillow, turning his gaze to the ceiling. 

“Are you angry with me?” 

Thumbs down. 

After a minute, Shane sits back up, puts on his glasses, and starts typing. Ilya settles in close so he can see the screen. 

why

“Why what?”

crash plaen 

“Why did the plane crash?” Ilya asks. “They haven’t said yet, but it happened right after take-off. Do you remember?” 

Hyaden thinks sex hot we

Ilya laughs into Shane’s shoulder, unsure of where this came from, or why this is something Shane wants to talk about, but he’s game to find out.  

“Did he say that? That he thinks we have hot filthy sex?” Ilya asks. “Was he jealous?” 

Shane gives him a dirty look, all angry kitten. It’s still adorable after all these years. 

wrong us not romance thought

“This is something you talked about on the plane?” Ilya asks. “Something you’re remembering?” 

yes jealos jakie no nudes for him

Shane had scolded Ilya for sending him a mostly-nude selfie just before the crash. One that Hayden apparently saw. In all of this, Ilya has forgotten all about it and how funny he thought it was at the time. He can only assume the photo triggered some sort of conversation about sexting and romance between them and Shane is remembering it. 

“So he was jealous,” Ilya says. “That your boyfriend sends you very hot photos and his wife does not. I don’t understand the romance part, though.” 

Shane shrugs a shoulder.

huston played dirtyy

Ilya doesn’t have a clue how those two things relate, but he does remember seeing a few gifs of hits that skirted the line between legal and illegal. In one of them, Shane had gone to a knee after getting checked pretty hard, but stood up and shook it off without needing medics. So he remembers the game, too. 

That’s a start, maybe. Ilya decides to just follow along and not push any particular narrative. He might learn more this way. 

“Were you hurt during the game with Houston?”

ribs not bad

Shane pauses and then starts typing again. 

Sammy am favorite player

“Who is Sammy? Someone you met in Houston? Or a fan?”

sammy dead lot of blood 

flirted and hyaden my number

Ilya shivers. There’s a lot to unpack there, but Shane’s attention span is starting to wane. He’s fidgeting with the drawstring on his pajama pants, far more interested in it than he is in anything else. 

“Sammy is dead?” Ilya asks. 

my arms too late

Ilya does not remember any player named Sam or Sammy on Shane’s team and it probably does not matter. If he’s reading this correctly, this person likely died in Shane’s arms. Ilya doesn’t want to imagine that – the plane burning all around Shane while he held someone as they died. 

He really had tried to save people. Even someone who couldn’t be saved. 

Everything Shane types after that is just the alphabet. He gets as far as Q and then starts over. 

“Hey, would you like me to read to you?” Ilya asks and takes the iPad to put it on charge. “I brought your boring book from upstairs.” 

Shane looks at him with adorable, innocent eyes, made larger by the glasses. Ilya can’t resist kissing the tip of his nose. 

“Yes?” Ilya asks. 

“Yes.” 

Ilya grabs the book from the nightstand and opens to the first page. “Wayne Gretsky was born January 26, 1961 in Brantford, Canada…” Ilya begins, then stops. “Oh my god, this book is already boring, Hollander. You would rather make me read your boring book than talk to me?” 

Shane laughs. 

He laughs. 

It’s the first time Ilya has heard genuine laughter out of him since the night before the crash, and Ilya almost pins him back into the pillows to kiss him senseless for it. If not for his fractured cheekbone and his broken nose, he would. 

“You are very lucky that I love you and all your boring.”

Shane grins and gives him a thumbs up. Ilya desperately wishes Shane was able to say it back. 

He plucks the reading glasses off Shane’s face and sets them on the nightstand. Then he tucks Shane beneath his arm and starts to read in earnest. 

It’s not as boring as he thought it would be. 

February 7, 2021

10:15 AM

Montreal

Ilya stops at one of David’s favorite bakeries in Montreal to pick up some treats for Jackie and the kids. He ordered ahead so that they don’t have to wait, but Shane stares at the cases of fruit danishes and pastries and single slices of cheesecake, transfixed. Maybe it’s the colors, or the fact that he hasn’t allowed himself anything remotely this indulgent in months, ice cream notwithstanding, but he’s looking at them like a kid longing for a treat. 

“Do you want something?” Ilya asks. 

Shane points to a slice of cheesecake marbled with caramel, chocolate, and pecans. Absolutely not performance diet approved, and Ilya’s absolutely going to get it for him. 

“Good choice,” Ilya says. To the shopkeeper, he says, “I’m sorry. Could I please get a slice of the turtle cheesecake and one of the raspberry cheese danishes? And a large coffee with cream and sugar. Thank you.”

It’s a good excuse to get himself a little treat, too. Instead of returning to the car, they sit at one of the little bistro tables inside by the window. The view is just the parking lot, and Shane is not himself yet, but it’s nice to be out together like this. It would be even nicer if they could actually be out together, too, but Ilya will take what he can get. 

Shane dives into the cheesecake like a starving man and Ilya relishes the sight of it. Maybe another good thing that will come of this will be Shane abandoning his stupid diets that don’t really do much more than cause him stress. Ilya may have teased him relentlessly about it, but it was more out of concern, a hope that Shane might see how harmful and ridiculous obsessing over calories and carbs and nutrients really was.

After all, life is too short for that.  

“Is good, yes?” Ilya asks. 

Shane gives it a thumbs up and his eyes glaze over like a dog that’s been given a meaty bone. Ilya holds back a laugh, only because he doesn’t want Shane to feel any shame over enjoying his treat. It is adorable, though. 

They only stay long enough to eat their respective desserts, Ilya opting to take the coffee with him as he ushers Shane out the door. A blast of arctic air hits them on the sidewalk, and Ilya is grateful for the cup’s warmth but wishes Shane hadn’t rejected the pair of gloves he’d started his day with. 

At the car, Ilya drops the box of pastries in the back and then helps Shane climb into the passenger seat. He closes Shane’s door and folds the walker, placing it behind Shane’s seat. As he closes the back door, he hears a familiar voice call his name. 

“Roz! What’s up, man?” Marlow calls as he approaches. Fucking Dallas Kent is behind him. “How ya doin’?”

Ilya shakes his offered hand, glad to see his old teammate, but wary of the asshole behind him. 

“Good. How is Montreal treating you?” Ilya asks. “Win any games yet?” 

“Fuck off,” Marlow says, but he’s grinning. “We had a week of practice.” 

Kent is staring at Shane in the passenger side, scowling a little. Ilya’s on high alert, expecting some gross homophobic thing to come out of his mouth any second. 

“I gotta ask, man ‘cause you never explained it and I’m fucking dying to know. Why the fuck did you sign with Ottawa?” Marlow asks. “You have like, a mental breakdown or something? ‘Cause there’s all kinds of rumors about it.” 

“What, me having a breakdown?” Ilya’s not terribly curious about the rumors, since he’s heard most of them already, but that’s one he hasn’t heard yet. “Not a breakdown. Not rehab. Not legal trouble. Nothing like that.” 

“So you moved for someone, then,” Marlow says. “Is it your Montreal girl?” 

“Maybe I am Russian spy. Like James Bond. Hockey is just my cover.” 

“You are so full of shit. Are we ever gonna get to meet her? She’s gotta be pretty damn special if she’s held your attention all these years.”

Ilya nearly chokes on that.  

“Not for Montreal girl,” Ilya says. “Was for citizenship. Easier in Canada for Russians right now. Is also fun to make a shitty team good, like I did for Boston.”

“Okay, asshole. That wasn’t all you.” 

“No, but mostly.” 

If Marlow only knew the truth, his head would explode. Marlow’s not the smartest guy on the planet, and sometimes he’s been Tanner Dillon levels of stupid, but at least he’s not a giant homophobe or a flagrant misogynist. Sure, he’s laughed at the casual shitty jokes, but that’s probably because he’s not terribly bright, and also because he’s in the MLH where that shit is the default.  

“What are you doing hanging out with this guy, Marley?” Ilya asks, pitching his voice a little lower so that Kent can’t hear him so well over the screaming wind. “You know he’s a problem, right?” 

“Eh, I think things got blown way out of proportion.” 

“His best friend in the league thinks he’s a piece of shit, so that should tell you something. I would watch myself around him if I were you. I know you’re a good guy and you don’t want to get caught up in that,” Ilya says. “Things are not looking great for him. Stick to JJ. Is still an asshole, but he’s not being accused of rape.” 

“Just getting to know my team, man,” Marlow says. It’s disappointing, but Ilya can only warn him. “Hey, is that Hollander?”

“Yes,” Ilya says and looks back at Shane, who’s donned a pair of dark sunglasses and is currently staring at nothing as far as Ilya can tell. “We are on our way to visit Pike.” 

“Oh, right. Yeah, I’ve been meaning to do that. I heard they both got really fucked up,” Marlow says. “How’s Hollander doing?” 

Kent drifts closer, but stays just short of swinging distance. He also stays quiet. 

“Getting better,” Ilya says. “Talking is difficult, but physical therapy is going better than expected. He is working very hard.”  

“You think he’s coming back next year?” 

“I hope so, but I don’t know.”

Cliff’s looking at him curiously, then glances back at Kent. “You guys really are besties now, huh?” 

“The Hollander’s have been very kind to me, and Shane is a good person.” It’s a diplomatic, avoidant answer, but it shuts down Marlow’s curiosity. He flicks his gaze to Kent. “Very brave, yes?”

“Hell yeah. I would have just shit my pants and split. No way in hell am I walking through fire if I don’t have to.” Marlow shrugs and Ilya notices the shiver he tries to hide. “I was planning on grabbing some dinner and drinks with JJ later. You guys are welcome to come if you wanna catch up.”  

Ilya would very much like to, maybe without JJ there, but Shane isn’t going to last that long. Nor should he be subjected to anything that might involve Kent. 

“Headed to Detroit tomorrow. But maybe next time.”

“Definitely. Hey, maybe you can finally introduce me to your girl.”

“Probably not,” Ilya says. “I should go. You still have my number?”

“Yeah. Not that you’ve called me in two years.”

“Sorry. I will try to do better. Maybe easier now that you’re not so far away.” 

They say their goodbyes, and Ilya is glad that Kent kept his stupid mouth shut, though he’s probably running it now to Marlow. It’s fine, though. Marlow won’t make the connection between Shane and his Montreal girl. He’s not capable of seeing Ilya as anything but his straight wingman. 

He climbs into the car and ensures Shane is wearing his seatbelt before heading to Hayden’s. It’s a short drive, only ten minutes, but it feels like forever because Shane isn’t talking. 

At the stoplight before Hayden’s neighborhood, Ilya reaches over and takes Shane’s hand. Shane grips it back and smiles. The acknowledgement feels good, but it also leaves him deeply sad for reasons he can’t quite explain. 

The kids are at school when they arrive, so the house is much quieter than Ilya is used to when Jackie opens the door. She instantly throws her arms around Shane and hugs him tight, murmuring her thanks over and over again. Shane seems baffled by this. He glances at Ilya for an explanation, but Ilya figures seeing Hayden will help more than being told.  

“Come on in,” Jackie says when she pulls back. Ilya hands her the box of pastries once the door is closed. “Oh my god. This place is my favorite. Thank you.” 

“There are some for the little Pikes, too. The dinosaur one Arthur liked and the jelly donuts for the girls.” 

Jackie kisses his cheek and they all shuffle through the foyer into the main room, where Hayden is set up in a hospital bed beside the couch. 

“Hey!” he greets. “Shane. Buddy. Come here.” 

Shane’s smile is uncertain, but he doggedly makes his way toward his friend. Ilya can see the confusion in his face and it confirms that he’s not really retaining things yet. He tells himself that will come in time, but he worries that maybe it won’t. They’ve been warned short-term memory loss might be a thing, and Ilya hopes Shane doesn’t have to be reminded every day forever about what happened. 

Jackie grabs a chair for Shane who sits down next to Hayden, who is obviously still on some heavy pain meds. His eyes are glassy and his grin is big an stupid.

“How are things going?” Ilya asks Jackie. “How long did they say it will take to recover?”

“Originially, it was eight weeks, but they’re going to have to fix one of the pins they put in his neck,” she says with a sigh. “It’s somehow shifted sideways and it’s really painful, so he’s having surgery Monday to fix it. So now maybe twelve weeks total.” 

“Yikes. But he will walk again, yes?” 

“Eventually,” Jackie says. Her expression turns a little bleak. “He’ll start physical therapy once everything is healed. Until then, he has to stay still. It’s making us both crazy.” 

Ilya imagines he would go mad if he was expected to lay still like that for months. 

“Shane, have you said hello to Hayden?” Ilya asks. 

Shane holds his hand out for the iPad. 

“Try words first.” 

Shane waves instead. He hasn’t said a single word all morning, leaving Ilya feeling like they’ve taken a step backwards. Ilya sits down beside him, hoping to encourage Shane to at least attempt talking. 

“Try.” 

“It’s okay,” Hayden says. “I get it. It’s really good to see you, man. You look way better in person than I thought you would.” 

Shane flips him off. 

“Hey, no. I’m just saying. You’re walking, you don’t look like your head’s deformed. You look good.” 

Ilya exchanges a look with Jackie. “The pain meds broke his filter.” 

“I wasn’t aware he had one to begin with.” 

“Neither was I.” 

“Have you seen what a shitshow this new Montreal team is, man?” Hayden asks. “I mean, Marlow’s a win, but fucking Kent and that little asshole Miller? Fucking bad picks, dude.” 

Shane frowns and looks at Ilya, but Hayden continues talking, distracting Shane from the question. 

“Like, they assembled the most mediocre team in the history of hockey. Might even be worse than Ottawa.” 

“We have won seven of our last eight games."

Shane looks dumbfounded. Ilya takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. 

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Hayden says. “The Cens might make the playoffs. How often does that happen? Once a century?” 

“Pain meds make you very mean, Hayden.” 

“Yeah maybe, but what’s your excuse?” 

Ilya chuckles. “Was born this way.” 

“Was that a Lady Gaga reference?” Hayden asks, sounding unreasonably excited about it. “Jackie made me go to a concert once and I thought I was gonna hate it, but it was awesome. The costumes were crazy. So fun.”

“You bitched about it the whole time,” Jackie says as she joins them. She hands Shane a ginger ale. “Here, sweetie. Do you need a straw?” 

“No.” 

“Babe, can I get one of those? With a straw? Pretty please?” 

“Sure,” Jackie says, trying and failing to not look put out. 

“I’ll get it,” Ilya says. He stands up and hands Shane the iPad. “You sit down. Shane, talk to Jackie.”

It’s a testament to how worn out Jackie must be that she doesn’t argue with him. “Straws are in the drawer next to the sink.” 

Ilya heads into the kitchen, grabs a can of ginger ale and locates the straw. He pauses for a moment to admire the kid’s artwork on the fridge. Rainbows and happy firefighters from Arthur, a red and black monster from Ruby. It looks like the monster is eating Jade. Ilya laughs. He’ll never admit it, but Ruby is his favorite. He likes that she’s an adorable little asshole who rules this house like a tiny tyrant. 

When he returns to the living room, he hands the can off to Hayden and sits back down. Shane is showing Jackie what he’s written on the iPad, but Jackie looks extremely confused about whatever it is.

Ilya looks at it but can’t decipher it either. It’s more of those words that aren’t words. 

“Can you try again?” Ilya asks. 

Shane hands the iPad back, apparently done for now. 

Ilya’s feeling weird about this. It's like they’ve gone back to the beginning of the week. 

But maybe Shane is just tired. Today is the only day he didn’t have any therapy of any kind, and maybe he just needs to actually take the day off to reset. 

Ilya hopes so, anyway. 

Seeing Hayden is good. And also bad. Shane sort-of gets that Hayden’s messed up because of the plane crash, just like he is. That doesn’t make it any easier or any less confusing to see him unable to get out of bed. 

The crash still feels like something that happened in a dream. It’s something he doesn’t quite remember with any real clarity and it has that ephemeral thing that dreams all seem to have, like it will turn into mist and burn off in the light of day. 

But seeing Hayden, and his own reflection in the mirror, tells him that at least some of it is real. He thinks he has all the pieces to put it all together, but it’s like they’re from different puzzles. 

For instance, there’s no way most of his team is gone. That feels like a weird glitch, just like seeing the scabbed over wounds on his head feels like a glitch. 

Ilya wouldn’t lie to him about it, but it doesn’t feel like he told the full truth, either. 

God. Why can’t he pull it together? 

“Hayden, do you know who Sammy is? Is a player I don’t know?” Ilya asks. 

“Sammy?” Hayden muses. “Oh. The flight attendant, right?” 

Hayden looks to Shane, who thinks it sounds right. 

Yes. Sammy. The flight attendant. The gym rat. A fan.

“That guy was totally hitting on you, bud,” Hayden says. 

“Was he.” Ilya turns to Shane with that burning jealousy in his eyes that sometimes makes Shane laugh, but mostly makes him want to scream. Right now, Shane wonders why Ilya is jealous of a dead man. 

“Oh yeah, he was so excited to meet him, too.” 

“Shane said he was dead.” 

“Oh, shit. I should have figured that,” Hayden says.  

Yes. Sammy’s dead. He died in Shane’s arms, didn’t he? He bled out. Shane saw him stop breathing.  

“Couldn’t save,” Shane says in a shaky voice. 

“No,” Ilya says and takes his hand. “But at least you tried. And you were there.” 

Did he try? He seems to recall there was nothing he could do. 

If Sammy is real, then other things must have been real too. The feet sticking out from under a pile of twisted debris. JJ’s huge, terrified eyes as he pleaded for Shane to get to safety. Coach, with the shard of metal sticking out of his chest, eyes empty and glassy and staring at nothing. 

Shane takes a sharp breath and blinks rapidly, feeling like he’s in two places at once – here in the Pike’s living room, looking at a very broken Hayden, and on the plane which hardly even resembled a plane, where someone was pleading for help. 

“Hey,” Ilya says. Both his hands are on Shane’s shoulders. “Look at me.” 

Shane looks into Ilya’s beautiful hazel eyes, so full of concern and love and pity that Shane recoils from it. Hot anger blossoms inside his chest and he’s so fed up, he can barely think straight, which is a feat on top of the confusion he’s lived with since he woke up in a hospital bed. 

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s clutching the walker and heading for the door, ready to escape whatever nightmare is trying to play out in Hayden’s living room. 

“Shane, where are you going?” Ilya asks, following behind him. “Hey, stop.” 

Shane ignores him and throws the door open, pushing the stupid walker out onto the porch in a desperate attempt to flee. Ilya steps in front of him, his hands braced on the walker to prevent Shane from going any farther. 

“Move,” Shane orders. The twitch of Ilya’s almost-smile infuriates him. 

“Do you want to go?” 

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “Go.” 

“Okay. We will go home, then.” 

Ilya fishes his keys from his pocket and assists Shane down the steps, which frankly, only pisses Shane off more and he’s not even sure why. He opens the car door and puts a hand on Shane’s elbow. Shane yanks it away and glares at him – he doesn’t need help. He’s not a baby.

The look on Ilya’s face is…sad, maybe a little scared. 

Shane is scared too. And angry. And the worst part is, he doesn’t really understand why. 

3:30 PM

Ottawa

Shane’s foul mood lasts the whole way home. He stares out the window with his arms folded over his chest, pouting like a child. 

Ilya doesn’t get what happened, but something set him off. There was a kind of rage in his eyes Ilya wasn’t accustomed to seeing. It was not the pissed off because he was losing kind of rage, or the pissed off because Ilya baited him kind, this was something completely different. Like Ilya had done something so infuriating, he wasn’t going to ever speak to him again. 

He pulls into the driveway and shuts off the car. Gets out and dutifully retrieves the walker from the back seat. Opens the door. 

Offers his hand to help Shane out. 

“Not a baby,” Shane snaps. 

Ilya’s taken aback, and maybe a little hurt, but he chooses not to show it. Instead, he holds his hands up and steps away to allow Shane to do this himself. 

Except Shane can’t. He forgets about the cast and gets hung up in the doorway on the way out, and topples backward. Ilya almost doesn’t catch him in time. 

“That’s what you get for being stubborn.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“There’s my Shane,” Ilya says, though he’s frustrated that Shane’s stubbornness almost caused him to bash his head on the concrete. 

Shane insists on taking the stairs himself, but this time Ilya sticks close by, just in case. 

Inside the house, Ilya takes off his jacket and leaves Shane to remove his own, since he’s being a hard-headed idiot. He could let that get to him, but he’s going to focus on the positive. 

“You said new words today,” he says as he hangs his keys up. 

Shane just gives him a dirty look and heads off toward the guest room. 

Maybe that’s it. He missed his nap, which is pretty important right now, and he’s grumpy because of it. Ilya lets him go, but that bad, weird feeling from before remains. 

It’s just the two of them for dinner tonight, so he thinks something simple is best. David has made and frozen things for nights when they’re not there, to make things easier for Ilya, and for that, he’s grateful. In the freezer, he finds some lasagna that’s made with some sort of bean-based pasta, a lot of vegetables, and mostly performance diet complaint. There’s also a loaf of frozen garlic bread. 

Easy enough. 

He pre-heats the oven and turns on the TV in the living room to a soccer match – Real Madrid versus some other team he doesn’t recognize by their jerseys. It’s mostly for background noise anyway. He used to follow soccer religiously, but it’s not such a big thing here in North America unless it’s the World Cup and he sort-of stopped keeping track. 

Once the lasagna is in the oven, Ilya sets the timer and heads upstairs to pack for his road trip. He’s not looking forward to leaving, but it’s not like he has the option to sit it out. He’s also not looking forward to counting the days until he gets to see Shane again. That part is always hard, but it’s going to be even harder this time. 

Packing for these trips is almost automatic after so many years of doing it, and he long ago learned to leave the essentials in the bag so that he didn’t get where he was going, only to discover he forgot his toothbrush or something. It’s so automatic, he’s done packing well before the timer on the stove goes off. 

He leaves the bag by the front door and checks the lasagna. It’s got another ten minutes, so he adds the garlic bread and heads to the guest room to see if Shane is awake. 

Shane turns over, putting his back to Ilya the moment he walks in the door. 

Ilya sits on the edge of the bed and drops a hand to Shane’s arm. “Dinner is almost ready. Are you hungry?” 

Shane brushes his hand away and ignores him. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

Shane does not answer him, but it’s clear he wants to be left alone. Ilya’s no fan of that idea, but if he needs space, then he’ll give it to him. 

“I will bring you some when it’s ready.” 

Ilya leaves, gutted by…whatever this is. 

He makes Shane a plate, adding a couple pieces of the garlic bread that he probably won’t eat, and puts it on a breakfast tray. In the guest room, he flicks on the light and sets the tray on the nightstand. 

“David said pasta is made of beans so it is okay for you to eat,” Ilya says. 

Shane continues to ignore him. Ilya can tell he’s still angry, but what about, Ilya still doesn’t know. 

“I wish you would tell me what is wrong,” Ilya says. “I know this is hard, but it is not easy for me, either. I hate seeing you like this and I’m doing everything I can to help.” 

That gets him a middle finger and an even darker scowl. It hurts worse than it should. 

“Okay. I will be in the living room if you want to come out and talk to me.” He pauses by the door. “I will be leaving very early tomorrow and I don’t want to wake you up, so I will be sleeping in our room tonight. I hope you will come say goodbye to me before you go to sleep.”

Shane ignores him, his glare fixed on the ceiling. 

Ilya leaves him alone. In the kitchen, he makes a plate for himself with more garlic bread than he probably needs, and settles down in the living room to watch an old favorite: The Muppets Take Manhattan. It was his mother’s favorite, too and they watched it together so many times when he was little he has it memorized. It was an old VHS bootleg she got from god knows where, and god knows why, with Russian subtitles that were barely legible. The picture is much prettier on Blu-Ray, but he sometimes misses the grainy, jittery image of the old tape. 

It usually lifts his spirits, but tonight, all it does is make him sad. He thought over the years he would learn to miss his mother less, but sometimes her absence feels like he’s missing a vital organ. 

Tonight is one of those nights and it starts to feel like he’s just torturing himself. All the parts she used to laugh at dig trenches into his heart. 

He turns it off and turns on ESPN. That, at least, is mostly mindless. Especially since it’s a profile of Scott Hunter’s workout routine, his glitzy apartment and, briefly, the Kingfisher. 

Yuna and David come home as the program changes to a discussion of the upcoming games. 

“There’s lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Ilya says. “Garlic bread too.” 

“We just ate, but thank you. We’ll have it for lunch tomorrow,” Yuna says. “How did it go today?” 

Ilya relays Shane’s meltdown as objectively as he can. He doesn’t want Yuna to think he’s overwhelmed, even if he is a little out of his depth. 

“I think he was just tired,” Ilya says. “Was a lot for him, I think. Seeing Hayden may have upset him.”

“I guess that’s understandable,” Yuna says. “Makes it more real to him, maybe.” 

Ilya hums his agreement. He needs to go to bed soon. Five AM will come too quickly, and he already knows he’s going to have a hard time falling asleep. 

He checks on Shane, who is sound asleep. The food is untouched on its tray. 

With a heavy sigh, Ilya leans down and kisses Shane’s temple. “I will see you in two weeks, sweetheart.”

A part of him hopes that Shane will wake at the sound of his voice. 

But Shane does not wake. And in the morning, Ilya will leave without a goodbye.

Chapter 10

The clock on the nightstand reads 9:12 AM. Much later than Shane is used to getting up. 

He rolls over to wake Ilya, who is rarely awake before he is, and finds that his side of the bed is still mostly made. Shane sits up and wipes the sleep grit from his eyes, wincing at the dull pain in his right eye socket. 

“Ilya?” 

He’s not here. 

Shane gets up and works his way through his morning tasks with the frustrating quickness of a drugged sloth. Twenty-five minutes later, he emerges from the guest room clutching the walker for balance, searching for Ilya. His stomach growls. He doesn’t remember eating last night.

He finds his mom in the kitchen, seated at the breakfast table typing away on her laptop. She looks up as he shambles across the room and smiles. 

“Morning,” she says. “Let me make you some breakfast. What would you like?” 

She gets up and goes to the fridge but Shane stops her. He’s perfectly capable of sticking two slices of his plant-based bread into the toaster without her help. 

“Ilya?” he asks. 

“He left early this morning, sweetie,” she says. Her hands smooth over his shoulders and down the sleeves of his hoodie, like she’s checking to make sure he's not missing any limbs. “He has a game in Detroit tonight, remember?” 

Shane only vaguely remembers Ilya mentioning it yesterday. He’d been too…messed up to really hear or process anything besides his own thoughts. The nasty headache he got after lying down hadn’t helped either. It had felt like his skull was trying to squeeze his brains out of his eye sockets.  

“He’ll be back in two weeks,” Mom says. “If you’re lucky, the cast will be off by then.” 

That would be nice. The damn thing itches like crazy and his toes are always cold, even with socks on.  

Shane grabs the loaf of bread from the breadbox and struggles to separate the twist tie from the plastic wrapper. He half expects his mom to take it off for him, but she stands back and watches him instead of offering to help. 

It’s irrational to be annoyed with her for that. Not when he snapped at Ilya for trying to help him yesterday. He’s not feeling proud of that, but he’s so tired of being babied and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to push past whatever’s holding him back if everyone around him keeps trying to do everything for him. 

It fucking sucks that everything is so hard. It sucks that he’s constantly two steps behind, and that everyone around him knows exactly what happened and he doesn’t. And what he does know makes no sense. 

“Good job,” his mom says when he finally extracts two slices of bread. “You’re getting back into the swing of things.” 

Sure. As if struggling with mundane tasks is some sort of accomplishment. Taking five whole minutes to remove a twist tie isn’t exactly an achievement.

He shoves two slices of bread into the toaster and presses the lever. 

“You’re not just having plain toast, are you?” mom asks. “Your dad got some blueberries yesterday. I think there’s still an avocado in there if you want that instead.” 

Shane ignores her and gets out the carton of eggs, a skillet, and a stick of butter. For good measure, he grabs the blueberries, too. 

He can do this himself. And he does, just to prove he can. Sure, the egg is a little bit overdone and crisper than he likes on the edges, and the toast is slightly burnt because someone messed with the settings, but he did it himself, without help.

And maybe he is a little bit proud of himself for that.

Mom watches him assemble his boring sandwich from the breakfast bar without comment. He stands at the counter to eat it, mostly out of spite. It’s petty and childish to act this way, but it’s better they know he’s at least somewhat capable of helping himself. 

When he’s done, he rinses the dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. 

“Come sit,” mom says. She pats the bar stool next to her. 

Shane rolls his eyes but joins her. His cast doesn’t cooperate very well with the barstool’s rungs – it keeps slipping off, in spite of the rubber heel, but Shane can manage it for a few minutes. Any longer, and it’s going to piss him off. 

Mom places a new iPhone on the counter in front of him. It’s anthracite gray and nearly identical to the one that was probably lost somewhere on the plane. The last time he remembers having it, he was on the floor, trying to tell Ilya goodbye.  

“Ilya ordered you a new one,” she says. “It took me a couple of days to figure out how to get into your account to set it up. The password you gave me wasn’t current but, it’s all taken care of. Same phone number, I synced your contacts, but you’ll have to sort everything else out like your banking apps and games or whatever you had on there before.” 

Shane looks at her and picks it up. He opens his texts. There’s only a spam text from a local smoothie shop and a test message from mom. 

“You might consider an apology to Ilya for your first text,” she says. “He didn’t say so, but from what I understand you were not very nice to him yesterday. He was pretty upset when he left this morning.” 

Oh. 

He stares at his empty inbox and fiddles with the brightness settings. Whatever happened yesterday, Shane didn’t intend to hurt anyone’s feelings. He’d been so wrapped up in his own uncontrollable anger and frustration, neither of which he’d been able to manage or explain. Those feelings had nowhere to go. He couldn’t put them into words. He couldn’t do anything about them in any way that made sense. 

“Shane. Look at me.” Shane keeps his gaze fixed on his phone, unwilling to look her in the eye. He’s not in the mood for a guilt trip. “Hey. Look at me.” 

When he doesn’t, mom turns his face toward hers. Shane makes a half-hearted attempt to resist. He doesn’t want to see her disappointment or disapproval, but after a second, he relents, and it’s neither of those things he sees in her eyes. It’s concern with a harder edge, something Shane doesn’t really have a name for. 

“I know you’re frustrated and confused right now, but I also know you know better than to take it out on other people,” she says. “Ilya is the last person who deserves that. So if you want to be angry, give it all to me. I’m your mom and I’m used to it.” 

Shane flinches away, clutching the phone in his hand like it will shield him from this. She’s making it sound like he’s nasty to her all the time, which he isn’t. Most of the time, he rolls with whatever she’s set up for him, even the stuff he doesn’t really want to do, like the underwear and Speedo ads or the nasty energy drink campaign. 

And sure, he’s resistant to some of her plans and management decisions, but it’s all in service of his career and financial future, and yeah, sometimes she goes overboard and needs to be reined in. There were only so many brand deals he can handle and sometimes he’s way too busy to squeeze in another. But he never gets truly nasty about that the way she’s implying. 

“I mean it, Shane. Ilya has gone out of his way to support you, and your dad and me, and I really need you to remember that we’re all on the same side,” she says. “You don’t get to lash out at him because he’s an easy target, do you understand?” 

Shane doesn’t really feel like he lashed out at anyone, but maybe it came across that way. Ilya hadn’t done anything wrong, really, and Shane hadn’t meant to upset him. He’d just been tired and overwhelmed and very much over feeling like he’s the only one being kept in the dark.  

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that beneath that tough exterior, Ilya is a deeply sensitive man when it comes to those he cares about. Since their fight after Christmas, he’s realized sometimes Ilya gets hurt a lot easier than he lets on and he internalizes that hurt and takes it to heart. 

“Shane? Do you hear me?” mom asks, but not with impatience. “I really need to know if you understand what I’m saying.” 

“Yes,” Shane says. He does. He gets it. He acted like an asshole. 

“Okay. Maybe we need a system,” she says. “Some way for you to tell us if you’re getting overwhelmed.” 

Shane pulls up the notes app on his new phone and types. 

red yellow green?

Yuna smiles and gives a little nod. She remembers this, from his childhood. Sometimes when he was little, he would get so focused, any little thing would disrupt his entire day and leave him unable to communicate his feelings, to the point where he would shut down, without the tools to tell his parents what was wrong or when it was too much. 

They haven’t used this since he was eight or so, but it worked then. There’s no reason why it can’t work now. 

“I can work with that.” She brushes an imaginary crumb from his sleeve. “Which one are you right now?” 

Shane thinks about it. He’s not feeling a hundred percent, and definitely not motivated, but he’s also not on the verge of boiling inside his own skin, either. 

“Yellow,” he says. 

“I can work with that, too,” she says. “You have PT in about an hour. How about you use that session to channel those bad feelings into something positive, okay?” 

Shane gives her a thumbs up. 

“Great. Don’t forget to text Ilya, okay?”  

That might be harder. 

January 8, 2021

8:05 PM

Detroit

The score is 3-2 in Detroit’s favor at the end of the 3rd period, but Ilya’s pretty confident they’re going to win. The Detroit team is showing signs of wear and they’re struggling to maintain their usual kinetic playstyle. Their Captain, Jay Overton, is a mouthy but stupid hillbilly from somewhere down south who was traded from Toronto last year, and he keeps using the same boring insults Ilya’s already heard a thousand times. 

Fudgepacker. Sausage smoker. 

Just once, he’d like some interesting banter, but he’s probably expecting way too much. 

Overton is easy to rattle though. Ilya barely has to try. The first time, all it takes is a wink and a sexy smirk. The second, Ilya slides his tongue along his top lip and wiggles an eyebrow in response to be called a butt pirate. 

Troy gets him the third time. “Still hooking up with that cousin of yours, Ovie?”

“Fuck off. It’s not like she’s my sister. We’re not even that closely related, and she’s hot, okay?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Ilya says, barely able to contain his laughter. “Are there no other girls where you’re from?” 

“Ovie’s family tree doesn’t have branches,” Troy says. “They’re all cousins down there.”

Overton shoves Troy. “We all know you wanted to fuck Kent, you cocksucker.” 

“Nobody wants to fuck Kent. Is why he gets them drunk first, right? So they don’t fight back?” 

Overton drops his gloves and takes a swing. Ilya dances back, laughing at his rage, and blows him a kiss as the refs escort him off the ice. 

“Knock it off, Rozanov,” a harrassed-looking Ref says. 

“Sure, but only because you’re my favorite.”  

The Cens score off the power play, tying up the game. Six minutes later, Troy cements the lead. The rest of the game is a cake walk. Cens win again, 4-3. 

Back at the hotel, the mood is celebratory and the team converges on the bar. Ilya orders an expensive whiskey and joins in the revelry, though he’d really like to go back to his room and feel sorry for himself instead. 

This is safer. It’s harder to obsess over his last evening with Shane if he’s occupied with other things. There will be plenty of time for that later. At three AM probably, while Luca sleeps soundly in the other bed and Ilya can’t shut off his brain. 

Maybe with enough whiskey, Ilya can prevent that, too.  

Up until the emergency draft, Luca bunked with Tanner Dillon on the road and Ilya with Troy sometimes if Ilya didn’t get his own room, but this time Harris is traveling with them and Troy volunteered to share with him, so Ilya has custody of the Rookie. 

Not that Ilya minds Luca at all. Luca doesn’t talk much, he’s tidy, doesn’t snore, and sharing a room with someone gives Ilya a good reason not to spiral. It always happens so much easier when he’s alone. 

He’s on his second glass of whiskey when he gets a text from Shane. 

[Jane] love u

It’s followed by a selfie of Shane sitting against the headboard wearing one of Ilya’s old Boston t-shirts, his glasses perched on his nose, his expression like a stern school teacher. Ilya has to stomp down the snarling, hungry beast inside him. He desperately misses the physical part of their relationship, so much that he might be going a little nuts without it. 

Ilya takes a selfie of his own with his team in the background. 

[Ilya] I love you too

[Jane] good game

[Ilya] you watched? 

[Jane] yes with mom

[Ilya] You’re typing much better today

[Jane] phone easier

[Jane] only thumbs

[Jane] and autocorrect

It’s not just autocorrect. His words are in order. It’s a leap forward that Ilya wasn’t expecting but it’s welcome. It gives him hope that communication will be easier for them both now. 

[Jane] sorry for yesterday

[Jane] felt bad 

[Jane] frustrated angry scared

[Ilya] Scared of what?

[Jane] i don’t know confusing

[Jane] hayden hurt

[Jane] plane crash

[Jane] doesn’t feel real

[Jane] am weak  

[Ilya] You are not weak. You are the strongest person I know. 

[Ilya] And very, very brave. 

[Ilya] Maybe a little stupid, but brave. 

[Jane] no not brave

[Jane] afraid 

Ilya orders another whiskey and considers how to answer that. Of course he’s afraid. The crash, and everything that came after, must be terrifying for him. Not knowing or understanding how this happened has to be stressful and confusing, especially for someone as driven as Shane Hollander. 

[Jane] i want to play hockey again

[Ilya] Then I will do everything I can to help you. 

[Ilya] I am so proud of you, Shane. 

[Ilya] I wish I was there with you. 

[Jane] wish you were too

[Jane] video chat? 

[Jane] see you

[Ilya] I will send you a request when I am in my room.

Ilya doesn’t need any more of an excuse to leave than that. He knocks back the whiskey and heads upstairs, leaving his team to their celebration. 

In his room, he kicks off his shoes and crawls onto the bed. Once he’s comfortably situated, he sends the request. Shane accepts it immediately. 

“Hi,” Shane says. He sounds more like himself. 

“You look better,” Ilya says. “Was a good day?” 

“Yes.” 

“And, talking too. That makes me happy.” Shane smiles at the praise. “I miss hearing your voice. Even when you are mad at me.” 

Shane flips him off, but he’s still smiling. Ilya wishes he could gather him in his arms and kiss him senseless and fall asleep next to him.

He’s not sure what to talk about if Shane can't hold up his end of the conversation, but he doesn’t want him to hang up either. Not yet. So he defaults to hockey, since that’s probably one thing Shane will be able to follow right now.  

“Tomorrow we are going to Minnesota. And then Chicago,” Ilya says, suppressing a yawn. “That will be a tough game. Molenaar is excellent goalie and their defense is strong this year. Will feel good to beat them.” 

“Wins?” Shane says. 

“Are you asking how many we’ve won?” 

Shane nods. 

“Eight of the last nine,” Ilya says with no small amount of pride. For a team that only won one out of every three in the first part of the season, it’s a lot. “Only lost to Nashville. I think we will beat Chicago and Pittsburgh. St. Louis is very good this year. Should be interesting game.”

God, he wishes Shane was able to give his input. He would tell Ilya all the player stats for each team’s top line, their strengths and weaknesses, and their current rankings. None of it is explicitly needed – Ilya knows how to use google, but hearing it from Shane hits different. 

“Maybe we will go to the playoffs this year,” Ilya says. “Would be nice.”

It would certainly help him to stop feeling like such a failure. It would definitely go a long way to get there with this team. No one expects much from them. Not with it’s history of coming in at the bottom of the pack for the last few decades.

“I forgot how much I love to win,” Ilya admits. “I forgot how much fun it is.”  

Shane’s smile is knowing and he shakes his head, as if to say, no you didn’t. 

There’s a knock on the door, then the lock beeps and the door opens. Luca, warning him that he’s coming in. It’s cute that he felt the need to do that, though if Ilya was up to anything illicit, he would not have had time to cover it up. Not that Ilya would do that when sharing a room without an agreement ahead of time. 

“Hold on,” he tells Shane. “Haas is back.” 

Luca peers around the corner of the hallway a little warily, as if expecting to find Ilya actually doing something illicit.

“Turning in early?” Ilya asks and leans back into the headboard. 

“No, just too loud downstairs.” Ilya can tell Luca is a little bit drunk. “Dykstra started singing country songs. Sounded like a cow was dying.” 

Ilya cracks up. He’s really starting to like this kid. 

“I hate country music,” Luca says and tosses his backpack on his bed. “Why do they only sing about trucks, beer, and dirt roads? Every song sounds the same.” 

Luca is definitely more than a little drunk. He’s not one to complain about much.

“You forgot all the songs about cheating and small towns,” Ilya says. 

“Those too.” 

“Hello?” Shane asks. 

Ilya returns his attention to his phone. “I’m sorry. Do you want to say hello to Haas?” 

Shane nods. 

Ilya turns his phone toward Luca, who blushes instantly and waves. “Hello Mr. Hollander.” 

Shane waves back and Ilya cracks up. “Mister Hollander. You are so adorable, Haasy.” 

“Mean,” Shane says to Ilya. 

Ilya remembers Shane once admitted to being so star-struck by Scott Hunter his rookie season, he repeatedly called him Mr. Hunter. Hunter probably liked that, though. Shane probably likes it too.  

“I am being respectful of my elders,” Luca says. “Mister Rozanov.” 

“Now you’re the one being mean.” Ilya laughs harder. “Is past your bed time, kiddo.” 

Luca opens his backpack and drops a spiral bound notebook on the other bed and a pouch that looks like it holds pencils. 

Ilya turns the phone back around. Shane just shakes his head, smiling. 

“Okay. Is probably past your bedtime, too, Hollander. You need your rest.” 

The longing in Shane’s eyes comes through loud and clear and there’s not a thing Ilya can do about it. 

“Spokoynoy nochi. Ya tebya lyublyu, moya belka.” 

Shane’s smile is sweet and he puts a hand over his heart and nods. If Ilya’s not mistaken, Shane’s eyes have misted over.

“Okay. Bye.”

Ilya ends the call, buoyed by hope that Shane has reached a turning point, but also saddened that he’s not there with him to shower him in praise for it.  

He puts his phone on charge and looks over at Luca, who has settled on his own bed with the sketchbook in his lap, his pencil moving rapidly on the paper. 

“Are you going to sleep?” Luca asks. “I can stop if you want.” 

“No, is fine,” Ilya says. “I thought maybe I would watch a movie.” 

This is more for Luca’s benefit since it looks like he wants to stay up for a while. Ilya will probably fall asleep in the middle of the movie anyway. Or he will be awake all night, thinking of Shane. 

It could go either way. 

“Okay. Just let me know if you want me to turn the light off,” Luca says. 

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks. 

“Drawing.” 

“Can I see?”

He shows Ilya a sketch of Batman that’s honestly really good. Ilya nods his approval. “This is great, Haasy. Maybe you should design us a new Centaurs logo. Would probably be much cooler than the one we have.”

“It couldn’t be any worse,” Luca says.    

Ilya settles back into the pillow and turns on the TV. He pretends he doesn’t see Luca blushing again. 

The only thing worth watching looks like a Fast and Furious knock-off called Eight Cylinder 3. It’s just the sort of mindless entertainment Ilya needs, but he’s not paying much attention beyond mild admiration of the featured performance cars. His thoughts keep drifting to Shane, their future, the possibility that Shane will never play professional hockey again, no matter how much he wants to. 

Or the possibility that he does, but he won’t be as good as he once was. In the long run, that might be even harder for Shane to deal with than not being able to play at all. Ilya can’t stand the idea of Shane being constantly disappointed with himself. 

Before he realizes it, the credits are rolling and Ilya has no idea what the movie’s plot even was. Not that it matters. Movies like that are usually all flashy visuals and light on plot, anyway. Mindless entertainment.  

On the other side of the room, Luca is staring at his sketchbook, brow furrowed. He erases something and cocks his head, then nods to himself.  

“Something wrong?” Ilya asks. 

Luca tears out the page and drops it on the bed beside Ilya. 

It’s a cartoon-style drawing of Ilya and Shane facing off at center ice, their faces in profile. Cartoon Ilya grins a cocky grin, and Cartoon Shane sneers back, nose wrinkled, freckles prominent. On the sleeves of Ilya’s jersey, there’s a patch that says: I LOVE YOU SCOTT HUNTER. Shane has a patch too, but it’s blank.

“For you,” Luca says, blushing furiously.

Ilya almost loses his composure. Not just because it makes him emotional, but also because it’s incredibly cute and very funny. His personal fanboy made fanart just for him. 

“I didn’t know what to put on Hollander’s patch,” Luca says. 

“Put I Speak Fluent Bird. He will know what it means,” Ilya says. “You really drew this for me, Haasy?”

“I hope that’s okay. I know you are very good friends and you are worried about him.” 

“Is more than okay,” Ilya says. He’s getting choked up, dammit. “But you didn’t sign it.” 

“Do you want me to?”

“Fuck yes, Haasy! I want you to sign it! Is a work of art and I love it.”

Luca’s blush deepens, but he dutifully signs it. His signature is beautiful and fancy. He adds I SPEAK FLUENT BIRD in tidy print to Shane’s patch before handing it back. 

“Thank you, Luca. This is great.” 

Ilya takes a picture and texts it to Shane. Ilya plans to put it in a frame when he gets home, but he wants Shane to see it now. 

Shane doesn’t answer back. Probably asleep already, as Ilya should be. 

“Can I put it on Instagram?” Ilya asks. “Is okay if you don’t want me to.” 

“You would do that?” 

“Of course. Everybody should know our new fan favorite is also a talented artist,” Ilya says. 

“I’m not that talented. And I am definitely not the favorite. I think that is you.” 

“Not true.” Even though it kind of is, Luca has gained himself a following since they started winning. “You are very popular.” 

He opens his Instagram account and posts the picture, tagging all relevant parties and the caption, “Art by @ottawacentuars own @Lucahaasofficial. Everyone say Thank You, Luca.” 

@shanesfuturexwife: Fluent bird? The fuck does that mean?

@scotthunter21: You know I’m already taken @ilyarozanov81official

@hassyslady: This is so cute! Look at their little chibi faces! 

@droverharris: Excuse me?! Step into my office @lucahaasofficial. I have an idea. 

@barrett.troyofficial: Thank you @lucahaasofficial. This is amazing. 

@slut4rozanov: Rozanov has a loon tattoo @shanesfuturexwife Inside joke orrrrrrrrr….

@shanesfuturexwife: Oh. My. God. I think you’re on to something. @slut4rozanov

@shanehollandersunderpants: Why can’t two guys just be friends? Why do you gotta make it weird? @shanesfuturexwife @slut4rozanov 

February 18, 2021

9:40 AM

St. Louis 

Ilya’s in a random conference room at the arena in St. Louis, staring at the angry face of Roger Crowell on Wiebe’s laptop again. He has no clue what he did this time to invoke his wrath, but Wiebe is here with him this time, at Ilya’s request. If he can’t have his lawyer present, he can at least have a witness who he knows will have his back. 

“Why do I have to find out from an intern that Mr. Hollander is recovering at your personal residence in Ottawa, after I explicitly told you to put an end to whatever is going on between you two?” 

Ilya has no fucking idea how an intern got ahold of that information, or why, but he’s pissed it’s being treated like a crime. 

“The Hollanders are my family,” Ilya says. “And they are welcome in my home.” 

“You understand that this looks like a hell of a lot more than that, Mr. Rozanov. Thank god the public isn’t aware that the two of you are shacking up, but it needs to end, now.” Crowell leans toward the camera, unaware that it makes his nose look disproportionately large and very punchable. “You have been taunting me for weeks now with your online content and that needs to stop as well.” 

Ilya has no idea what he’s talking about. The only things Ilya has posted besides Luca’s fanart have been about the Irina Foundation, some of Troy’s posts about resources for victims of sexual assault, and a couple of upcoming Pride events Scott is involved in. Besides that, there was a picture of some funny graffiti of a bug-eyed duck he spotted in the men’s room at a burger joint in Minneapolis, a weird Wizard of Oz art piece in Chicago, and a pile of bean bags on his home gym floor. 

“I have done no such thing,” Ilya says. 

“Your post about Boiziau being a hero caused me a lot of problems,” Crowell says. “Now we’re being accused of racism by fans.” 

“Boiziau was a hero,” Ilya says with a shrug. “He helped save Pike, yes? And the league conveniently forgot to mention that.” 

“It was an oversight and absolutely not racially motivated. And I don’t appreciate the accusations."

Ilya has a lot to say on that topic. He knows that Crowell knows there aren’t enough non-white players in the entire league to fill a school bus. Maybe that’s not entirely the league’s fault but the culture of the sport itself, starting with the kiddy leagues. Still, league isn’t doing anything to fix that problem, either. 

“I have not accused you of anything, Mr. Crowell. But maybe you should listen to the fans.”

“You know very well we have diversity initiatives –”

“Yes, yes. I know,” Ilya says dismissively. “But there seems to be only room for a few. And they’re expected to be grateful and stay quiet.” 

“This is not a fight you want to start, Mr. Rozanov.” 

"I don’t believe I am starting one. It is your oversight that caused this."

For a second, Crowell can only glare at him. He’s been backed into a corner and he knows it.

“Moving on. There are other issues that need to be addressed. Are you aware that the artwork you posted now has a large number of people speculating about your relationship with Mr. Hollander?” 

“People have been doing that since our rookie season, Mr. Crowell,” Ilya says, laughing, though on the inside he’s screaming a little bit. “Is the internet. They also speculate about Donald Trump having a romantic relationship with Donkey from Shrek. Is not that serious.” 

Crowell’s eyes flash with anger. “Regardless, this is all very problematic and it needs to end now.” 

“What, exactly, needs to end?” Ilya asks. 

“All of it. Your relationship with Hollander. The non-approved advocacy. The subtle digs at the league. All of that needs to stop, immediately.” Crowell clears his throat, his scowl turning darker. “You are a professional hockey player, Mr. Rozanov. If you wish to remain one, you will abide by my orders. Is that in any way unclear?”

Ilya glances at Wiebe. He must see the anger in Ilya’s face and he shakes his head to warn him off saying anything he can’t take back. Which is definitely the go fuck yourself on the tip of Ilya’s tongue.

“So you are telling me players cannot have friends on other teams?” Ilya asks. “Or personal relationships with their families? And I cannot support causes that the league does not sponsor, including my own foundation.” 

“I’m saying your choices right now are stirring the pot and creating unnecessary drama that has nothing to do with hockey. It makes the league look bad.” 

“Are you telling others these things, too, or just me?” Ilya asks. 

“There are others. Including members of your own team. Some of you have become advocates all of a sudden and it’s gotten ridiculous. I don’t have time to be dealing with this nonsense.”

“Ah. So you want us to shut up and you think you can force us to do that by making threats,” Ilya says. “Because you have no legal grounds to enforce it.”  

“Ilya,” Wiebe warns. 

“Is okay, coach. I have already consulted a lawyer about what the commissioner can and cannot do,” Ilya says. He doesn’t miss the flash of irritation in Crowell’s eyes. “Making threats of retaliation is one thing he cannot legally do. I am sure someone in your position is aware of that, Mr. Crowell.” 

“No one is making threats,” Crowell says. He’s apparently only just realized Ilya isn’t a dumb rookie he can bully into complying. “Let’s not make this into an ordeal.”  

“I think my lawyer would disagree,” Ilya says. “Next time you want to have a conversation like this, it will be with my agent and my lawyer present.” 

Like before, Ilya ends the call before Crowell can respond. 

Wiebe sits back in his chair with a loud sigh. 

“You really went and poked the bear, didn’t you?” Wiebe says. 

“I am sorry. I have made problems for you.” 

“No, I’m on your side here,” Wiebe says. “All this is… I don’t know what his point is. I looked at your posts when I got the email about this call and didn’t see anything worth all this noise. To me it sounds like he’s trying to get you to admit to having an affair with Hollander.”

Wiebe is right, but Ilya doesn’t see what the point of that is, either. Unless he’s looking for an excuse to get rid of them both. Which would be a really bad call. Shane is beloved by fans, even those who aren’t Montreal fans, and Ilya is too, in spite of his inexplicable move to Ottawa. They’re valuable players who make the league a ton of money in merch sales alone. Certainly more valuable than the shitheads like Kent they’re trying to protect.

“Who else on this team is on the naughty list?” Ilya asks, though he suspects he already knows. 

“Crowell claims Troy is supposedly taking digs at Dallas Kent online.”

“Troy has never said anything about Kent at all. I have shared all of his posts.”

“I’m aware. Crowell is upset Troy keeps bringing attention to something they should be investigating and aren’t.” 

“Yes, and it’s making them look bad,” Ilya says, echoing Crowell’s own words. “Troy told me about it yesterday. He’s doing the same to Scott Hunter. Crowell doesn’t like anything that goes against traditional hockey culture.” 

Ilya had a long conversation with Scott yesterday, after he heard about Crowell’s call with Troy. Troy was understandably freaked out. He’s lost a lot already by calling Kent out and he’s afraid of losing even more.

Scott had also received a call, apparently for sharing about LGBTQIA causes “too frequently.” Scott has no intention of backing down and mentioned building a coalition of hockey players to combat the unaddressed issues in the hockey community – the racism, the gatekeeping, the bigotry, the sexism, the rape culture, the homophobia – all of it. 

Ilya thinks this is a great idea. He’s behind it 100%, no question.

“Anyone else?” 

“Wyatt was mentioned for sharing posts about Pride, but he didn’t get a call to explain himself. Probably because he wasn’t the one who created the posts.”

This is bad. Whatever set the Commissioner off, it seems he’s made it his mission to silence anyone sharing or talking about causes he doesn’t want being discussed. 

“I have to ask,” Wiebe says. “Is there any truth to what he’s saying? About you and Hollander? I’m not trying to be nosy, I would just like to be prepared to protect you if something comes out.” 

Ilya isn’t sure how to answer.  He wants to be honest, and he’s sure he can trust Wiebe, but the circle of people who know at this point has gotten a lot larger than either he or Shane planned. He settles on a middle ground. Wiebe can infer what he wants from it.

“I am bisexual and I am in a serious relationship with someone. It is not public knowledge,” Ilya says. “And for now, I would like to keep it that way until we are ready to talk about it publicly.” 

“Good enough for me,” Wiebe says. “In the meantime, let’s try to lay low and see if it all blows over.” 

Ilya doesn’t want to lay low. 

He doesn’t want to wait for it to blow over. 

He wants to fight. Because it’s not just about him. It’s about being expected to stay quiet and obedient, and in Ilya’s opinion, no matter how much money they’re paid, some things can not be ignored.  

February 23, 2021

7:45 PM

Columbus

The Cens are on fire. They might have lost to Chicago and St. Louis, but they’re absolutely crushing Columbus tonight. Currently, the score is 4-1 at the start of the 3rd period. This team was supposed to be a challenge for them but unless Wyatt falls asleep between the goalposts, they’ve already won it. 

Ilya should be in high spirits, but something is bringing him down, and it isn’t a lack of food this time, and it’s not Shane, either. He’s progressing by leaps and bounds physically. Today, Yuna sent him a video of Shane walking without assistance, which Ilya watched probably fifteen times and will probably watch fifteen more before he goes to sleep tonight. 

And last night, Shane talked more than he has since before the crash during their video call. His words were disjointed, maybe jumbled and out of order, and some of them were in French, but it’s so much better than before. 

Ilya should be elated. He should be happy. He shouldn’t be feeling like he wants to crawl into bed and stay there forever. 

But he does. 

As he lines up for a power play after a Columbus defenseman got tossed for a stick to the face penalty against Young, his brain is telling him this is all pointless. Those people in the stands booing him are right and he deserves it. Nobody would care if he disappeared. 

Still, he follows through with the play, scores, bringing the game to 5-1 for the Cens, but he can barely bring himself to celebrate with the team. It feels like the whole world is crashing down on him, while at the same time, like the walls are rapidly closing in on him. 

So it’s no real surprise when during the commercial break, he finds himself on his ass in front of the bench with his head between his knees, his helmet and gloves between his feet, struggling to keep it together. It’s all he can do to stop himself from screaming or sobbing, and the worst part is, he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t have a clue what triggered it, only that he’s slowly been descending into darkness all day. 

“Coach, something is wrong with Roz,” Luca says. 

“No, I am okay,” Ilya says to the floor. “I just need a minute.”

“Did you forget to eat again?” Wiebe asks. He crouches down beside Ilya and rests a hand against Ilya’s sweaty neck. “Or are you injured?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya mumbles. A split second later, he breaks. Tears come flooding from his eyes and he starts laughing. Hysterically. And not in a fun way. He can’t even force out another lie to get them to back off. 

Within a minute, Ilya is being led out by Terry, their team doctor, and a couple of people he assumes are medics. His legs are shaky and he’s cold all of a sudden, in spite of the 20 pounds of gear he’s wearing. He could swear the crowd is mocking him as he leaves. 

In a small clinic just off the main tunnel, Terry makes Ilya lay down on the padded exam table. Someone removes his skates. A light is shined into his watering eyes. The unwanted laughter comes out in bursts of crazed sounding giggles, and Ilya knows it sounds like he’s gone completely mad. 

“You haven’t been drinking have you, Roz?” Terry asks. 

“Of course not,” he manages to get out. He tries to sit up, but Terry pushes him back down. “I am okay. I just need a second.”

“It was a joke,” Terry says and slides a cold, metal stethoscope beneath Ilya’s compression shirt. “I want you to take some deep, slow breaths for me.” 

Ilya tries, but it’s hard to draw a full breath. 

God, he just wants to disappear. 

“Disappear?” Terry asks, drawing back and looking deeply concerned.

“Did I say that out loud?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah. You wanna tell me what that’s about?” 

“No,” Ilya says. “I don’t know why I said it.”

“You ever have a panic attack before?” 

“Maybe one. When I was a child.” 

“So nothing recent?” 

Ilya doesn’t want to admit he might have had one while sitting on a sticky bathroom floor in Houston because he was terrified his secret boyfriend was dead. He shakes his head. 

Terry makes him sit up, even though he doesn’t want to, and hands him a bottle of orange juice. “Drink it.” 

Ilya opens it and drinks a couple of sips. It’s cloyingly sweet. He almost spits it out. 

“I’m concerned,” Terry says. 

“Are you going to bench me?” 

“Depends on whether or not you’re going to be honest with me.” 

“About what?”

“About whatever is going on to make you think you want to disappear.”

Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat. Breathing is easier, but his body is telling him another round is coming if he’s not careful. 

“There is a lot of stress right now,” Ilya says. He closes his eyes and forces himself to say what he says next. “I am seeing a therapist. For depression. I don’t know if it’s helping or not.” 

Terry nods. “Okay. That’s a start. When was the last time you went?” 

“Early January.” 

“So almost two months ago. Why haven’t you been since then?”

“Busy. Felt better, maybe.” 

“Are you on medication?” 

“No. Not yet. I don’t really want pills if I don’t need them.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re not going back on the ice tonight. In the morning, you are going to call your therapist and make an appointment,” Terry says. “Then the three of us are going to partner up and figure out what you need from us so that this doesn’t happen again.”   

Ilya just nods. He’s in no position or state of mind to argue. 

“Go shower and get changed. I’m sending you back to the hotel to get some rest. And make sure you eat something.”

He takes an Uber back to the hotel as ordered. Along the way, he ignores the notifications popping up on his phone. He’d rather not answer questions or deal with everyone worrying about him right now.  

In his room, he immediately strips off his suit and climbs into bed. Only when he’s safely cocooned in the duvet does he look at his phone. There are several text messages from Yuna and two missed calls. He calls back because he doesn’t want her to worry about him all night.

It’s David who answers and Ilya comes very close to going to pieces again. 

“Are you okay, son?” David asks. He doesn’t even try to hide his concern. “We heard you went down again.” 

“Yes,” but Ilya’s voice breaks. “I am at the hotel now.” 

“What happened? Blood sugar again?” 

“No, I…” He’s so sick of lying and hiding. They deserve the truth and he can’t keep it in anymore. “Was a panic attack. I don’t know why it happened. Was a good game.” 

“There’s a lot of pressure on you,” David says. “And maybe there’s something else going on that you won’t talk to us about. If so, I really hope you will."

Ilya lets out a heavy breath, unshed tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Of course David would be the one to pick up on that. He owes them the truth. If he’s going to be in their lives, and in Shane’s life, they need to know. Just in case. 

“Yes. But I don’t want to talk about it right now. When I am back in Ottawa, I will talk to you and Yuna both. It is... important, I think.”

“Is this conversation going to require vodka and chicken parmesan?” David asks. 

“Maybe so,” Ilya says with a small laugh. “But you do not need to worry about me. Or go out of your way.” 

“I will anyway,” David says. “You know that.”

“I know. And thank you. For worrying about me.” He’s suddenly very hungry.

“Do you want to talk to Shane?” David asks. 

"Yes, but I will call him in a few minutes. I’m going to order room service first.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling back. Glad it's not anything serious.” David pauses. “I love you, son.” 

Ilya’s voice is in tatters when he replies, “I love you, too.”   

He orders a bacon cheeseburger with all the fixings, onion rings, and a slice of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, then video calls Shane directly. Shane in the guest room, glasses on, when he answers. 

“Hi,” Ilya says. “I saw you walk today. I’m so proud of you.” 

Shane nods. “No cast tomorrow.” His words are slow and carefully pronounced.

“It comes off tomorrow? That is great news. Then you will be walking even better. Maybe I will give you a reward for working so hard.” 

“What?” Shane asks. The flash of interest in his eyes warms Ilya’s blood. It’s still too soon for any fooling around, but he’ll think of something. 

“Maybe I will bring you some cheesecake to celebrate. Or we will do something fun. I don’t know yet.” 

Shane blinks rapidly as he searches for a word. “Tired?” 

“Yes. Has been a long trip.” 

Shane stares at something offscreen. He frowns when he returns his gaze to Ilya. “Injured?” 

“Is that what they are saying?” 

“Knee.” 

It’s a good cover. Better than telling everyone that Ilya Rozanov actually freaked the fuck out in front of a million people on live TV.

“I am okay. I will not miss the next game.” Ilya has an idea. “Maybe now that you are walking, you and your parents can come watch us fuck up Toronto next week. Is also Pride Night.” 

It might be too much for him, though. Ilya hopes not. It would be nice to have all of them there to watch him play. Yuna and David have come when they were free, but never Shane. 

“Yes.” 

“That would make me very happy.” There’s a knock on the door and Ilya rolls himself off the bed, eager to receive the pile of food he’s ordered. “Hold on. My dinner is here.”

He sets the phone down and answers the door. The girl on the other side hands him a large paper bag with handles and he gives her a nice tip. He carries it to the table, props the phone up against a plastic sign affixed to the table that says No Smoking and removes the food from the bag. 

Shane laughs at him. “Gross.”

“Don’t judge. I am hungry,” Ilya says. “Admit it. It looks delicious.” 

“Yeah. Good.” 

Ilya shoves an onion ring into his mouth and chews. “So what else did you do today?” 

“Nap.” 

“That sounds nice. I wish I was there to nap with you.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes. We will have a nice long nap tomorrow. Together.” 

Shane beams at him. Ilya is looking forward to having a day off, at home, with the people he loves. This has felt like one of the longest trips of his life.  

The lock on the door beeps, then opens. Luca peeks his head in. 

“Is okay, Luca. Come in.” 

“You are in your underwear.” 

“You see me in my underwear all the time.”

“Yes, but…” Luca looks pointedly at Ilya’s phone.

“Oh, is just Hollander. Say hi, Shane.” 

“Hello,” Shane says. 

Luca looks at him like he’s insane. Ilya supposes, from the outside, this does look weird. Luca doesn’t know they’re anything more than friends.

“Hello, Hollander.” Luca comes a little further into the room. Troy pokes his head in the door behind him. 

“Hey, you okay?” Troy asks. 

"Sorry. Just a moment,” Ilya says to Shane. He puts his burger back down. “I am fine, Troy. Just eating dinner and talking to Hollander.” 

“In your underwear?” 

Shane sends him a confused frown. He probably has questions, too.   

“I was not planning on a party in my room,” Ilya says. “Do you want to say hello, Troy?”    

“Uh, sure?” Troy comes closer and leans down so that Shane can see him. “Hi. I’m Troy. Barrett.” 

“Hi,” Shane says. “Good… good game.” 

“Thanks,” Troy says. He’s obviously nervous but pleased to hear it, especially from one of his idols. “Ilya says you’re doing better.” 

“Walked today.” 

“That’s awesome,” Troy says. “Glad to hear it.” 

“What was the final score?” Ilya asks. 

“7-1,” Troy says. 

“Who got the last one?”

“Me!” Luca yells from the bathroom. 

“Who do you think is MVP this game?” Ilya asks and shoves another onion ring in his mouth. 

“Wyatt,” Shane says. 

“Yeah. Definitely Wyatt.” Troy agrees. “He didn’t let shit through.” 

Ilya is incredibly pleased that Shane is keeping up with the conversation and even seems to be enjoying it. Maybe, getting to talk to Ilya’s teammates this way will make him more willing to socialize with them. It would be nice to take him to Monks or Bood’s without Shane worrying about it looking weird. 

“Hollander might be at our game against Toronto. With his parents,” Ilya says. “So we will have to humiliate them in his honor.”

“I can’t fucking wait,” Troy says. “So, um, about that game. It’s Pride Night, right? I told the other guys already but I’m, um, gonna come out. Just so you know. Harris is working on the video for socials tomorrow.”

“This is great news, Troy,” Ilya says, though on the inside he’s insanely jealous. “I’m happy for you.” 

“Congrats,” Shane says, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes, too. 

“Have you told the team you are dating Harris yet?” 

“I did. After the game.” 

“And they were happy for you?” 

“Yeah. They were great. They already knew, though." 

“Good for you, Troy,” Ilya says. "I told you."

He looks at Shane and wishes he could do the same. Shane looks back at him, and Ilya knows Shane can see it in his face.

There’s another knock on the door. Luca pops out of the bathroom to open it. It’s Harris, followed by Bood, Dykstra, and Wyatt. 

“Jesus Christ, who invited all of you?” Ilya asks. He takes a bite of the carrot cake and stares at the growing number of very large men wearing suits in his room. “This is looking like the beginning of some very filthy porn.” 

“You wish,” Dykstra says with a laugh. 

“You okay Cap?” Bood asks. “Heard you fucked up your knee.”

“No. I’m fine. Terry gave me the all-clear.” To Shane, he apologizes. “I was not expecting the whole team to show up unannounced in my room.”

“It’s… okay,” Shane says. 

“Hey, is that Hollander?” Bood asks and rushes over to the table. Ilya had no idea Bood would be so interested. Bood elbows him aside so that his face is all Shane can see. “Hey man! How are you feeling?” 

“Great,” Shane says. “Better.” 

“You’re still in Ottawa, right?” Bood asks but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m having a barbecue the day after the Toronto game to celebrate Troy’s big coming out. You should come. It’s super casual, lots of food, good people. Make this loser come pick you up. It’ll be a good time. Promise.” 

Ilya elbows Bood in the ribs for practically leaning on top of him. “Do you not know the meaning of personal space?” 

“Say yes, Hollander,” Bood says, ignoring Ilya’s complaint. “Come have food with us.” 

“Please say yes!” Harris chimes in, crowding in on Ilya’s other side. “Hi! I’m Harris, by the way. I’m the team’s Social Media manager and Troy’s boyfriend. Lucky me, right?” 

“Just had to get Troy’s boyfriend in there, didn’t you?” Ilya asks. 

“Look, when you’re dating one of the Hottest Men in Hockey, you advertise that shit,” Harris says, gloating. “I landed myself a ten. I’m proud of it.”  

“Oh my god,” Troy mutters. “I’m gonna take it all back.”

“Way too late for that,” Harris says. "Already broke up with the slow cooker."

"Bullshit," Troy says. 

Ilya decides not to ask for an explanation and looks at Shane instead. If they only knew he’d bagged himself a ten, too. “Do you want to go? To the barbecue?”

“Okay,” Shane says, much to Ilya’s surprise. “Yes.” 

“Awesome,” Bood says, pushing Ilya aside again. “You won’t be disappointed, man.”

Ilya pushes back. “I am sorry my teammates are so rude,” Ilya tells him. He switches to Russian. “You do not have to say yes if you don’t want to go.” 

“I do,” Shane says back, also in Russian. “Bored… Lonely.” 

That kind of hurts Ilya’s heart. He hasn’t thought of how isolating it must be for him. Not only is he still unsure of what happened, but he’s also stuck at Ilya’s house, and his only interaction with other people are just doctor’s visits, his various therapy sessions, and his parents.

“I am sorry we can’t talk in private. I will be home soon,” Ilya says, still in Russian. “I miss you very much. I can’t wait to see you.” 

“Miss you.” 

“I didn’t know you speak Russian, Hollander,” Bood says. He picks up one of Ilya’s onion rings. Ilya slaps his hand and Bood drops it back into the container. “Did anyone else know that?”

“I did,” Wyatt says. He dips his head down next to Ilya. “He and Ilya switch to Russian when they don’t want anyone to know what they’re saying. Hi Shane. How are you doing?” 

Shane waves, happy to see Wyatt. “Good.”

“And how do you know that?” Ilya demands. 

“Hockey camps,” Wyatt says. “I’m a goalie. I notice everything.” 

“Is mostly bad words we don’t want the kids to hear,” Ilya says. “Right, Hollander?”

“Yep.”

“Sure,” Wyatt says, unconvinced. “If you say so.”

“Okay, okay, back off everybody. You are breathing on my food,” Ilya says. “I’m sorry, Hollander. We will talk tomorrow when my room isn’t filled with weirdos.” 

“Yeah, but we’re your weirdos,” Dykstra says. 

Ilya ignores them and focuses on Shane.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Zavtra.”

“Da. Zavtra. Spokoynoy nochi.” Ilya ends the call reluctantly. They’re all looking at him. “What?” 

“I’m not gonna be the one to say it,” Bood says. “I don’t wanna get punched.”

“Say what?” Ilya demands. “What does that mean?” 

“Leave it alone, guys,” Troy says. “It’s no one’s business.” 

“No, tell me.” Ilya has a feeling he doesn't actually want to know. And maybe that he already knows. Because he's still doing a really terrible job of hiding. 

“Some of them think there’s something going on. With you. And Hollander,” Troy says stiffly. “Not that it’s any of their business if there is. Like I keep telling them.” 

Fuck. This is his own fucking fault, too. He’s made it really fucking obvious without even meaning to. 

The worst part is, he can’t even bring himself to deny it. 

Chapter 11

February 23, 2021

10:01 PM

Columbus

Ilya has to salvage this somehow. They’re all looking at him, except for Troy and Luca. Luca is standing awkwardly in the hall by the bathroom door, blushing furiously. Ilya wants to be angry with them for confronting him like this, because what the fuck, and he should be, but he has not been careful at all. They all know he’s on the phone with Shane every night, and if not on the phone, he’s texting or watching the videos Yuna sends of his physical therapy. 

He’s been under the impression they just assume Shane’s friendship is important to him, but in hindsight, it looks like what it is – love. 

So what else are they supposed to think? 

“Who came up with this theory?” he finally asks. 

“Me,” Dykstra says. “It was kind of a joke. At first. Until we started noticing stuff.” 

If Dykstra saw it, then everyone must see it. Dykstra might be an outdoorsman and a skilled hunter, but when it comes to people, he’s not exactly the most observant.  

“Like what?” 

“You really think any of us believe you’re Batman?” Bood says. “Or a gigolo? Or that you work the night shift at McDonalds? Telling us you’re in love with Hollander is the least crazy thing you’ve said, man.”

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in his chest again. He damps it down, but barely. Here he thought he’d thrown them off the scent, and had only managed to lead them right to the truth. 

Fuck.

“You’ve been different since the plane crash, Roz,” Bood says with a shrug. “Like, really sad and, I don’t know, scared when you don’t think anyone’s paying attention. You’re glued to your phone and it’s always Hollander or his mom and you get real quiet afterward. And all that stuff  Kent said –” 

“Kent is an idiot,” Ilya says. 

“Yeah, we get that, but look, you’re not acting like he’s just your friend. That’s married behavior, you know? That’s how I’d act if something bad happened to Cassie.” 

Has he really been that obvious? He supposes so, since they’re gathered in his room like they’re staging an intervention.  

“None of us give a shit who you’re dating or hooking up with,” Bood says. “You could be having a torrid affair with the Pope –”

Ilya snorts. “Yes. I am in love with the Pope. I fit in trips to the Vatican between games.”  

“Be quiet smartass,” Bood says. “My point is, nobody’s judging, as long as you’re happy, but you’re starting to scare the shit out of us.” 

“I’m fine. You are all making a big deal out of things you don’t understand.” 

“You’re not fine,” Dykstra says. “You fell out twice during a game in the last month and you’ve never done that before.” 

“That part,” Bood says. “So the only reasonable explanation is that A, you’re sick and you’re not telling us, B, you’ve got some unrequited crush on Hollander –”

“What is un…” Ilya’s heard this word before but can’t remember what it means.

“The feelings aren’t returned,” Harris chimes in. 

Ilya almost assures them they are indeed returned, but that would confirm they’re right. 

“Or C, this thing is serious and you’re making yourself sick worrying about him,” Bood says.

“And all of you think this.” 

“Some more than others,” Dykstra says. He flicks his gaze to Troy for a second, then returns it to Ilya. “But whatever’s going on, we’re worried as hell about you, man." 

Ilya wishes he could self-destruct right where he sits. For years, he and Shane have protected their relationship, and somehow he’s managed to undo all of that in less than two months. The fact that this is coming from a place of concern lessens the impact of getting caught a little bit, but it still chafes that he’s been so transparent. Especially with the commissioner breathing down his neck about it. 

“I told you, I am fine,” he says. “I’m playing better than I have in a long time, we are winning, maybe going to the playoffs –” 

“This is not about hockey, Ilya,” Bood says. “It’s not even about Hollander, though if we’re right, good for you, man, but we just really want you to know, we’re here if you need us. And for fuck’s sake, stop acting like you have to deal with shit all by yourself. You should know by now, we got each other’s backs. On and off the ice.” 

Humbled, Ilya nods and looks at the floor. 

“Barbecue invite still stands. Hope we didn’t scare you off by being assholes who won’t mind their own business.”

“I will think about it,” Ilya says. He doesn’t think Shane will want to go if he knows they all figured it out. He might not even speak to Ilya again for being unable to hide it. Being outed is Shane’s worst nightmare, and something pre-crash he worried about endlessly. 

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. We won’t be weird or anything,” Dykstra says.

Ilya is suddenly exhausted. He tosses his leftovers in the wastebasket next to the table and glances at all the concerned faces around him. Troy looks furious, Luca embarrassed. The others are looking at him expectantly. 

He has nothing to say. There’s nothing he can say. They’re right. He does keep everything to himself, but he always has. He’s never had another choice, nor was he raised to share his burdens with others. Russians didn’t do that. It was a sign of weakness. 

“Okay. I need everyone out now,” Ilya says. “I need my beauty sleep. Doctor’s orders.” 

They file out of the room, except for Luca, who is the only one who actually belongs there, and Troy, and Wyatt, who don’t. 

“I’m sorry you got ambushed,” Wyatt says. “Bood and D decided we needed to talk to you as a team because we’re all really worried. Probably should have just been me and Troy, not the whole gang and whatever theory they decided on.”  

“Is okay. Was going to come out sooner or later,” Ilya says. 

“I’m also really sorry you’ve been going through all this by yourself. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been.” 

All Ilya can do is nod. Wyatt doesn’t know the half of it.

“Anyway, get some rest. Early flight.” 

“Yes. You too.” 

Wyatt leaves. Troy shakes his head, clearly still irritated with the others. 

“They meant well,” Ilya says. “And they are right. I am making myself sick.” 

“I’m just sorry. About the whole fucking thing.” 

“I am not angry.” 

Troy shuffles his feet, his polished dress shoes catch the light. He looks very young, and a little scared himself.

“Maybe you should come out, too. It would be nice to have some company out there,” Troy says with a hint of a smile. “Crowell would shit his pants.” 

Ilya chuckles. “It would almost be worth it. But, it is still not only my secret to tell. Look how easily you figured it out, once you knew I was bisexual.” 

Across the room, Luca’s eyes bug out of his head.

“I didn’t know, really,” Troy says, “not for sure. Not until Houston.” 

“I am that much of a mess, huh?” Ilya asks with a tired laugh. 

“You kind of are, but I can’t really blame you.” 

Poor Luca is still hovering in the hallway, looking absolutely scandalized. 

“Why are you hiding over there?” Ilya asks. “Is your room, too.” 

“Don’t be mad at me. I didn’t know,” Luca says quickly. “I swear, no one told me. I wasn’t part of –”

Ilya grins at his nervousness and waves him toward his own bed. “And now you know.”

“I’m going to head to bed,” Troy says. “See you in the morning.” 

“Good night, Troy.” 

Luca doesn’t speak again until both of them are in their beds and the light is off. 

“Are you okay, Ilya?” Luca asks. 

“No,” Ilya says honestly. “But I will be better tomorrow.” 

February 24, 2021

1:00 PM

Ottawa

Due to a flight delay, Ilya almost doesn’t make his appointment with Galina. Traffic moved at a glacial pace, and Ilya arrived with one minute to spare, still dressed in his suit. He didn’t sleep well and he’s overtired and he could honestly use that nap he promised Shane yesterday, so he’s not sure how productive this appointment is going to be. 

“I thought you’d given up on our sessions,” Galina says as she closes the door behind her. Ilya sinks onto the couch, feeling scolded, even though she said it with kindness. “How have things been?” 

“You keep track,” Ilya says. “You know how things have been.” 

“Yes. I think I do. How are you dealing with the aftermath of the crash?” She takes a seat in the chair across from him, a folder and a notebook in her lap. 

“Not well. It has been very hard to see Shane like this,” Ilya says. “He is doing better, but he is not himself. Talking is not easy for him right now.”

“It is always difficult to see someone we love struggling or in pain,” she says. “I imagine it’s even harder being away.” 

“I just wanted to be home with him,” Ilya says. “My entire fucking team figured it out because I’ve been so worried about him.” 

“You mean they learned about your relationship with Shane?” 

“I am doing a very bad job of keeping it secret. I can’t help it.” He sighs and shifts gears. “I had a panic attack during the last game. Our team doctor wants you to get in touch to discuss a course of action.” 

Ilya digs a card out of his wallet and hands it across to her. She takes it and paperclips it to what he assumes is his file. He wonders what she’s written in there. 

Patient is a giant crybaby who misses his mommy. Patient has too much money to be this sad. Patient is a drama queen engaged in an inappropriate relationship with his rival.  

“Thank you,” she says. “Have you confided in anyone since our last meeting, like we discussed?" 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Both are players, both gay, one is out, the other is about to be. They are good people. I can trust them.” 

“Was it helpful?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t told either of them very much,” Ilya says. “It is very hard to talk about something I’ve kept hidden for so many years.”

“But you want to.”

“Yes and I also want it to not matter as much as it does,” Ilya says. “Who I love should not put our careers or reputations at risk. I should not have to worry that I will lose my job if we are found out. Is not something anyone should have to hide.” 

“I agree, but that’s not the world we live in,” she says. “Did telling them lift the burden any?”

“Maybe a little,” he says. “But I am also very jealous. They are both able to be open about who they love. I am jealous of anyone who gets to do that.”

“That’s understandable,” she says. “Let’s go back to the panic attack you mentioned. Tell me what happened.” 

Ilya describes what he remembers, which isn’t particularly interesting. Standard game day stuff. There was nothing specific that set it off, no trigger that tipped the scales. Just that heaviness he’d carried all day. And then it had crashed down on him, all at once, without warning, and he hadn’t been able to stop it.

“And that’s the first time you’ve had one?” 

“Once when I was a boy. Maybe a week after my mother died. I hid in a closet until it stopped.”

“Nothing after that?” 

“I don’t know if it counts,” he says. “It was while we were waiting for news. In Houston.” 

He tells her about it, about Scott being there to witness it, and it’s every bit as dramatic as he remembers. Thinking of it now makes his eyes burn. God, he’d been so scared, and so sure that his whole life was about to crumble to dust. 

“I would say it counts,” she concludes. “And I would say they both have the same trigger.” 

“And what is that?” 

“What do you think it is?” she asks. 

Ilya doesn’t think he can name it specifically. That feels dangerous. Like taking a wrecking ball to an occupied building.    

“My teammates think I’m making myself sick with worry.” 

“Are you?” 

Ilya thinks about it for a minute. His worry has been lessened greatly by Shane’s progress, but he has other concerns that are more insidious and more deeply buried.

“Maybe. I am scared that Shane is never going to be okay. That he won’t be able to play hockey again and it will break him. I am scared that he will be okay but will be a different person. That once he’s fully healed, he will realize that he doesn’t –” 

This is something Ilya has not been able to acknowledge, let alone think about. It’s always been in the back of his mind, that he’s not really worthy of Shane or his love, that this thing between them is nothing more than lust for Shane. Even with evidence to the contrary in front of him, those doubts are still there. 

“That he doesn’t love you?” Galina finishes. “What would he say if you told him you thought you were unworthy?” 

“He would call me an idiot,” Ilya says. 

“Do you think his feelings would be hurt?”

“Maybe. Probably,” Ilya says. “Yes. They would. He would be offended. I know he loves me. But my brain sometimes tries to convince me he doesn’t.”

“Brains lie sometimes,” she says with a small smile. “Since the crash, when you are home, how much of your time is spent caring for him?” 

“Most of it,” Ilya says and immediately feels defensive. “But I want to. He would do the same for me.” 

“Of course you do. But, does caring for him make you feel better or worse?” 

“Better. I feel useful.” 

“And how do you feel when you can’t do anything to help?”

Ilya doesn’t want to answer that. She’s waiting, maddeningly patient and still. He suspects she could easily wait him out until he breaks. 

“Useless,” he finally says. It’s barely a whisper. “I feel useless.”

“Even when things are outside of your control?”

“Especially then.” 

3:15 PM

Ottawa

Ilya returns home to an empty house. There’s a note stuck to the fridge letting him know Yuna has taken Shane to an appointment and that there’s some leftover pasta and salad if he’s hungry. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but he doesn’t feel like eating. He’s exhausted and scraped raw on the inside. 

Upstairs, he considers a shower, but changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt instead, and heads back down to the guest room. There, he crawls into bed and wraps himself in freshly laundered linens that smell of Shane’s detergent, not his own. It’s comforting to feel him so close, though he isn’t here. 

When Ilya wakes up, Shane is there, curled up against his side, sleeping soundly.  Ilya must have been completely out, not to wake up when he arrived. 

Ilya can’t see his face, but he can see the scar on his scalp peeking out beneath nearly seven weeks of hair growth. It’s a pale, silvery pink that will soon be hidden completely. Ilya runs a fingertip lightly over it, regretting its very existence. 

Shane stirs, his face nuzzling against Ilya’s chest. Ilya turns to face him, draws him close, and wraps an arm around his back. His reward is a contented sigh, a warm breath against the crook of his neck. Ilya wishes he could keep Shane here forever, safe from anything that might hurt him. 

Ilya can tell by Shane’s breathing that he’s not asleep, but neither of them say anything for a while. It’s nice, to just lay tangled up together, warm and comfortable, without any of the world’s demands hanging over their heads. 

When Shane shifts and throws a leg over Ilya’s, Ilya finally notices the cast is gone. 

“No more cast,” Ilya murmurs sleepily. 

“Gone,” Shane murmurs back. 

Ilya dozes off for a while, and when he wakes again, it’s gotten dark outside and Yuna is in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. “Sorry to wake you guys,” she says. “Dinner is almost ready.” 

Whatever David is making smells amazing. Buttery and garlicy and his stomach rumbles at the thought of a hearty, home cooked meal after such a long, stressful trip. 

He needs to talk to Shane about his team, but that will have to happen later. 

“Okay. We will be out in a minute.” 

Ilya gently rouses Shane once Yuna closes the door, peppering his face with soft kisses that he immediately regrets. It’s been two whole months since they’ve had sex and it’s turning him on something fierce. He aches to touch and be touched in return. He aches for the kind of satisfaction and release that only Shane can give him. 

Sex has always been the cornerstone of their relationship – it’s practically a form of communication between them, and to have that piece missing feels like a piece of him is missing. Maybe a piece of Shane, too. 

Shane limps toward the door, taking his steps carefully as if his left leg or ankle is still tender. Ilya can’t say if it’s the weakness on Shane’s left side that he noted previously, or if it’s from being unable to move his ankle for so long, or a combination of both. 

“Do you need help?” Ilya asks, but Shane shakes his head. 

Before they step out into the hall, Shane pushes Ilya back against the doorframe and kisses him hungrily. It’s been two weeks since they’ve seen each other and Ilya is desperate for anything, any kind of reciprocation, even if it’s just a chaste peck on the lips, but it’s almost more than he can stand. There’s more heat in Shane’s kiss than Ilya expected, his hands wandering Ilya’s chest, and god, does he wish he could drag him back to the bed and find out how much they can get away with. 

Ilya doesn’t know if it’s safe to do anything at all yet. He doesn’t want to hurt Shane’s progress or cause any unintentional damage to any part of him that might still be healing. Something to find out, maybe. Even then, Shane will be the one in the driver’s seat. Ilya doesn’t want to take advantage.  

“I missed you,” Ilya says when he finally pulls back.

“Missed you,” Shane echoes. 

“We should go eat,” Ilya says.  

David has made chicken parmesan. Ilya is reminded that he promised to have that conversation with them and he’s now reluctant to have it. He’s already poured his heart out once today – and Galina dragged things out of him this afternoon that he hadn’t expected – he spilled all his reasons for believing he’s useless, so he’s not sure if he can handle spilling his guts again. 

He owes them the truth. 

Food first, though. 

Ilya dives into his chicken parm with gusto, relishing the flavor of a perfectly breaded cutlet smothered in sauce and delicious garlic knots. Beside him, Shane struggles with the knife, holding it underhand again. Ilya stops eating and gently corrects his grip and is rewarded with an annoyed look. 

“Pride Night is in three days. One of my teammates is coming out,” he tells them. “I thought maybe the three of you could come, for support.” 

“Oh, who is it?” Yuna asks, her face brightening.  

“Troy Barrett,” Ilya says. “His family will probably not be there. Mom is away travelling, Dad will probably disown him when he finds out. Would be nice to have good people there for him.”  

“He seemed like a nice boy,” David says. “Not at all like the rumors about him.”

“He has become a good friend, I think.”

Ilya ignores Shane’s sideways glance. Jealousy, he suspects. Ilya is jealous, too, but not for the same reasons. 

“We would love to go,” Yuna says. “But I’m not sure if Shane’s ready for a crowd yet.” 

“Not a baby,” Shane reminds her.  

“Fine,” she says. “But if you start to get a headache, we’ll have to go.” 

This is the first Ilya’s heard of any headaches and he has a good reason to be worried. Especially if he’s having them and not telling anyone. Or not able to tell anyone. They’re common enough with head injuries and concussions, but bad ones can sometimes mean bad things, too. 

“Are you having headaches?” Ilya asks.  

Shane nods and points to the spot over his right eye, where he’d fractured his skull. 

“It seems to be flickering light triggering it,” Yuna says with disapproval. “He gets one every time he watches TV or uses the iPad with the lights off. Even though he’s not supposed to.”

“You know better than that,” Ilya says. 

Shane shrugs like it’s no big deal. 

“A couple of them have been bad,” Yuna says. “Not even the medication worked.” 

“Yellow… mom.” 

“You can’t use that as a measure to tell me how much I’m annoying you,” Yuna says. 

“Red.” 

“Very funny.” 

The conversation turns to other things, mostly Yuna’s plan to procure some jerseys with Troy’s name on them to wear to the game. It’s nice that the Hollander’s aren’t just willing to support Shane and Ilya, but also others. 

Ilya thinks of his own father, his brother. Neither would be caught dead supporting him if he ever publicly came out. 

Not that he’d want them there. Even if they could be. 

9:45 PM

They retire to the guest room, Ilya feeling just a little lighter than before. He sits on the bed with Shane’s freshly un-casted leg in his lap, inspecting the terrible, jagged scar on his calf, wondering what caused it. Shane will probably never be able to tell him. For all Ilya knows, Shane might not have been conscious when it happened. 

The muscle of his calf is much smaller than his right. A consequence of the injury, but it’s not permanent. With a little bit of hard work, it will come back. His ankle is stiff, too, and Ilya gently rolls the joint in his hands and massages his heel and instep. Shane groans contentedly.

It felt good to unburden himself to his family. Good to not be mocked or judged for it. 

He hadn’t held back either. He said more than he planned to say, which was initially, just that he was seeing a therapist for depression. 

Somehow, that led to him telling them everything – the fact that he hadn’t been allowed to grieve for his mother properly, how terrible his father had been to her, and about all the various abuses she’d suffered at his hands, which were many. He even talked about his fear that he was like his mother and about the occasional intrusive thoughts about walking into the river or driving his car into a tree, and how sometimes, he felt so alone he could convince himself that he was the only person left in the world. And how other times, he felt too seen and just wanted to disappear. 

They’d been upset to hear it, sure. Especially Shane, but they were upset because they loved him, not because he sounded like a stupid crybaby who had no right to be depressed. He’d feared that – he was one of the most famous players in the league, he had buckets of money, brand deals, nice cars, a huge, beautiful house in a nice neighborhood, everything money could buy and it wasn’t enough. To his own ears, he’d sounded entitled, as if he had no right to be sad. 

But they’d been so supportive. All three of them. That felt good.  

He’d like to keep riding that good feeling, but now he has to have another hard conversation – one he’s sure will have a less positive outcome. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Ilya says. Shane turns over to look at him. “I think you are going to be angry with me.” 

Shane blinks at him a couple of times. Maybe tired and unable to come up with something to say back. 

Ilya drops onto his side, and pats the space beside him. He wants to be able to look Shane in the eye when he says it. 

Once Shane has moved closer, Ilya kisses his forehead and drops an arm loosely around his waist. 

“My team knows. About us.” 

Shane sits back up and stares at Ilya in horror. “Why?” 

“I did not tell them,” Ilya says. “Okay, I joked about it one time, but I have told them so many crazy things that I didn’t think they would believe it.” 

Shane’s expression turns dark and confused.

“They ask where I go when we are not playing. I never tell the truth,” Ilya says. “I have said that I drive for Uber, work for the CIA, I entertain older women on OnlyFans, am a bouncer at a strip club. Things like that. So what I said, they took as a joke. But…” 

Shane's posture remains stiff. Not a good sign. “OnlyFans?” 

“Was funny at the time. They believed that one,” Ilya says with a small laugh. “But, now, with everything going on, they noticed that I was acting different. I thought I was doing a good job of keeping my feelings hidden, but I wasn’t. They figured it out.”  

“Ilya.” 

It’s said with irritation, colored with fear, and Ilya can understand why. They have both worked so hard and sacrificed so much to keep their secret safe and Ilya has completely unravelled it. He’s unintentionally broken Shane’s trust, too, and that part bothers him a lot more than the team knowing. 

“I know and I’m sorry,” Ilya says. “But do you remember watching the documentary about us? Do you remember what you said about the footage of me after Marlow took you out?” 

Shane nods.  

“How could they see this and not know?” Ilya says. “It was something like that, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“I have been walking around looking like that for almost two months now. And I didn’t know it.” Ilya reaches for Shane, but he stays where he is. “But they saw it and they knew.” 

“Not good.” There’s anger growing in Shane’s eyes. “Ilya. Not good.” 

“I know. But if it was me, do you think you could hide it?” Ilya asks. “If you were constantly worried that I was not going to be okay, would you be able to pretend everything was fine?” 

Shane swallows hard and his lips press together, but he doesn’t say anything. Not even a shake or nod of his head. 

“I have been so scared this whole time. I am still scared, Shane. Everyday.” 

“Why?” 

“You know what happens with brain injuries sometimes,” Ilya says. “I don’t want to lose you and I know that I might.” 

Shane’s eyes move back and forth, like he’s reading from the pages of a book. His jaw works and his cheeks color. He’s pissed and doesn’t know how to say it. 

“I am sorry,” Ilya says. “I did not mean for it to happen.” 

“Go.” Shane’s eyes are cold and flinty. His jaw clenches.

“Shane –” 

“Go. Now.”

It’s an order, not a request. 

Getting punched in the nuts would be less painful than the way Shane is looking at him right now. The betrayal is written all over his face and Ilya can’t even be mad about it.

Ilya climbs slowly off the bed, feeling like shit for not being tougher or stronger or better able to pretend he’s not ridiculously in love with Shane Fucking Hollander. 

He’s not sure how else to make Shane understand. Maybe he’s not capable of understanding how difficult it’s been. That isn’t Shane’s fault, either. 

But if Shane wants him to go, then he will go. 

February 25

11:02 AM 

Ottawa

A loud banging wakes Ilya from sound sleep and he jackknifes into a sitting position, unsure of where he is for a moment. For a second, he thinks he’s still on the road, in some hotel somewhere in the States, still too many days away from going home. 

“Housekeeping!” A voice calls outside the door. 

Ilya climbs out of the bed, alone and still fully dressed, and goes to the door. On the other side, a harrassed-looking woman stands next to a cart laden with towels and cleaning products. She stares at him, obviously put out that he’s still here. 

“Check out was at ten,” she says. 

“I am so sorry,” he says. “I overslept. I will be out of your way in just a minute.” 

Ilya scans the room for any belongings, but the only thing he sees is his wool coat and his shoes. No carry-on bag or laptop. His wallet and phone are in the pockets. 

He remembers now. He’s back in Ottawa, but took off after Shane ordered him out of the guest room. For a while, he’d driven around the city until he could barely keep his eyes open. Instead of going home and sleeping in his own bedroom, he’d checked into a hotel downtown and had finally fallen asleep around 4AM. 

On the dresser, he leaves a tip, even though he barely used the room, and apologizes again to the housekeeper on the way out. At the desk downstairs, he checks out, then sits in his car with the engine running, staring at his phone. There’s a missed call from Yuna. A reminder there’s a meeting at one and practice at three. And nothing else worth looking at. 

He doesn’t want to go home, but he needs to grab his bag from the house before he heads to the arena. 

Yuna’s in the kitchen when he arrives and he blazes past her and up the stairs to his room to grab his things. His heart hurts, but he holds it in. Now is not the time to dwell on it, and he supposes he deserves Shane’s anger. From now on, he’s just going to have to shut it down and do what needs to be done. 

He hopes to be able to slip out before Yuna can stop him, but he’s not that lucky. She’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs when he heads down and he braces himself for a lecture. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

“Yes. I have a meeting soon,” he says. “Not much time.”

“What happened? I heard you leave last night and Shane is now refusing to talk.” She frowns. “Did you two have a fight?” 

“No. Not really,” he says. “But Shane is upset with me. My team found out. About us.” 

He gives her the short version because time really is an issue. He expects her to tell him off for being so careless, but instead, she hugs him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I hate that this has to be a secret. I hadn’t even thought about how hard it might be for you to hide it with all this other stuff going on.” 

“Is my own fault,” he says. “I was not careful.” 

“I wish you didn’t have to be,” she says. “I’ll talk to him.” 

“Maybe it is better to let him be. He is not wrong to be angry with me.” 

“I’ll make him understand.” Yuna kisses his cheek.  

The afternoon blows by in a blur, though the meeting runs long due to a discussion about Crowell and his vendetta against activism, and the Centaurs in particular.

“The Cens GM and owners are on our side,” Wiebe says. “There’s nothing Crowell can legally do to you for posting about your personal causes, guys. So those of you that have gotten calls from him to stop, ignore it. As long as you aren’t publicly trashing someone else or promoting violence, management wants you to keep doing it.”   

Dykstra chimes in that he knows a player from Jersey got a call from Crowell, too. That guy was posting resources for victims of domestic violence and started a foundation of his own last year, after growing up watching his mother suffer at the hands of his stepfather.

Crowell thought it was a dig at a player from Colorado who got arrested for beating his wife within an inch of her life. Ilya thinks it’s insane the guy seems to think every single cause is a slight against the league.  

Ilya’s starting to think Crowell is losing his grip on reality. He’s definitely out of touch. Things have changed in the last 20 years. Maybe not a lot, but there has been progress and people, some of the fans included, aren’t willing to stand for a lot of the things they used to ignore.    

Ilya gets the name of the foundation from Dykstra, shares the post, and then publicly pledges $10,000. It’s a good cause, and it’s also a really great way to show Crowell he’s not intimidated. He’s happy to see within 30 minutes, several other players do the same, including Scott Hunter, Troy, Carter Vaughn, JJ, and Cliff. Rose Landry shows everyone up with a $30,000 donation, and so does her friend Miles. 

After practice, he drives around for a while to clear his head. He’s not prepared to get the silent treatment from Shane, he wants to be forgiven, but he probably doesn’t deserve it. 

He sends Yuna a text to let her know he’ll be back late, and then grabs a greasy cheesesteak for dinner that he eats in his car at a park not so far from home. When he finishes, he throws the trash in a nearby bin, and then sits there staring into the darkness, watching lights glint off the river through the trees. 

For the first time, he questions whether or not all this is worth it. He’s feeling beaten down and empty, the way his family made him feel, though for different reasons this time. So many sacrifices he’d willingly made so that this would work, expecting he’d eventually reap the rewards, and at the moment, eventually seems so far off that it might as well be never. 

Ilya’s not the type to bail out when things get hard, but this is truly the hardest thing he’s ever done. It’s coming at him from all sides and he can only juggle so many things at once. 

Galina pointed out he has a tendency to put himself last, and that’s true for a lot of things. It makes him feel needed and wanted to do things for the people he loves. He rarely asks for or expects anything in return and his value and self-worth comes from being useful. It’s a good thing to want to help, but maybe he’s harming himself in the process by taking on too much at once.

Or maybe he’s just fucking tired. Spiritually. Emotionally. Physically. All the way to his bones. 

The only thing he really knows for sure is that he loves Shane Hollander and he’s scared shitless that when all is said and done, this is not going to turn out the way he wants it to. He’s terrified that all the work they’ve put into it will amount to nothing. 

It’s nearly ten by the time he finally starts his car. It’s after ten by the time he leaves the park. He considers a motel briefly, but that’s not going to solve anything. 

David is still awake when he arrives at home, watching the evening news with a cup of tea clutched in his hands. 

“I hope you are not waiting up for me,” Ilya says from the doorway. 

“I might have been,” David says. “Are you alright?” 

“No.” Ilya doesn’t elaborate. “How is Shane?” 

“Still not speaking, apparently.” David sighs and shakes his head. “He also refused to participate in his speech therapy today.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says. “My fault.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I can’t prove it, but I think he’s being stubborn,” David says. “He used to do that when he was little and his feelings got hurt. He’d shut us out until he got over it. I thought he grew out of it, but I guess everything he’s going through, maybe he reverted a little.”

Maybe, but this is bigger than hurt feelings. 

“He’ll be okay in a few days,” David says. “Don’t take it too personal.” 

“I will try not to.” 

“I should turn in. Will I see you tomorrow?” 

“No, we have a game. Winnipeg. I will be home late.”

David gives his arm a squeeze as he bids him goodnight, carrying the teacup back to the kitchen. Ilya watches him go, then trudges up the stairs, crawls into bed, and falls asleep alone.  

February 27, 2021

7:00 PM

Ottawa

The arena is packed. Shane has only been here a couple of times since he was a kid, and it was never a full house. Ottawa has been such a terrible team historically, that even their die-hard fans hardly show up for games anymore. 

This is something totally different. 

Shane looks around at all the banners and signs for Troy Barrett, at all the rainbow flags and t-shirts and jerseys with his name on them. The amount of support for him is… impressive. 

On the ice, the team is warming up on their half of the rink, wearing rainbow-themed jerseys, with rainbow tape on their sticks. The jumbotron is playing a short, stylish video on a loop, featuring photos and video of Troy – practice, various goals, a visit to the children’s hospital, some truly impressive trick-shots, promo photos, and a picture of Ilya next to Troy, both in stupid Christmas sweaters, in front of a Christmas tree. Ilya’s holding a fluffy black puppy that’s got a mouthful of the pom-pom of his Santa hat.

Shane’s never seen that one before, but Ilya looks so happy, it kind of breaks Shane’s heart. He can’t remember the last time Ilya laughed like that. 

“This is incredible,” Mom says. She drops an arm around Shane’s shoulders and squeezes. “And so brave, to do this without any family here.” 

Shane has to agree with that. He could never do something like this without the support of his family behind him. He’s not sure he’d ever be brave enough to do it, even with them behind him. It’s such a public spectacle, and maybe that’s not his style. It actually kind of sucks that it’s even necessary. In a perfect world, no one would need to do this at all. In a perfect world, it wouldn’t be a big production. 

There’s a ceremony of sorts, and the applause for Troy is deafening. Mom puts her hands over his ears to muffle it, but it’s still so, so loud and it lasts a long, long time. 

Kind of amazing to see the city show up to embrace him like this. 

Every last Centaurs player hugs Troy Barrett before they head to the bench. Not performative hugs – these are genuine hugs and pats on the back and kind words for their teammate. 

Ilya goes last. He hugs Troy much longer than the others, and he pats his helmet a couple of times before releasing him. Shane can see Ilya’s face on the jumbotron – his eyes are wet and though he’s grinning from ear to ear with pride, his intense sadness is painfully obvious. 

That makes Shane’s own eyes mist over. Jealousy sparks up in his chest. Bitterness that they can’t have this, too. That their own journey was never this easy, and it never will be. 

Troy is the one who lines up for the puck drop instead of Ilya, and that roaring applause starts up again. The floor beneath him vibrates as thousands stomp their feet. 

What would it be like, to have this kind of support behind him, to be able to feel it and hear it in the air around him? To have so many people holding signs with his name on it. Or even better, both their names, Shane & Ilya, We Love You.

Shane tries to pay attention to the game but he gets lost in thought, regretting his reaction to Ilya telling him that his team knows. It was stupid and childish and Ilya was worried and scared, and maybe Shane has fucked things up for them by being irrational. He can’t pretend he knows what it’s been like for Ilya – he can barely make sense of what happened himself, but he gathers that it was Ilya’s worst nightmare. 

The people who know about them now are the same ones he just saw fully support Troy Barrett, without hesitation, publicly and on live TV. They’re the ones on ice right now with rainbow tape on their sticks, when other teams would never. 

His own team certainly wouldn’t have. They could barely handle him telling them he was gay. There were guys on his team that would wait to take a shower until after he was finished. He could only imagine their poor reaction if he ever dared to do something like this. 

He would not get the hugs and pats on the back and the kind words from most of them. If they ever found out it was Ilya, he imagined they’d probably drag him out behind the building and beat him half to death. 

Shane wonders, how much of this team’s acceptance is Ilya’s influence? He can’t imagine Ilya putting up with the same kind of shit that’s standard in other rooms. Maybe that’s the difference. Having a leader willing to stand up and push back, one that leads by example. 

He can’t honestly say he was ever that kind of leader. He was too eager to fit in, to let hockey do the talking, to speak up when he heard the slurs and microaggressions. 

Maybe Shane was just a coward. He sure feels like one.

“Looks like we have a special guest in the audience tonight,” one of the announcers says during a break. Shane looks up at the jumbotron, assuming it’s some local celebrity, and sees his own blank face – pale and thin, his hair much too short, barely recognizable. “I think this might be Shane Hollander’s first public appearance since the crash that claimed the lives of 26 members of the Voyaguer’s team and staff…” 

“Stand up, Shane,” Mom says with a gentle nudge but something clicks in his brain. It’s not a full picture, but something is clearer. “Shane. Can you hear me?” 

Shane stands up and turns around to show off his Barrett jersey for whichever camera might be on him. The crowd goes crazy and he’s not sure if it’s for him, or for Troy, or some combination of both, but he’d rather not undermine Troy’s celebration by making it about him. 

He’s having a hard time breathing. Or thinking straight. 

Twenty-six lives. 

A plane crash.

He was on that plane. 

When he turns back around, Ilya’s got an arm slung around Troy’s shoulders and they’re both looking up at him, each with a fist in the air. The clapping and cheering hasn’t stopped, but all Shane hears for a second is a screaming, shrieking wind, like the world is coming apart all around him. 

Then it’s gone and there’s only cheering. 

Shane sits. His dad’s arm goes around his shoulders.   

He almost died. 

He almost never got to see Ilya, or his parents, or Hayden or JJ or Rose ever again. But he lived, and that feels significant. Like he’s been given a second chance.  

Shane looks at the banners. The flags. The rainbow tape. All the jerseys and t-shirts with Troy’s name on it. 

And something important clicks into place. 

11:34 PM

Ilya only stayed at Monks for a couple of drinks. He couldn’t exactly beg off, knowing tonight’s win earned them a spot in the playoffs, but all he wanted to do was go home and crash all by himself in the privacy of his room. Seeing the support for Troy gave him hope that all was not lost for them, but it also left him on the ragged edge of despair because he can’t have that.

He enters the house as quietly as he possibly can, hangs his coat and kicks off his dress shoes at the door. His steps are cautious and silent against the tile, though there’s nothing he can do to stop the occasional creak of a step as he heads upstairs to his room. 

Ilya eases open his bedroom door and flicks on the light and is startled by a sudden movement on the bed – Shane, tangled in the blanket, peering at him with dark, sleepy eyes. 

He pauses, considering going back downstairs to the guest room, in case Shane is here because he got confused and is still too angry with him to talk. 

“Hey,” Shane says and holds out a hand to him. “Come here.”

Ilya puts his phone on charge, then strips off his suit jacket and slides onto the bed, hoping this is forgiveness or something like it. Shane loosens Ilya’s tie and tugs it over his head, then opens the top two buttons of his shirt. 

“Did you come up here by yourself?” Ilya asks. 

“Missed you,” Shane says. He blinks a couple of times. “Sorry.” 

“You are not mad at me anymore?” 

“Yes.”

“You are still mad at me.” 

Shane pauses. “Maybe.” 

Ilya brushes his fingers against the base of Shane’s neck in light circles. The stubble there has gone from scratchy to silky in the two weeks he’s been gone. Ilya wants to kiss him there, but he doesn’t want to start something they can’t finish. 

“Not good. I know,” Ilya says. “But you saw tonight. They are good people. They support us.”

He touches his lips to Shane’s, keeping it light and chaste. 

“It meant a lot to Troy to see you wearing his jersey,” Ilya says. “Made him very happy.”  

“Was…” Shane pauses. “Amazing.” 

“Yes. And also very hard for me.” Ilya’s throat gets tight. He traces Shane’s hairline with a fingertip. “I wanted that to be us.” 

The next part is going to be harder to say, but it has to be said. 

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” Ilya says. “If you had died, I would have had to grieve for you in private. No one would ever know how much I love you. I don’t want to live like that. I don’t think I can.” 

Shane sucks in a sharp breath, fear filling his eyes. Ilya lets the fingertip drift over the ridge of Shane’s cheekbone.  

“I am not saying I’m going to come out, or tell everyone about us. Not until you’re ready,” Ilya says. “But I want both. And I don’t want you to be mad at me for wanting that. Hiding is killing me.” 

Shane rolls away and grabs his phone from the nightstand. For a minute, he types furiously on the screen. Then Ilya’s own phone chimes a few times on the other nightstand where it’s charging. He picks it up and opens his texts.

[Jane] depressed

[Jane] my fault

[Jane] forcing you in closet

[Jane] not fair to you

Yes. No. Maybe. In a roundabout way, they’re all related, each thing contributing to the others. How to explain that, without sounding like he resents this, when, even now, it’s the best thing in his life?  

“It doesn’t help the depression, but that is not your fault. We agreed, yes?” Ilya asks. “That we would keep it to ourselves.” 

[Jane] almost died 

[Jane] doesn’t matter

[Jane] probably no hockey 

[Jane] so fuck it

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Ilya says. He suspects he knows, but he doesn’t want to let himself hope that he’s right. “Do you want to come out?” 

[Jane] not yet

[Jane] better first but

[Jane] we stop being careful

[Jane] no caring who knows

[Jane] or sees

There’s a pause. Then Shane starts typing again. 

[Jane] hockey or no hockey 

[Jane] i choose you

Chapter 12

February 27, 2021

11:45 PM

Ilya’s face shifts through several different emotions in rapid succession as he reads Shane’s texts. A heartbeat later, Ilya pins him back into the pillow and kisses every inch of his face, murmuring things in Russian that Shane doesn’t quite understand but he doesn’t need to. Shane understands, and he combs his fingers through Ilya’s soft curls, promising what he can’t say with words. 

It kills him to know just how much Ilya is hurting and how much pride it must have cost him to admit to it. It hurt to hear, but he can only imagine how much worse it must have been for Ilya to keep it to himself for so long. He hates that he ever made Ilya feel like he couldn’t talk about it. 

This must have been how his mom felt when he came out. Like she’d done something to close off that line of communication between them, or broken his trust somehow. In some ways she had. After all, Shane’s ideas of perfection were informed by her own lessons on image and professionalism. He’d taken them to heart, and in a hyper-masculine environment like professional hockey, being gay was a flaw, a black mark on a good name.

Not that he ever believed his parents would stop loving him for it. It was just something he’d internalized so deeply, he feared they would see him as less than because of it. 

Unlike his mother, Shane knows exactly what he did to cut off that discussion, and he feels like shit about it. 

Knowing what it cost Ilya hit Shane hard. Hearing Ilya talk about his pain had gutted him. Ilya was careful not to place blame, but for once, Shane read between the lines. It’s not just that he willingly moved to a boring city with a shitty team to be closer, it’s that he secretly and quietly fell apart a tiny bit at a time, all by himself, until it got unmanageable without help. 

Hiding was what broke him down and Shane had seen it happening in real time. He thought he had been helpless to do anything about it because Ilya wouldn’t talk to him, but Shane is as much to blame for that as Ilya is. The handful of times Ilya tried, Shane shut him down with his own fears of what might happen if the truth came out. So Ilya did the only thing he could do – he carried it in silence until the weight became unbearable. 

The hiding, the distance, the long lonely stretches of time only made it worse. 

Ilya deserves so much better than that. He’s always been so willing to give Shane whatever he needs. It’s time for Shane to return the favor. Because Shane deserves better, too.

It’s an easy decision to make. He chooses Ilya. That’s the only way they’ll get forever. 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s neck. “I wanted to tell you everything before. But the crash happened…” 

“It’s okay,” Shane says.  

It hasn’t really dawned on him until tonight that he must have come a lot closer to dying than he realized. He doesn’t know why that didn’t occur to him, but the details are still too foggy and entire pieces are still missing. It still seems more like a bad dream than anything else. 

Shane survived a plane crash. One that killed 26 people. He survived and Ilya wasn’t being dramatic about almost losing him. It wasn’t just a concussion and a broken bone. It was a lot worse than that, and Shane’s life might never be the same from now on. He might never be the same and that part is another one of those little missing pieces that finally slotted into place. 

One little twist of fate, and he would not be here right now. Shane does not want to think about what would have happened to Ilya if he’d died. He knows his own heart would have shattered into a thousand tiny little pieces if it had been Ilya, and he can’t imagine ever recovering from a loss like that.  

Another piece fell into place tonight, too. 

Something just as important.

All those plans they made for the future went out the window the second he understood that the world had shifted beneath his feet again. Seeing Troy Barrett and his brilliant smile getting a standing ovation, Ilya’s wet eyes, all those flags and banners – that changed everything, the same way Scott Hunter kissing Kip Grady on TV changed what might be possible for them. 

His memories might still be unclear, and his understanding of what actually happened is still muddled, but he’s absolutely clear on a couple of things. 

The first is that Ilya is it for him. There has never been anyone who makes him feel the way Ilya does. He doubts there will ever be. 

The second is that it’s fucking stupid to worry about what the world thinks of them. Life is too short to wait to get the things they want and deserve. All of it could be gone tomorrow, and there would be nothing to show for it. 

And if hockey is over for him, there’s nothing Shane can do about that. He doesn’t get a say in it. That’s the doctor’s decision, the team doctor’s decision, not his. 

What he does get a say in is this. Right here. This thing they’ve held so close to their hearts for so long deserves a chance to flourish. They deserve a chance and Shane is willing to fight for it if he has to. 

Too bad Shane can’t tell him any of this. He thinks Ilya needs to hear it. 

Ilya’s face is still buried in his neck, his breath hot and sticky, and his weight is half crushing him, but Shane wouldn’t trade this for anything. He came too damn close to never having it again.

It’s a while before Ilya pulls back and when he does, there’s so much tenderness in his face, so much love, so much relief, that Shane knows he’s made the right call. 

“Thank you,” Ilya says. “I know that was hard for you.” 

“No.” Shane brushes damp curls from Ilya’s forehead. “Easy.” 

He wishes he could say more than that. He would tell Ilya there was no decision to make. It was always him, and it always would be. 

February 28, 2021

6:30 PM

Ottawa

Ilya parks his car next to Dykstra’s ugly camo green monster truck and switches off the engine. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Shane stares at Bood’s huge stone and log A-frame house with wide eyes. Ilya can’t tell if it’s anxiety, or if his inner real estate nerd is kicking into high gear. Probably a little of both. 

He reaches across the console and takes Shane’s hand. Shane flashes a nervous smile and shifts the salad bowl in his lap. 

Anxiety, then. 

“They are good people,” Ilya says. “Don’t worry.” 

Ilya warned everyone yesterday that questions about the crash were off-limits. He expects no problems there, but he does expect some questions and maybe light teasing about their relationship. He’s warned Shane about that part, but Shane just nodded and continued to chop tomatoes for the salad Ilya promised to bring. 

“Are you ready to go inside?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says and tightens his one-armed grip on the salad bowl. “Let’s go.” 

It’s snowing a little, just flurries, but Ilya checks to make sure the driveway isn’t slick before opening Shane’s door. Shane climbs out on his own while Ilya grabs the case of beer he brought but probably won’t drink. 

“You can leave the bowl if you want,” Ilya says. “I can make two trips.” 

Shane shakes his head and stares at the house again. It’s all lit up inside and the cold air outside is scented heavily with grilling meat wafting on the breeze from the back of the house. Ilya’s stomach rumbles at the thought of Bood’s jerk chicken. It’s spicy as hell but very flavorful and totally worth the burn. 

Ilya walks right in, as is the standard at these things. Shane stays a few paces behind him like a skittish stray until Ilya reaches his hand back for Shane to take. His breath catches just a little when he does. 

He hopes that fifty years from now, holding Shane’s hand will still give him the same kind of thrill. It’s such a small thing, but Shane being willing to do it now means everything. 

Inside, the younger players are all gathered around a massive TV playing some fighting game and a small group of the young guy’s girlfriends, none of whom Ilya has met, are near the patio door, sipping on glasses of wine. Most of them look barely old enough to legally drink. Not that the young guys do, either. Ilya waves at the women and acknowledges the players that are paying attention to him with a slight tilt of his chin. 

“Glad you finally made it out, man,” Dykstra says as he emerges from the kitchen. He shakes Ilya’s hand vigorously and then throws an arm around him to slap his back. When he pulls back, he grins at their joined hands, and then at Shane. “Hey, Hollander. Good to see you.” 

“Shane, this is Evan Dykstra,” Ilya says. “I don’t know if you’ve met.”

“Hi,” Shane manages. The way he bites his bottom lip is simultaneously cute and heartbreaking. “Shane.”

“Everyone’s outside. Except for Troy and Harris. They’re on their way.” Dykstra takes the case of beer from Ilya. “I’ll take this off your hands.” 

Shane stares at the vaulted ceiling with its raw wood beams and the huge, ornate chrome light fixture made of concentric circles suspended from them with admiration, his real estate fetish operating in full-effect. 

“Nice, right?” Ilya asks. Shane nods. “I think I would like something like that in the dining room. Maybe smaller, though.” 

“Hello Ilya. Mr. Hollander.” Luca’s holding a beer, his cheeks flushed and his eyes a bit glassy.

“Are you drunk already?” Ilya asks.

“Not yet.”

“How many have you had?” 

“Two.” Luca shrugs. “You know we start drinking very young in Europe, right?” 

“Yes, and Russians are weaned on vodka. I know,” Ilya says with a grin and a dismissive wave. To Shane, he says. “Luca is the one who drew the picture of us.” 

“Oh,” Shane says, smiling. “Thanks.” 

“It was nothing.” Luca blushes. “Just a drawing.”

“It’s great,” Shane says. 

“I am going to put it on my refrigerator,” Ilya teases. He actually put it in a frame, next to the CCM photo in his living room, but he doesn’t tell Luca that.  

“I will take that outside for you,” Luca says and relieves Shane of the salad bowl. “I’m going to get some food anyway.” 

Shane hands it over and Ilya watches Luca ferry it off toward the patio, where about a dozen people are gathered around the fire pit and the heaters beneath strings of warm light. 

“Come on,” Ilya says. He squeezes Shane’s hand. “We should go outside and meet everyone, yes?”

There’s a split second of anxiety in Shane’s face. Enough that Ilya considers that he might not be ready for this, even though he said he wanted to come. If he’s not, Ilya has no problem going home and spending the evening playing foosball or listening to hockey podcasts on the couch if that’s what Shane needs instead. 

“Do you want to go?” he asks. “Is okay to say yes.” 

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand and shakes his head. “Nervous.” 

“Scary, right?” Ilya asks. He’s a little nervous, too. They’re so used to pretending in public, it's a little terrifying to drop the ruse. But also exciting. “They will love you. We will be okay. I promise.” 

Twenty minutes later introductions have all been made without any weirdness and Shane is now seated near one of the heaters with Bood and Cassie’s 2-week old baby, Milo cradled in his arms. Ilya’s heart gives a warm throb at how cute it is and how soft Shane looks holding an infant.  

“You’ve done this before,” Cassie says to Shane. 

“Hayden’s kids,” Shane says, smiling softly at Milo. 

“Hayden Pike,” Ilya clarifies for Cassie. “I think Shane held all of his kids when they were tiny. There are four of them.”

“Oof,” Cassie says. “I think one might be my limit. But maybe one day you guys will have one of your own.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says. He sits down next to Shane and holds out his arms. “Okay, quit hogging him. Is my turn.” 

“You know he’s not a puppy, right, Roz?” Wyatt asks, leaning down to squeeze Milo’s tiny foot. 

“Of course he is not,” Ilya says as Shane carefully hands Milo off to him. Ilya makes sure to support Milo’s head as he settles him into the crook of his arm. His little hands are so small compared to his own. “I have held babies before.” 

Milo’s little fists wave and Ilya brushes a  fingertip over his teeny, tiny little hand. It’s hard to believe that humans start out so small and fragile. 

“He is beautiful, Cassie,” Ilya says. “I think he looks like you.” 

“That big head is all Zane.” 

“Yes. And maybe the curls.”  

Someday, maybe. It’s not like they’d be able to have children before retirement, unless Shane really can’t play again. Ilya’s not sure Shane would want to be home alone with a small child for weeks at a time. Ilya wouldn’t mind at all if it was him, but it’s not a topic they’ve discussed in depth. 

Some of the women’s professional leagues have childcare assistance, but it’s not something that happens in the men’s leagues. Maybe it should be. Ilya can’t imagine what a man might be expected to do if he suddenly found himself a single father with a young child. 

Milo’s face scrunches up and he squirms a little, grunting and kicking his adorable little socked feet. 

Cassie takes him back from Ilya. “Oh, I think we need a diaper change.” 

Wyatt sits across from them as she carries Milo back inside. “Hey, Shane. How are you doing?” 

“Good,” Shane says. “You?” 

“I’m great,” Wyatt says. “Lisa should be here in a little bit. You met her at camp last summer, right?”

Shane nods. Ilya notices he seems like he’s struggling to say something. Ilya can only rub the back of his neck in encouragement, but whatever it is doesn’t come out. 

“So what have you guys been up to?” Wyatt asks. “Anything exciting?”

“Shane got his cast off. Everything is healed up nice,” Ilya says. “And we did our first tai-chi lesson this morning.” 

“How did you like it?” Wyatt asks. “I always wanted to try.” 

“I felt stupid,” Ilya says with a small laugh. “Is very slow movements. I am not used to that.” 

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t be. But I bet it’s a great way to slow down and focus,” Wyatt says. “How did you like it, Shane?” 

“Not sure,” Shane says. His words are slow and halting, but he’s trying so fucking hard, Ilya wants to kiss him. “Maybe good.” 

Shane had done well with the lesson, in Ilya’s opinion, and he’d taken it seriously, like he does everything else. Maybe he will stick with it, maybe not, but Ilya is game to keep at it if it helps Shane. 

Maybe it will help him, too. Some days it feels like he can use all the help he can get. 

“Sometimes it takes a while to adjust to something new,” Wyatt says. “Gotta stick with it if you’re going to get good at it.” 

“Is true. I enjoyed doing this together,” Ilya says. He nudges Shane. “Was nice, yes?”

Shane’s nod is enthusiastic and Ilya decides to look into other activities they can do together. Maybe outside of the box things, like fucking pottery classes or painting or something. Anything to keep his mind off his worries, and Shane’s mind on getting better. 

Bood’s loud laugh echoes across the deck and Wyatt glances over Ilya’s shoulder.

“You guys should eat,” Wyatt says. “The chicken that doesn’t melt your face looks like it’s going fast.”

“Yes, probably,” Ilya says. He turns to Shane. “Are we still doing the performance diet or do you want real food today?” 

“Real.” Shane says. “Please.”

“Good choice,” Ilya says and gives Shane a quick kiss before standing up. “I’ll be right back.” 

Ilya makes two plates. Jerk chicken for himself, sweet barbecue for Shane, plus an assortment of sides for each of them. As he scoops a pile of salad onto Shane’s plate, Troy and Harris arrive to cheers and shouts and clapping. By the patio door, Troy covers his face, laughing as he leans into Harris’ side. Harris gives him a very loud kiss on the cheek.

It’s kind of adorable. Troy looks noticeably lighter. Happier. And very different from the cold, closed-off man who walked into the Cens dressing room only a few months ago, looking like he also wanted to jump into the nearest river. 

“Get the fuck over here and get some food, Barrett,” Bood says. “You too, Harris.” 

Wyatt is talking Shane’s ear off about Animal Man comics or something when Ilya returns to Shane’s side. Shane is looking much more relaxed, though a little bit bewildered, not that Wyatt notices. Wyatt is just happy to have a captive audience.

“The series ending is kind of a cop-out, and there’s a whole thing about why, but it’s worth reading just for Coyote Gospel,” Wyatt says. “That’s some prime stuff, right there. I’ll send it home with Ilya next practice if you want to read it. I think you’d like it.”

Ilya has no idea what a Coyote Gospel might be, or why Shane would be interested. It sounds like a cult, and unless it’s a comic about hockey, Ilya doubts he’d want to read it, but Shane nods, and Wyatt beams at him. 

“You should get some food, too, Hazy, before the good stuff is gone,” Ilya says to Wyatt. 

“Oh, you’re right. I got sidetracked. Were there still some ribs left? I promised Lisa I would save some for her.” 

“I think so. But you should hurry. You know how much Harris likes ribs.” 

Wyatt scurries off, leaving Ilya alone with Shane for a moment. He sits and hands Shane his plate.

“Is this okay? I got you a little bit of everything.” 

“Perfect,” Shane says slowly. 

Ilya’s pleased to see him eating things he wouldn’t eat before – pasta, white rice, cheese, even a couple bites of a dinner roll, as if he’s realized a diet isn’t going to save him from the parts of life he can’t predict. If so, good fucking riddance. Ilya’s no nutritionist, and his own diet is admittedly crap, but he does know Shane needs more than nuts and berries and protein smoothies to help him heal. 

“Bood does this once a month, even when it is freezing out,” Ilya’s mouth is on fire, his eyes watering. The chicken is hotter than he remembers. Still delicious, though. “Wyatt does board game nights sometimes, too. Weird games, but is a good time, and usually pizza from Lucia’s.” 

Not that Ilya’s been more than once. Most of these events conflict with his time alone with Shane and they get so precious little of that, it’s rare that he shows up. Maybe things will be different now that the team knows and Shane knows he’s welcome to join in. 

Shane’s looking thoughtful as he scoops up a forkful of slaw, like he’s mulling something over in his head. Planning maybe, or sorting through some problem he wants to solve. It’s a look Ilya’s seen on both Shane and Yuna countless times now and it always means the same thing.  

“What are you thinking about?” Ilya asks. 

“Friends,” Shane says and gestures at the team around them. 

“Mmm. Yes. This team is very close,” Ilya says. He could have been much closer to them, too, if he’d been willing to open up. More proof that he’s been a terrible Captain. “The WAGs are all friends, too. None of that Real Housewives shit like we had in Boston.”  

“Montreal, too,” Shane says. He takes a bite of pasta salad in all its carb-filled glory and Ilya holds back a grin. “Sometimes.” 

Ilya knows how special this team is, and how different they are from others. These guys like each other. They like their wives. They like spending time with both. There were times in Boston that Ilya wondered why some of his teammates were even married, considering how much they bitched about it. 

Troy and Harris claim the empty couch adjacent to them, both glowing in the wake of the warm welcome from the rest of the team. Ilya makes the introductions, even though they’ve sort of already met via video chat. 

“Thank you for showing up last night,” Troy says to Shane. He sounds a little emotional. “You don’t know me at all, but that was a big deal to me. So, thanks.” 

“Welcome,” Shane says. Ilya thinks Troy and Shane would probably be friends, if they knew each other. “Very brave.”

“So, how does it feel to be out, with all of Ottawa celebrating you?” Ilya asks. “Good?”

“Great, honestly,” Troy says. “The worst part is over, you know? I mean, my dad’s still a dick, but that’s not going to change and I can accept that.” 

“You’re leaving out the best part,” Harris says and pats Troy’s thigh. “Tell him!”

“Oh, yeah. My mom ended up coming last minute and didn’t tell me until after the game,” Troy says, beaming. “She’ll be in Ottawa for a while.” 

“That’s very good news, Troy,” Ilya says. “I am happy for you.” 

And, of course, also jealous, though less so than before.   

“We had brunch this morning,” Harris said. “I think our moms are going to be besties. They got on like a house on fire.”

Ilya doesn’t know that expression, but he assumes it’s a good thing, though it doesn’t sound like one.  

“Then I would like to meet your mom, too, I think.” Ilya grins at Troy and wiggles his eyebrows. “The older ladies love me, you know.” 

At his side, Shane chuckles. He can practically hear him rolling his eyes. 

“Is true,” Ilya says. “I am very charming.” 

“Annoying, you mean,” Shane says slowly and shakes his head. Both Troy and Harris laugh. 

“He’s a shameless flirt,” Harris confirms. He glances at Troy. “So, I’m dying to know. How did you guys even end up together?”

Ilya looks at Shane, who looks back at him and shrugs. “Is it okay for me to talk about it? I won’t if you don’t want me to.” 

Shane gives him a thumbs up and digs into the salad on his plate. Ilya corrects Shane’s underhand grip without comment and considers what to say. 

“Rivals who hate each other was a good cover, yes? Was mostly made up, but still. A good cover,” Ilya says. He shrugs one shoulder. “It could never have been anything more than hooking up. Was never supposed to be. Impossible, you know? But we are stupid and stubborn and Shane couldn’t keep his hands off me. So here we are, eleven years later.”

“Me?” Shane says, laughing. “Liar.”

“Is true,” Ilya says and grins back. “But I also couldn’t keep my hands off him either, so.” 

“Eleven years?” Troy says. He doesn’t even try to hide his shock. “You said years, but…that’s….” 

“That’s a marriage,” Harris says, looking stunned. 

If only, Ilya thinks. 

Ilya still wants that. Almost desperately. And there’s a half-assed plan still floating around in his head, though the details and the timing are still a little fuzzy. Most of it depends on Shane. Ilya would marry him on the spot if he asked.

“Was just casual for many years. Then it wasn’t.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off Shane, who stares back at him with an intensity that has been missing since the crash. “And it has been very hard. And very lonely sometimes. For both of us. But we are going to be okay. Whatever happens, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, so softly Ilya barely hears it. Ilya sees in his eyes how badly he wants that, too. 

“I guess I got my Romeo and Romeo story after all,” Harris says. He throws his head back dramatically and clutches his chest. “My heart can’t take it. You guys are basically high school sweethearts!”

“Not quite. But now you know my secret. The biggest asshole in the league is also very soft and squishy inside,” Ilya says with a sheepish grin. 

“We already knew that.” Troy’s smile is crooked and charming.  

“And if we forget, all we have to do is show you a dog,” Harris adds. 

“Or a teammate who thinks his life is over because he got traded to the worst team in the league,” Troy says.  

“Or a besotted rookie.” Harris giggles.   

Or Shane looking back at him with nothing but love and fondness in his eyes. It strikes Ilya just how deeply in love he is with Shane Hollander, after all these years. For a second, Shane is all that exists.  

“Holy fucking shit!” Bood yells, breaking the spell Shane has cast on Ilya. He lets out a loud cackle. “They got him! Fuck yeah!”  

“Jesus Christ, Bood,” Ilya yells back. “What is the crisis?” 

“Fucking Kent just got arrested,” Bood says gleefully. He hurries over, holding his phone. “Apparently, he assaulted a woman in Montreal a couple days ago and she went to the cops. Like, there’s actual evidence and shit. The ones from Reddit got together and filed a report, too.” 

Troy is on the edge of his seat, a little pale and maybe a little shocked. “For real?” 

Ilya checks his own phone and sure enough, there’s footage of Kent in handcuffs, outside a very nice downtown apartment building in Montreal, not so far from Shane’s old love nest.  

“I hope they lock that fucker up and throw away the key,” Dykstra says. “Fucking sucks another woman had to get hurt for them to take it seriously. But maybe now he can’t do it again.” 

Ilya wishes the world worked that way. Kent has enough money to probably buy his way out of this, but maybe his career is over. He can’t imagine there’s a way for the league to hide this or cover it up without looking like monsters, too. 

Troy, at least, will probably not be hearing from Crowell any time soon. 

“You did good, Barrett,” Ilya says quietly. “Your gut was right.”

Troy looks at Ilya and Ilya looks back. Troy takes a breath, releases it, and closes his eyes. Another burden lifted from his shoulders. 

“I hope he gets what he deserves. We’ll see, I guess.” 

Shane has finished eating and Ilya takes his plate. “Do you want more?” 

“No. Bathroom?” 

Ilya stands and holds out his hand. He tugs Shane to his feet and tosses their plates in the trash on the way. Once inside, he points Shane to the closest bathroom, then grabs himself a can of coke from the fridge in the kitchen. 

For a couple of minutes, Ilya watches the kids in the living room play their fighting game, taking note of a pair of bored-looking girlfriends sitting on opposite ends of the couch, ignoring each other. Based on their apparent ages, they’re probably Young and Colton’s girls. 

One of them, a cute blonde who can’t be much older than eighteen, shoots him a flirtatious smile and twines a strand of hair around her finger. Ilya holds back a chuckle, amused, and completely uninterested. 

Shane emerges from the hallway and joins him, but averts his eyes from the TV, squinting a little. 

“Is your head hurting?” Ilya asks. 

“Just bright.”  

“Do you want to go?” 

“I’m okay.” He bites his lip. “Water?” 

Ilya finds a bottle of water in the fridge outside and hands it to Shane. While Shane drinks it, Ilya takes a moment to look him over. He seems at ease here, no signs of distress, so maybe this was a good experience for him. 

“So, lovebirds,” Bood says, inserting himself between them to throw his arms around both their shoulders. He smells like he’s had a few. “Having a good time?” 

Ilya chuckles. “Yes. Thank you for having us.” 

“Glad you finally showed up, man.” Once again, Ilya understands all the ways he let these guys down. It must show in his face – Bood hooks his forearm around Ilya’s neck and shoots a quick glance at Shane. “It’s okay. I get it. You deserve to be happy.” 

One of the many tangled knots inside Ilya’s chest unravels as Bood pulls away, grinning. Ilya drops his own arm casually around Shane’s shoulders. Shane’s hand rests against the small of his back and that knot comes all the way undone. 

Ilya’s heart is suddenly in his throat. They’re really doing this.

Fuck Crowell. Fuck the league and whatever imaginary rules they’ll try to enforce. Fuck public opinion. Fuck his own fucked up brain and all the stupid walls he built to protect himself. Fuck anyone standing in their way. 

The only thing that really matters is the man beside him and the people willing to stand up and support them. 

March 15, 2021

10 AM

Ottawa

Shane wobbles on his skates as he steps onto the ice at a public rink on the other side of downtown. Ilya holds out a hand to steady him and he takes it, his fingers warm in Ilya’s grasp. His expression wobbles, too. A bit uncertain, a lot nervous, and Ilya can clearly read both in his face. 

Ilya knows without being told that Shane fears he’s forgotten how to skate or that he won’t be able to anymore. 

“You know how to do this,” Ilya says. “Just go slow.” 

Uncertainty shifts into determination as Shane releases Ilya’s hand, pushing off far more easily than either of them anticipated. Ilya stays within catching distance, following behind, just in case Shane isn’t ready for this, but muscle memory seems to kick in and suddenly Shane is skating like he never left the ice. 

Shane has always been a beautiful skater and Ilya has always secretly loved to watch how gracefully he moves, how fearless he is, how easy he makes it look. Yuna once told him Shane was only two years old the first time he put on a pair of skates and he took to it like he’d been born wearing them.

That’s how he looks now. Though the time off for recovery has definitely reduced his speed, he moves like he never took them off. Ilya stops following to watch him careen around the perimeter of the nearly empty rink, cautiously hopeful that all is not lost. 

At this hour of the day, the only other patrons are a pair of teenage figure skaters working with their trainers, leaving Shane’s progress unimpeded and mostly unobserved. It’s perfect for assessing Shane’s ability.

Ilya gets a little bit emotional when Shane skids to a textbook stop in front of him. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, and it takes every ounce of restraint Ilya has to stop himself from throwing his arms around him and kissing him into the boards. 

“That… felt good,” Shane says. He’s a little out of breath, his words still a struggle, but he’s come such a long way, able to say more and more every day. 

“I knew you would remember.” Ilya pinches his chin affectionately. “How does your leg feel? Any pain?” 

“Nope.”

“Good. Do you want to go again?” 

“Come with me.” 

“Of course.”

Ilya lets Shane set the pace. For the next 30 minutes, they skate side by side, each lap just a little faster than before. It gives Ilya a little bit more hope that maybe hockey won’t be out of the question for Shane in the future. Skating certainly isn’t.

Really, the only thing holding Shane back is his continued struggles with speech, the occasional headaches, and his sensitivity to light. All three are slowly getting better. So maybe with some intensive training once the doctor clears him, it’s possible that it’s not over yet. Maybe not in the fall, but next year. 

Maybe, but Ilya doesn’t want to get Shane’s hopes up, in case things don’t work out that way. 

Ilya’s looked forward to this all week, sitting in various hotel rooms while on the road, listening to Shane’s words slowly return to him a handful at a time. 

Shane told him he was bored. That he missed skating. Ilya promised to take him and he’s glad he did. This is the best feeling in the world. 

They break for a few minutes to share a bottle of water and Ilya dares to steal a kiss while the skaters at the other end aren’t watching. Shane frowns to hide his smile and pokes Ilya in the arm. “Quit it.”

“This was a good idea,” Ilya says. “You are out of the house. You are skating. You are still very beautiful and I love you.” 

Shane smiles at Ilya’s teasing tone but he doesn’t say it back. 

“Why don’t we switch it up a little?” Ilya asks. He tips his head at the rink behind him. “Follow me.”

Ilya skates out across the unoccupied half of the rink, cutting wide, lazy slaloms across the untouched ice. He has no intention of running hard skate drills today, but he wants to see if there’s a difference in Shane’s balance and reaction time when it’s not just laps around the rink. 

As expected, Shane is slow, but his execution is precise and nearly flawless. Every drill looks the way it should. 

And Shane is proud of himself, as he should be. 

For a second, Ilya is reminded of the Shane Hollander he met in Regina, with his dark eyes bright and innocent and his freckles standing out above cold-flushed cheeks. It steals Ilya’s heart all over again. 

“I am so proud of you,” he says in Russian, and without thinking. Shane smiles shyly at the praise. His smile does nothing to lessen the impact of the memory. Ilya shifts a little closer, aching to kiss him properly. “I think we should get you a trainer. If you want.” 

“I want,” Shane says with feeling. His smile falls away and he blinks at Ilya a couple of times, just a bit confused. “Where… is my car?” 

“What?” 

“My car.” 

Ilya doesn’t have a clue. He hasn’t thought about Shane’s car at all and he assumes it’s probably still at his house in Montreal.

“I don’t know,” Ilya says. “Maybe ask your mom?” 

Shane’s keys burned up along with everything else on the plane but Yuna probably has a spare set somewhere. Seems like something she or David probably handled at some point 

“Do you remember how you got to the airport?” Ilya asks. 

“Drove.” Shane takes out his phone, presumably to text Yuna. A moment later, Shane’s phone rings. “Hi mom.”  

“I can’t believe we forgot about your car!” Yuna cries over speaker phone. “It’s probably still sitting in long-term parking, honey.” 

Ilya bursts out laughing. He’s not even sure why it’s so funny, but it is. Two months, and not one of them even thought of it. The car has just been sitting there, probably racking up daily charges, totally unnoticed.

“I am so sorry, Shane. It totally slipped my mind,” she says. 

“It was not a priority, I don’t think,” Ilya says to reassure her. She sounds genuinely upset with herself “The fees will probably be very expensive, though.”  

“I’ll call whatever department is in charge of parking and find out, okay?” Yuna says. “But remember, you can’t drive yet. Not until the doctor clears it.”

“I know, mom,” Shane says. 

Shane’s light sensitivity alone is reason enough to prevent him from driving for a while. Cognitively, he might never be able to again, but maybe he will. Ilya hasn’t lost hope yet – Shane skated today, and that’s no small thing. 

“How was skating?” Yuna asks. 

“I didn’t forget,” Shane says. He sounds so proud of himself, Ilya wants to hug him. “I remember.”

“Yes, he did very well. I think we are ready for some training.” 

“That’s great news! We’ll have to partner with the doctors about intensity and all that, but I’m sure it can’t hurt to get back into it.” 

Shane will want to do more than recommended, of course. The trick was finding a balance between challenging and safe. Shane will push that boundary, and himself, the moment he’s cleared to do so.

“Okay, I’ve gotta finish packing,” Yuna says. “You’re sure you guys will be okay by yourselves?” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Yes, mom.” 

“We will be fine,” Ilya says. He’s looking forward to being unsupervised for a couple days while Yuna and David take a short trip to Toronto. It’s business, but they could use a break, too. Aside from practice tomorrow, Ilya has the next two days off and he plans to enjoy it. “Enjoy your trip.” 

“Call us if you need anything. And I’ll let you know what I find out about the car.”

“Okay. Bye, mom.” Shane pockets his phone and shrugs. 

“What made you think about the car?” Ilya asks. 

“Thinking,” Shane says. After a second he shakes his head and sighs. 

Ilya doesn’t know what that means but he’s not going to push the issue. 

“More skating? Or are you hungry?” 

“Hungry,” Shane says. 

“What do you want?” Ilya asks. “McDonalds?” 

“Gross.” Shane’s face scrunches up and Ilya laughs. 

“Is your choice,” Ilya says. “So, what are you in the mood for?” 

Shane seems to be at a loss. Ilya suggests a couple of things as they skate toward the rink exit but Shane doesn’t respond to any of them. 

“What about a meatball sub?” Ilya asks. “There is a place close to here. Best in town.” 

“Sounds good,” Shane says. 

The restaurant is a hole in the wall that Wyatt told him about, with old, chipped linoleum floors and a few decades worth of photos of local celebrities in cheap frames all over the walls. It’s not busy when they arrive, just a lonely old man sitting near the window busy mauling a submarine sandwich loaded with meat. 

Shane’s a little wary of the aging decor, cracked ceiling tiles, and torn vinyl booths when they enter, but Ilya just smiles and leads him to the counter. 

“You want meatball or something else?” Ilya asks. “They have other things. All very good. I like the gyros, too. Real tzatziki sauce.” 

Shane’s face lights up a little and he squints at the yellowed menu above the counter. 

“Hey! Rozanov! Good to see you, man,” the owner’s son, Tony, bellows. “Been a while since you been by.” 

“Yes, sorry,” Ilya says. “Game schedule has been brutal. Not home much.” 

“You guys are killin’ it, though! I mean, the playoffs? Holy shit, right?” Tony says, beaming like he’s a member of the team. “Never would’a thought, the way the season started.” 

“Barrett was what we needed to turn it around,” Ilya says. 

“I had my doubts but the guy’s a rockstar. Some of those shots he made last week were pure witchcraft,” Tony says, referring to a couple of insane, nearly gravity defying goals Troy made while on the road. “I swear, the guy can make a puck levitate.” 

“Almost,” Ilya agrees. “Is a great team.” 

Shane’s drifted away to look at the framed photos near the counter. These are newer than some of the others closer to the back. Most are either politicians or hockey players. Ilya’s own photo is among them. He wonders if Shane will spot it or not.

“Hey, is that Shane Hollander?” Tony asks, quieter than before. 

“Yes. We are very good friends these days,” Ilya says. “Shane, are you ready to order?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says and rejoins Ilya at the counter. “Ready.” 

Tony sticks his hand across the counter, grinning. “Hey. I’m Tony. Put it there, man.” 

Shane's face shifts into something resembling his media face, something Ilya hasn’t seen in a while, and he shakes Tony’s hand. “Hi. Shane.” 

Tony’s about to say something about the crash and Ilya shakes his head to warn him off. Fortunately, Tony picks up on it and nods back. “So what can I get you guys?” 

“I will have the meatball sub, Hollander, did you want the Gyros?” Shane nods. “Okay. He will have the Gyros. And can we please have a large Greek salad to share? Dressing on the side.”

Tony keys it into the ancient register and sets two paper cups on the counter as Ilya hands over his card. “Awesome. I’ll get it right out to you.” He hands Ilya’s card and receipt back to him with a wink. 

Ilya chooses a booth near the back and then fills their drinks at the soda fountain. Shane’s smiling a little when Ilya sits down. 

“What?”

“Like a date.” 

Ilya laughs. “You think so? I think Fabian’s show was probably better.” 

“Yeah. God. Forgot.” 

“How could you forget Fabian?” Ilya asks, feigning shock. “He is unforgettable.” 

Shane sips his drink and shakes his head, no doubt remembering now how fascinating he’d found him. And with good reason. There was something undeniably sexy about Fabian and they’d both felt it. 

That was a good show, but what Ilya remembers most is how badly he wanted to be able to hold Shane’s hand. Maybe dance with him. Be free to touch him without fear of being found out. He’d spent the entire night frustrated and wrapped up in resentful feelings. 

So maybe not the best night. Maybe this is better, in its own strange way. No more trying to hide it, easy, relaxed, no pressure to meet some sort of public expectation. 

Tony brings out their food and Shane’s eyes get wide. It’s much more than either of them can eat in one sitting, but there will be plenty of leftovers for later. 

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you guys,” Tony says. A friendly smile, directed at Shane, who totally misses it. A wink, too. Ilya pretends he doesn’t clock it, but something territorial rises up inside him at the overt attempt at flirtation. 

Mine, it says.      

Once Tony is out of earshot, Ilya asks Shane where he’d want to go if they were to go on a real, public date. Shane considers this as he chews his first bite of the Greek salad. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says. 

“I don’t know, either. Never did much dating,” Ilya says, laughing. “But maybe I will think of something nice, for when we are ready.” 

Ilya can’t wait until that day comes. 

8:34 PM

Ilya has been upstairs for a while. Shane’s not sure what he’s doing, but he started acting funny right before, and he said he’d be right back. It’s been ten minutes, and Shane is starting to wonder if something is wrong. 

“Ilya?” he calls. 

“Hold on,” Ilya calls back. 

Shane wants to ask what’s up, but his mom texts about the car – it’s still in long-term parking at the airport, but somehow, Yuna Hollander, master negotiator, was able to convince the powers that be to waive the charges accrued after January 13, and have the car towed to his house in Montreal. 

It feels like a lifetime since he’s been to his own house, but he finds he hasn’t missed it. The only thing there that matters to him at all are his trophies. 

When Ilya still doesn’t come downstairs, Shane heads up to find out what’s going on. His legs are sore from skating, but it’s the good kind of sore, like the kind he gets from a good workout. The kind that tells him he’s building muscle, getting stronger. 

Upstairs, the only light on is in the bedroom, and Shane hears water running, but it’s not the shower. Curious, he steps into the room, and smells something like… cookies. A sort of vanilla and almond and butter scent that he’s never smelled in here before. He wonders if Ilya lit a candle or got some new air freshener thing. 

“Ilya?” he calls. 

Ilya pops his head out of the en suite, a cloud of steam wafting out the door. The cookie smell is much stronger and Ilya’s eyes twinkle with mischief. 

The fuck is he up to? Binging-eating cookies in the shower? 

Weird.

“Come here,” Ilya says, holding his hand out for Shane. “Time for your reward.” 

There’s a beat of want, low in his stomach. A Pavlovian response to the word reward. 

It’s been a long time since he felt that and he misses the physical intimacy they shared, and he misses being able to connect that way, without words, even if his body doesn’t seem aware of that fact. 

He steps into the bathroom, wondering what kind of reward Ilya has in mind. 

The bathtub, which they’ve never once used, is full and topped with creamy bubbles. It’s a big oval tub, with the faucet in the middle, and it’s large enough to fit the both of them comfortably. It’s never even occurred to him they might put it to good use, but looking at it, he wonders why they haven’t. 

There are a handful of candles in glass jars, placed strategically around the room, to maximize the calm, relaxing atmosphere. 

This is not the kind of reward Shane imagined, but it’s sweet and very romantic. The warm water will soothe his tired muscles at the very least. 

Ilya’s wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, and Shane can’t help but admire how beautiful his body is. Strong arms, broad shoulders, sculpted chest. Like one of those statues of the gods in Greek and Italian museums. 

Slowly, Ilya undresses him, pressing soft, almost reverent kisses wherever his mouth happens to land. Shane closes his eyes, thinking of all the times it took less than this to set him on fire. Still, it does stir something in him – not just memory but low-key desire, and that’s more than he’s felt in…he doesn’t even know how long. 

Ilya guides him toward the bath and Shane climbs in, sinking into the warm, almond-scented water and it immediately relaxes him. 

“Not too hot?” Ilya asks. 

“Perfect,” Shane says. He looks up at Ilya, at his soft eyes and stunning body, and holds out his hand. “Get in.” 

Ilya slides into the bath behind him, then draws Shane back against his chest. Shane feels rather than hears Ilya’s contented groan as he settles into the warmth until they’re both submerged up to their shoulders. 

“I only use this to soak injuries,” Ilya hums as his arms slip around Shane’s waist. “Why have we never done this before?” 

“No time?” 

“There is never enough of it,” Ilya agrees. His fingertips trace circles against Shane’s stomach, almost absentmindedly. He doesn’t notice the shiver it sends through Shane’s body. “This is nice.” 

The warmth is making Shane a little drowsy. Not in a bad way, like he’s about to doze off. More like he just woke up and isn’t quite ready to crawl out of bed yet. Ilya places feather-light kisses along his jaw, against the side of his neck. That, too, is soothing.

“Thank you,” Shane says. “For today.” 

Ilya kisses his temple. “Was a very good day. Skating. Good food. Nice nap. More good food. Warm bath. We are both very naked.” 

Shane doesn’t have words to tell him how grateful he is, for all of it. Most especially for Ilya’s confidence in his ability to still skate. For being here. Sticking with him. For his patience and compassion. For being brave enough to tell him the truth about his own struggles. 

“I love you,” Shane says. It’s the only thing he can say. It’s not enough but it’s all he’s got. 

Ilya’s arms tighten around him and his face bows into Shane’s shoulder, his breath tickling bare skin. He says it back in Russian. There’s a distinct tremor in his voice. 

“I missed hearing that.” Ilya’s lips touch his neck. “You have not said it since before the crash.” 

Surely he has. But maybe not. He knows he tried, but maybe those words didn’t come out right. Or he only said part of it. Or only in a text. 

That low-key desire sparks and catches fire, the way it used to. The suddenness of it leaves Shane breathless. He forgot how powerful it is, how consuming, how quickly he’s ready to resort to begging. 

He sits up and shifts until he’s sitting in Ilya’s lap, facing him, looking down at his glittering hazel eyes and full lips.  

God, how did he forget this part? The wanting? Jesus. 

If he can’t tell Ilya just how much he loves him, maybe he can show him. 

“Shane –” 

He silences whatever Ilya is about to say, crushing his mouth against Ilya’s, hungry to be touched and wanted in return. He can barely remember the last time – Christmas, before their fight, probably. 

Ilya makes a sound that's a cross between a moan and a whimper, and he drags Shane closer to kiss him back with the same kind of urgency. Shane braces himself above Ilya, his forearm against the back of the tub and takes hold of both of them, aching for release. Ilya gasps and pulls back, a hand wrapped around Shane’s wrist to stop him.

 “I don’t know if this is safe for you yet.” A breathless, ragged whisper. There’s want in Ilya’s eyes, but also conflict. Genuine worry. Shane leans in and kisses him to make that look go away. “Shane. Hey.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says. “Promise.”

Ilya doesn’t let go of his wrist, his own need clear, but also his caution. 

“Then tell me what you want.” 

“I want you.” 

Ilya’s reluctance breaks and he drags Shane’s mouth back to his, releasing his wrist and driving his hands into Shane’s damp hair. It’s all the permission Shane needs to proceed. It’s not quite enough, but he’s far too desperate for this, too full of urgent, demanding need to do more than touch right now. 

Neither of them lasts longer than a minute – it’s been much too long for the both of them and neither of them are willing to draw it out any longer than necessary. Ilya makes a sound Shane’s never heard out of him before, at least not in this context. Like a sob, but not quite, and he murmurs endearments against Shane’s lips in both English and Russian as a sharp pleasure tears through Shane’s entire body. 

It leaves Shane breathless and limp against Ilya’s chest, his heart pounding like he’s just run a marathon. Ilya’s arms surround him and there’s still so much heat in his kisses, if he keeps it up, it won’t take long before he’s ready for a second round. 

When Ilya finally breaks away, his smile is soft but shaky and he’s trembling a little. “You are still mine.” 

“Yeah.” Shane kisses the hollow of Ilya’s throat. “Still yours.”

Chapter 13

April 7, 2021

6:37 PM

Ottawa

“We should start dinner soon,” Ilya says. He combs his fingers through Shane’s messy hair, only a little smug about being the one who messed it up in the first place. “I am hungry.” 

“Five minutes,” Shane mumbles against his chest. “Comfy here.” 

“I know, but we also must eat.” 

Shane whines a little. “Five minutes.” 

“Okay. Five more minutes, and then we are doing domestic shit.” 

The Cens are four games into the first round of playoffs against St. Louis and Ilya is exhausted. St. Louis is a great team and, so far, they’ve put up one hell of a fight. The Cens fought back with everything they had, giving them a three game lead to start off the series. A nap would certainly be hard earned-right now, but he also wants to spend this time with Shane and be awake to enjoy it. He only has tonight and tomorrow, and then they play St. Louis at home for games five and maybe six.  

If they make it through this round, they’ll probably go up against New York, since it looks like Tennessee is about to lose game four, after three defeats in a row. Ilya is cautiously hopeful his team will get there.  

A cup win this year would be a fucking coup, and Ilya wants it bad, but he would be satisfied with making it to the second round. That’s so much more than anyone expects from the worst team in the league, and it would be amazing to show everyone they aren’t to be underestimated.

It’s stupid, but he’s also been fantasizing about dragging Shane down onto the ice after they win the final and not only kissing the hell out of him on live TV but also getting down on one knee and proposing to him beneath the Stanley cup. It’s unlikely to happen, but it would be worth it for the look on Shane’s face – angry kitten because he didn’t win the cup, pride because Ilya did, and then indescribably horny just because. 

Ilya plans to enjoy these two days with Shane, in whatever way he can. Tonight, they’ll be cooking together, like they used to. It will be nice to get back to normal, or as close to normal as they can get. 

It’s kind of miraculous how far Shane has come. Physically, anyway. Even with the persistent weakness in his left arm, Shane has been cleared to resume some of his pre-crash training. He skates with a trainer two days a week and has a private hockey coach the other three. Plus his daily workouts – cardio, endurance, weight training, yoga, tai chi, and whatever else it is that Shane does to get in shape. 

As Ilya suspected, as soon as he got the all-clear, Shane jumped back in with both feet. Ilya worries that it might be too much, too fast, but Shane’s mood has improved a lot and he’s already seeing some increased muscle mass. 

He’s still struggling with speech, though. Not as much before, but enough to frustrate them both when he can’t articulate his thoughts or find the right word. When he can, his words are careful, like he has to think about it before he says them. 

Still, it’s so much more than anyone expected at this point. 

Ilya resumes playing with Shane’s hair as Shane nuzzles his face against Ilya’s neck. Shane hasn’t had it cut since the hospital shaved it and the silky strands are impossibly soft beneath Ilya’s fingers. Shane’s contented hum persuades him to be generous and give him ten more minutes of rest instead of the requested five. 

Eventually, they do have to get up. Ilya’s stomach is growling and watching Tennessee continue to waste good opportunities to score is starting to piss him off.  

“Okay,” Ilya finally says. “Up. Food.” 

“Nooo,” Shane groans. 

“You are a terrible boyfriend,” Ilya says. “Letting me starve so you can be comfortable.” 

Shane laughs. “Drama queen.” 

“Hunger makes me very dramatic.”

Shane sits up and yawns. His hair is sticking up in every direction and there’s a crease on his cheek from lying on Ilya’s rumpled t-shirt for the last hour. Ilya almost feels bad for not letting him stay, but not bad enough to keep him from hopping to his feet and heading for the kitchen. 

Terry got onto Ilya about his diet a few days ago after catching him with a bagel loaded with cream cheese, Nutella, and peanut butter – Nutella is not food, Rozanov – so Ilya’s making an effort to eat a little better. He has no plans to give anything up, just plans to eat less of the things he’s not supposed to, so tonight, instead of spaghetti drowning in meat sauce and covered in a pile of grated parmesan, they’re making pecan-crusted salmon with roasted brussels sprouts and a mediterranean couscous salad. And fresh fruit in a honey-lime marinade for dessert.

Spaghetti and ice cream sounds better, and is much easier to make, but this is not a terrible menu. It will be nice to cook together again.

“We are still going to see Hayden tomorrow, yes?” Ilya asks as he grabs a bowl from the cabinet. “Because we could stay home and be naked all day instead.” 

Which is half of how they spent today, now that David and Yuna have returned to their own home for a few days. He wouldn’t mind repeating the day’s activities again tomorrow, even if it mostly consisted of making out and napping. 

Shane needs some company that isn’t there to train, manage, or put him through medical tests, though. So, they will visit the Pike’s tomorrow, and then Rose Landry will arrive the day after to visit for a couple of weeks. 

“Made plans,” Shane says, then scowls. “Shit. Laundry.” He blinks a couple times and peers at Ilya over the breakfast bar, in some apparent distress over the towels that have been sitting in the dryer for the last hour.  

“You were not worried about laundry when you were using me as a body pillow,” Ilya teases. 

“Comfy,” Shane says again and shrugs. “Forgot.” 

Shane is probably worried the towels will get wrinkles if he doesn’t take care of it now. Not that anyone but Shane cares about wrinkled towels. They are the only ones that use them. 

Ilya waves him off toward the laundry room and begins quartering strawberries for the fruit salad, which needs more time to prepare and marinate than any of the other items on the menu. 

“Be right back,” Shane says as he carries the laundry hamper through the kitchen and into the living room so he can fold and watch Sports Center at the same time. 

“You better. If I have to cook all by myself, I will be eating it all by myself, too. No crusty salmon for you.”

Shane flashes him a beautiful smile on the way out the door. Then extends his middle finger before disappearing into the living room.

Ilya moves on to cutting prepared chunks of honeydew and cantaloupe into smaller pieces, tossing them into the bowl alongside the strawberries. He adds blueberries, chunks of mango, pineapple, and sliced bananas, then grates some fresh ginger into the bowl and adds the lime juice and honey, mixes it all together, covers it, and stows it away in the fridge. 

Shane is taking a long time to fold the towels. Ilya generally gives him plenty of time and grace for most tasks, but this feels excessive. Especially lately, now that he’s more or less finding his way back to normal. Folding five or six towels should take him maybe ten minutes if he’s having a tough day. At the most. 

“You better not be taking a nap while I am here working very hard over a hot stove to feed you, Hollander,” Ilya calls and pokes his head into the living room, expecting to find Shane curled up under the blanket, half asleep.  

He’s not. He sits on the coffee table next to a neat stack of towels and stares at the TV with wide, watery eyes. 

At first, Ilya doesn’t register what he might be watching, only his stiff posture, his pale face, and the way his fist is wrapped around the remote so tight, his whole arm trembles.

“Shane?” Ilya says and steps closer. “What –” 

Then Ilya sees it. On the screen, footage of the crash plays out in slow motion. The plane lifts off, something comes off the side. A bright explosion, the tail section breaks off. The plane hits the ground, debris and fire rocketing into the sky. 

“Don’t watch that,” Ilya whispers. He reaches for the remote to change the channel, but Shane moves his hand out of the way. “Shane.” 

It’s aerial footage of the plane in pieces all over the ground now. Smoke billows up from the flames, surrounded by dozens of firetrucks and ambulances with flashing lights. 

“The cause has been determined to be mechanical failure, due to a paperwork error six years ago, after the aircraft was involved in a minor runway collision that damaged the right wing. A temporary patch was placed until necessary repairs could be made, however, the work order was erroneously signed-off on as completed and the craft was returned to service. Over time, the structural integrity of the wing deteriorated until a portion of it detached mid-takeoff, causing the deaths of 26 people and injuring six more.” 

On screen, they show footage of the original Montreal team celebrating last year’s cup win. Shane, his dark hair soaked in sweat and his cheeks flushed, holds up his prize in triumph for all the world to see. 

Every player on that screen except Shane, Hayden, and JJ, is gone. 

Shane sucks in a shaky breath then his whole face crumples. Ilya drops to his knees in front of him, ready to be whatever Shane needs right now. 

A horrible sound comes out of Shane’s mouth, half a wail, half a sob, and it cracks Ilya’s heart in two. Ilya drags Shane into his lap and folds him up in his arms like that will somehow protect him from the truth of what happened.

Shane needs to know, but maybe not like this. He was not prepared to see it. 

In minutes, Shane’s tears soak through the shoulder of Ilya’s t-shirt. There’s not a single thing Ilya can do to make it stop or hurt Shane any less. Shane holds onto him desperately, like Ilya is the only thing saving him from drowning – a life raft, a rope, driftwood. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs, as if that will help. He knows it won’t, but it’s better than sitting here feeling useless. “I’m so sorry.” 

It’s forever before the storm passes. Shane slumps against him, out of steam, his face and eyes red and wet. 

“I couldn’t save them,” Shane’s voice is rocky and full of grief, his words spoken slowly and carefully. “I tried… I really tried, Ilya, I swear. Someone was crying… calling my name. I couldn’t –” 

Ilya tightens his hold and burys his face in Shane’s messy hair. He twines his fingers through it, knowing that it isn’t enough, that it won’t make it better. He does it anyway, maybe only to comfort himself. 

“I know you tried, Shane.” 

“They died because I… couldn’t get to them.” Shane’s whole body is shaking in Ilya’s arms. “I should have tried harder.”

“Hey. No, that is not your fault,” Ilya says. “I know this is hard to hear, but most of them were gone the moment the plane hit the ground. There was nothing you could do for them. It was very quick for most of them.”

“Someone was calling my name,” Shane says more forcefully. “I was almost there and I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep going.” 

Shane, shaking harder, curls one hand into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt. 

“All I could think about was you.” 

The tears that Ilya has held back on Shane’s behalf spill down his cheeks and he doesn’t bother to try and stop them. 

“Is that when you texted me?” 

Shane nods. He draws a deep shuddery breath. His body is feverish and his skin clammy. Ilya wishes the blanket was within reach, so he could wrap him up in it. 

What could have been Shane’s last thoughts were of Ilya, his last words immortalized in Ilya’s inbox. Shane was not thinking of the danger he was in, or of saving himself, but of Ilya, and he’d still had the presence of mind to write his goodbye while surrounded by death and flames. 

Ilya doesn’t know how to feel about that. Conflicted, maybe. Guilty. Loved. Heartbroken. Proud. All of those things. 

“Why didn’t I die? If everyone else did… why not me, too?” 

Ilya doesn’t really have an answer for that. It was by some miracle that the small section of the plane where Shane was seated had been spared the worst of it. Hayden, JJ, Shane, Evans, and Higgins had all been in those 3 rows on the right. All of them lived. If they’d been seated elsewhere, they wouldn’t have. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya says. “But you are alive, and you are here. With me.” 

That probably doesn’t make it better, and it definitely doesn’t explain anything, but not everything in life has an explanation. Ilya certainly can’t explain why someone as lovely and kind as his mother suffered so badly and for so long when she didn’t deserve to. He can’t explain why some children get cancer and some don’t. Or why entire towns can be erased by storms or floods. 

Luck of the draw. Something greater at work. Random acts of nature. God’s dice. The why of things has never made sense to Ilya. 

“I couldn’t save anyone,” Shane says again. He’s gone limp in Ilya’s arms. “I wish…” 

“Hayden is alive because of you. JJ maybe too. He told me you had to yell at him to make him stop hiding.” Ilya’s lips touch the side of Shane’s forehead. “Hayden’s children still have their father. Jackie still has a husband. JJ’s mother still has her son. That is because of you.” 

Shane gets quiet. On TV, they’re talking about how tiny hairline fractures in the plane’s wing had widened over time, stressing the wing and the temporary patch until the whole thing came undone. How the wing hit the tail section of the plane like a missile, likely killing anyone seated at the back of the plane instantly. 

Ilya grabs the remote that’s still in Shane’s hand and changes the channel to a nature program that features tropical birds. 

He’ll need to get Shane into therapy, now that what happened seems to have finally sunk in. Maybe Shane will resist the help, maybe not, but Ilya thinks it’s important that he get some. What he survived is unimaginable. The pain and grief and apparent guilt he must feel for his lost teammates must be enormous. That’s not something he should ever try to deal with alone. 

Something good has come of this, though. Maybe Shane’s biggest breakthrough so far. Maybe trauma was what was holding him back. Maybe he was holding himself back. Maybe something just finally connected, but it’s major, in Ilya’s opinion. 

“You are speaking in full sentences,” Ilya says. “Did you know that?” 

There’s a long pause, then: “Yeah. I guess I am.” 

“What do you need from me?” Ilya asks. He brushes the moisture from Shane’s cheek with his thumb. “What can I do?” 

Shane shakes his head. His hand releases Ilya’s shirt. He seems drained, and Ilya can’t really blame him. This is a lot, all at once. 

“Do you want to go lay down?” Ilya asks. “I can wake you when dinner is ready.” 

Shane’s eyes close and he takes a deep, slow breath. After a moment, he shifts away, out of Ilya’s arms and pushes to his feet. Something in him shuts down and his face goes blank. “Come on. Let’s make dinner.” 

That, Ilya thinks, is maybe not a good sign.

April 8, 2021

1:41 AM

Ottawa

Shane can’t sleep. He keeps thinking about his teammates. Coach, with the metal sticking out of his chest, the puddle of blood beneath him. The voice calling his name. JJ praying in French. Hayden, yelling fuck over and over again. The feet sticking out from under the debris. 

Mitty’s wife just had a baby. So did Comeau’s. Foran had three kids, all under the age of six. Leland just got married. He’s known these guys for years, and yeah, most weren’t exactly thrilled when he came out, but they were part of his family. They’d spent more time together than they did with their actual families. They’d bled together. Fought for and celebrated every win together. 

So, yeah. Family. 

And now they’re gone. 

Their real families must be devastated. Sitting at home, missing them. If only he’d done more, maybe some of them wouldn’t have gotten their entire lives upended in the space of a minute. 

Why was he one of the lucky ones?  

Shane sits up against the headboard in the dark while Ilya sleeps soundly beside him, his body curled toward Shane’s, one hand against the mattress where Shane should be. Shane closes his eyes and tries to think of other things, like how good it feels to skate again, but his mind turns back to the crash every time he tries. 

All the little details are coming back. Not everything, but a lot of it. 

Like the smell, god, the smell – the smoke and jet fuel and melting plastic and burning hair and something else he can’t think too hard about without going crazy.

And how scared JJ was, how his eyes were as round as pucks, and how he’d stayed to help in spite of how dangerous and terrifying it all was. How Hayden was probably still alive because he did.

Hayden, silent except for his horror movie scream. That red streak of blood some unseen wound had left on the yellow slide.

God. 

How had any of them lived through that? How are they ever supposed to bounce back?

Eventually it becomes too much and his thoughts give way to other things. Mostly hockey, and the future he might not have playing hockey.

The doctor can’t answer whether or not he’ll play again. Not yet. Too soon, she says. He still struggles a little with coordination in his left arm. His speech is still a problem, full sentences or not. It could be too dangerous – if he winds up with another head injury, it could be catastrophic. 

This could still prove to be catastrophic. His entire personality could change. He could be prone to violent outbursts or bouts of confusion. He could wind up losing himself, his mind, and Ilya, in the process. There’s no telling what long-term impact it might have on him, and that’s a scary thing to face. 

Ilya’s hand reaches for Shane and finds only the empty mattress. He props himself up on an elbow, searching for Shane in the darkness. A bit of moonlight spills into the window, creeping silently across the floor, flecks of blue silver reflected in Ilya’s eyes. 

“What is wrong, Hollander?”

“Go back to sleep. I’m okay.” 

Ilya groans tiredly, but shifts around until his head rests against Shane’s thigh, facing him. His knees bump up against Shane’s hip. The gentle weight of Ilya against him is a comfort Shane didn’t know he needed and he combs his fingers through Ilya’s rumpled curls, seeking more contact.

“Tell me what is wrong.” 

“Can’t sleep.” 

Shane doesn’t want to burden Ilya with his worries. He’s already burdened him with all his injuries and his slow recovery. Ilya has a ton of his own burdens to deal with and it would be shitty to drop more on him. 

It’s not like Shane knows what he wants to say anyway, or how to say it without sounding like he’s whining. 

“Maybe if you talk about it, you will sleep,” Ilya says. He draws Shane’s hand against his cheek, kisses his palm and nuzzles into it. “Something is making you sad.” 

A lot of things are making him sad, including Ilya, but Shane’s not going to tell him that. Telling will make him shut down. He doesn’t want to be a burden either. 

“Is it the crash?” 

“Yeah. And… no. Everything, maybe.” Shane hates how slow and weird his speech sounds. Like he’s just been to the dentist and everything, including his tongue is numb. 

“Tell me one thing.” Ilya kisses Shane’s palm again. “I want to hear what is bothering you.” 

Shane thinks about it for a minute, coiling a curl around his finger. Ilya’s hair is longer than it’s been in a while and Shane wonders if he’s growing it out again. 

“Do you think… I’ll play hockey again?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Ilya says. There’s enough sorrow in his voice to detect the likely no hidden there. “I am not a doctor.” 

“I know, but… do you think I’ll play again? The truth. Please.” 

Ilya is quiet for too long. Finally, he says, “Yes. But maybe not professional league. Not yet, anyway.” 

He might as well have kicked Shane in the throat. It’s not the answer Shane wanted to hear. It’s not the one he needed to hear. 

It’s the one he asked for, though.  

“I say that only because I don’t think there is enough time. You have come a very long way, but you are still healing, yes? So maybe you will not be ready next season. But after that, I think it is possible.” 

It’s better than a no, but it still stings. 

“A year in the minors might be good for you,” Ilya says, stifling another yawn. “Then move up. Montreal would have you back.” 

Logically, it makes sense, but the minor leagues would be a major step down, in Shane’s opinion. An embarrassment. Guys only go from professional to minors if they’re problematic or they’re holding on to a dying career due to age or injury or mediocrity. 

Shane’s not sure that’s a route he wants to go purely for the hit his pride would take from being downgraded. He’s been a star since he was a kid. The best of the best. Being the star of the minor leagues doesn’t hold the same appeal. 

He’s also not sure he even wants to go back to Montreal. He’s not sure if he can without his team there. 

One thing he knows for sure is that he doesn’t want to keep doing the long distance thing and that’s exactly what would happen if he went to another team. He’s not sure their relationship will survive if they only see each other two to four times a year and a couple weeks in the summers. He’s not sure Ilya will survive. 

“I want you to play again,” Ilya says. 

“What if I can’t?” 

“Then you will do something else,” Ilya says. “Something to do with hockey, I’m sure. Or maybe real estate, since you are good at it. Whatever happens, we will do it together, yes?”

“If I have to give it up, I will,” Shane says. “I don’t get to make that choice, right?” 

“That is true,” Ilya says gently. “But if that happens, it will not be because you didn’t try hard enough. You know that.” 

Shane swallows around a thick, planet-sized lump in his throat. His eyes start to burn. He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but he does anyway. 

“I don’t know who I am without it.” His voice is broken, hoarse, his words molasses thick. “It’s the only thing I know.” 

Ilya drags him into his arms, murmuring something unintelligible into his hair. Shane resists a little, stubbornly refusing Ilya’s willingness to offer him comfort – it’s all Ilya has done for months, and Shane’s not even sure he deserves it.

Shane doesn’t fight it that hard, though, and finds himself folded up against Ilya’s chest, head tucked beneath his chin. Ilya’s steady heartbeat thumps beneath his cheek, strong and reassuring.

“I want you to do something for me,” Ilya says. “Or at least think about it, okay?” 

“What?” Shane thinks he’ll do anything to make it up to him. 

“I want you to see someone. A therapist or a grief counselor,” Ilya says. “Someone who can help you work through all these bad feelings.” 

Shane's first instinct is to reject that idea. He’s not opposed to the idea of therapy by any means, but it’s not something he’s ever considered for himself or thought he needed. He’s always believed he was tougher than that. His life as it is has been pretty charmed compared to others. He has two loving, supportive parents who love each other and no major childhood trauma to speak of. He wasn’t abused or neglected or shuffled around from relative to relative or orphaned at a young age. 

Are there issues with his upbringing? Sure, but everyone has those – no one’s life is perfect. And besides all that, he’s one of the lucky ones, isn’t he? He survived and he has no right to feel as bad about that as he does. So there’s no reason –

“You think everyone needs therapy now?” Shane’s words come out sharper and harsher than he meant them to, and he regrets it as Ilya pulls back and looks at him, his hurt plain enough, even in the darkness. 

“No. I think you went through something horrible,” Ilya says. His tone is too flat and cold to be anything but a cover for his anger. Shane’s too familiar with that tone to believe otherwise. “People you cared about died. Your career might be over. I don’t think asking you to talk to someone about those things is wrong.” 

Shane rolls back onto his pillow and glares at the ceiling. He bites back angry tears as Ilya props himself up on his elbow, the moonlight streaming through the window reflecting in his eyes again, revealing the moisture building along his lashes. 

“I will always listen to you if you want to talk,” Ilya says. “But that is all I can do. I am trying to manage my own grief, and I don’t think I am strong enough to carry it for both of us right now.” 

Shane sucks in a sharp breath and the tightness in his throat nearly chokes him. He’s stupid and thoughtless to forget that Ilya is going through something, too. 

“Your mother?” Shane asks. 

“I dream about her sometimes."

“Nightmares?”

“Not nightmares, but maybe they aren’t nice dreams either,” he says. “I want her to meet you, but you never come and she disappears. There was only one time where you met, and it was maybe because I was scared you were gone.” 

Some of the tension leaves Shane’s body. The knot still clogs his throat, but it’s less painful now. Ilya’s been so solid, sometimes Shane forgets that it must have been incredibly hard to be on the other side of this, waiting and hoping for good news. 

“I dreamed about her too,” Shane says. “She was in the hospital room with me. And at the cottage one time… and on the plane.” 

Ilya gets quiet, and very still.   

“Maybe she was watching over me,” Shane says. “Maybe I just wanted her to be.” 

Ilya touches Irina’s cross, rubbing his thumb over it like a talisman. “Maybe she was. Did it make you feel better?” 

“Yeah.” Shane reaches out and touches it, too, drawing a fingertip over the shape of it. “You don’t have any pictures of her.” 

“No. My father threw them all away.” 

“I’m sorry. I wish you had one.” Shane wants to know what she really looked like. Not just the image in his head, but the real thing. 

“Me too.” Ilya’s voice is barely audible. He drops back down into his own pillow, still toying with the cross, silent for a minute. “Please go see someone, Shane. It will come back to hurt you later if you don’t. Maybe worse than now.” 

“You really think I need to?” 

Ilya’s head turns toward him. “I do.” 

“Okay. If you think I should. I’ll go.” 

“Thank you.”    

April 8, 2021

3:35 PM

Montreal

Hayden answers the door, his smile bright, his eyes sad, and the first thing he does is throw his arms around Shane and hugs him. 

This isn’t the buddy hug Shane is used to. It’s more like the kind you give someone you love after not seeing them in forever. Or someone you thought you’d never see again. Hayden holds on a beat too long and when he pulls back, his eyes are watery and somehow sadder than before. 

There’s still a brace around his neck. It looks uncomfortable. Shane can see where it’s chafed his skin. His posture is ramrod-straight. Unnaturally so, and Shane assumes he must be wearing a brace that forces him to stand like that. 

Shane feels like shit about that, too. What if he and JJ inadvertently caused him more damage trying to drag him out of the wreckage? 

“It’s great to see you, buddy,” Hayden says. He waves them inside the house, where Shane hears the girls arguing about something. “You look way better than last time.” 

Shane can’t say he knows how he looked last time, only that he was shackled to a walker and an iPad and was not having the best day of his life. 

“You look a lot better, too,” Shane says. He hates that his speech is so slow, but at least he can talk this time. “Out of bed. Walking” 

“Yeah, fuckin’ finally,” Hayden says. “I swear I was starting to get callouses on my ass. PT’s killing me, but I’m not sitting around growing mushrooms anymore, so that’s good.” 

Ilya snorts. Shane elbows him before he can say whatever obnoxious thing he obviously wants to say. 

“Hey, Rozanov,” Hayden says. “So, you finally made it to the playoffs. Bet you forgot what that’s even like. It’s been what, five years?” 

“Four. But who is counting?” 

Well, at least some things never change.     

“You guys are kicking ass so far,” Hayden says. “That Haas kid has a lot of potential.”  

“He only needs the confidence to match it. I am working on that.” Ilya shrugs. “He is a great kid.”

Hayden gives Ilya a funny look. Like it never occurred to him that Ilya might be that sort of Captain. God knows, Shane never was. Sometimes, he wonders why he ever was Captain. Others were certainly more deserving and better at pep talks than he was. Just because he was the star didn’t mean he deserved it.

“Well, come on in. Jackie ran to the grocery store but the girls are dying to see their Uncle Shane. Arthur, too,” Hayden says. “He asks about you all the time, you know.” 

Shane’s surprised to hear that. Arthur was the quiet one of the bunch, content to color by himself or watch cartoons, ignoring everyone else while the girls ravaged the house like a tsunami. 

“Monsters! Your Uncle Shane is here!” He glances at Ilya. “And your Uncle Ilya, too!” 

Four sets of footsteps thunder toward them and a second later, Jade attaches herself to Shane’s side, along with Amber, whose mouth and teeth are caked with lipstick. Ruby throws herself at Ilya, screeching his name like a banshee. Arthur waves shyly from the mouth of the foyer. 

“Hey guys,” Shane says, stooping down to give each of them a hug in turn. “You all got so tall.”

“Oh, Jesus, Amber. Did you get into mommy’s makeup again?” Hayden grumbles. “Jackie’s gonna murrder me.”  

“I told her not to,” Ruby says innocently. Shane estimates the odds of Ruby putting Amber up to it are 3-1. “She didn’t listen.” 

Hayden mutters a curse under his breath and shuffles off toward the kitchen, probably in search of something to remove the evidence before Jackie gets back. Amber just grins up at Shane, gummy red lipstick caked between her teeth. 

Beside him, Ilya chuckles. 

“Dad let us paint our room the way we want!” Ruby informs them. “My half is pink. Jade’s is purple!” 

“That sounds very colorful,” Ilya says. 

“And we got to put up fairy lights,” Jade chimes in. 

“And glow in the dark stickers! Come look!” Ruby commands and tugs Ilya toward the stairs. He flashes Shane a smile over his shoulder. It’s brilliant and blinding and Shane wonders if he will ever stop falling in love with this ridiculous, obnoxious, beautiful man. 

“Have fun,” Shane says and follows Hayden into the kitchen, herding Amber along with him. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Hayden sits down on a stool with some difficulty, a wad of wet paper towels clutched in his hand. “I think you just stole the title of the Worst One from your sister,” he tells Amber as he attempts to wipe the lipstick off her face. 

It’s said with a lot of fondness, like a term of endearment. Amber giggles and Shane imagines all three girls competing aggressively for the honor of being the Worst. It would not surprise him if that was true.

“You ever consider getting them into hockey?” Shane asks. “Might calm them down.” 

“Ruby’s the only one who’s interested, but that’s only because she always chooses violence. We’re gonna give it a try this summer, see how she does. But Jade still wants to be a princess when she grows up, and this one is going to drive a garbage truck, right Amber?” 

“Yes!” Amber says. She starts to squirm. “Beep-beep-beep-beep.” 

“What about Arthur?” Arthur is watching from the doorway of the kitchen. Shane holds out a hand for him, signalling that it’s okay to join them. “He’s a sturdy kid. Good skater for his age.” 

Arthur drifts toward Shane and then, very carefully, takes his hand. Shane smiles down at him and takes note of how much he’s starting to look like Hayden.  

“Shit, this isn’t coming off,” Hayden complains and looks down at Amber’s face, which is somehow even more smeared in red than it was before. He sighs and sets the paper towels aside. “I’ve thought about it. Not sure if it would be a good fit.” 

Hayden must mean Arthur’s temperment. He’s a calm, quiet, thoughtful little kid, who rarely gets upset, and when he is, it’s a silent kind of upset, where he goes off on his own rather than throw a tantrum. He’s happy to avoid the brawls between his sisters, but also happy to be the center of attention when they dress him up or make him play the monster. 

“Try soap and water,” Shane says of the lipstick mess. Not that he has any idea about make-up removal but figures a little soap can’t hurt anything. “He might… surprise you, Hayd. I was a quiet kid, too, you know.”

Shane doesn’t tell him that he sees a lot of himself in Arthur. Or, maybe that’s just projection.  

“Good point.” Hayden gets up with a soft grunt, wets more paper towels, adds some hand soap, and returns to Amber. “Hey Arthur. You wanna play hockey like your dad and your Uncle Shane?” 

Arthur looks to Shane first, then at Hayden, his little face hopeful. Slowly he nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Hayden sounds really surprised. “Okay. We’ll see about getting you into camp this summer, buddy.” 

Arthur hugs Shane’s leg as Ilya’s laughter booms down the stairs. Shane smiles and shakes his head. He can only imagine what shenanigans Ilya is encouraging up there, or what state he’ll be returned in. Shane pictures Ilya emerging from the second floor wearing sparkly blue eye-shadow, the remains of whatever lipstick Amber destroyed, and a princess crown. 

“Good call.” Hayden tips Amber’s head back and forth, searching for any remnants of lipstick on her face. From where Shane stands, it looks like she’s mostly free of any evidence. “Soap worked. How about that.” 

Amber grins and Hayden winces. 

“Yikes. Go brush your teeth or something.” Hayden says. “And tell your sisters to release their hostage and come downstairs.” 

If Ilya’s a hostage, he’s a willing one. “I think he’s… exactly where he wants to be.” 

“God, Ruby thinks he hung the moon,” Hayden says with a shake of his head and a small smile. He glances at Shane. “Pretty sure she’s got a crush on him.” 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Shane deadpans. Ilya pretends it’s a secret, but Ruby has always been Ilya’s favorite. Probably because they’re a lot alike.

“I don’t know how Jackie deals with this madness all day,” Hayden says and heads toward the fridge. His steps are slow and careful. “She’s got the patience of a saint, man.” 

“She must, to put up with you.” 

“I’m definitely contributing to the chaos.” He opens the fridge and wordlessly hands Shane a can of ginger ale, then grabs a beer for himself. “Bet she misses me being on the road right now.” 

“I doubt that. It’s pretty lonely, actually.” Shane’s had his parents around while Ilya’s gone, but that’s different. It’s like being managed 24-7, less like having people around to keep him company. 

Shane’s glad he came today. He’s glad Rose is coming tomorrow. He never considered himself a social creature, but the months of being cooped up without seeing his teammates or his friends has really started to wear on him. He hadn’t even realized how important those daily interactions with others were to him or his well-being until he didn't have them anymore. 

Hayden leads Shane outside to the back patio, Arthur still holding fast to Shane’s hand and following like a small shadow.  

It’s unseasonably warm outside but it’s a nice break from the winter chill and a sign that maybe spring is finally on the way. He takes a seat on a lounge chair, facing the yard and the swingset where he’s probably spent hours pushing one or the other of the kids on the swings. Arthur perches cautiously on Shane’s lap until Shane settles an arm around his waist and he relaxes against Shane’s chest.

Shane gets the briefest pang of… something as Arthur leans into him. A glimpse of the future, maybe. One that could maybe happen in the next few years, if he can’t return to hockey. They’ve talked about kids in the hypothetical, but it never felt like something that could be reality before retirement. 

Something to think about, if it turns out that his career really is over. 

“So you probably heard I’m done with hockey,” Hayden says. He sounds tired. “Too big a risk.” 

Shane hadn’t heard officially, but he already figured, based on Hayden’s injuries and the things other people have said, it was over for Hayden. Spine injuries tend to stay a problem forever. 

“Sorry, man.” Shane’s not sure what else to say. He might be facing the same fate, for all he knows. “What are you gonna do?” 

“Coaching, maybe. Lots of programs around, you know? Private lessons. I figure a three-time Stanley Cup winner and Game Changer camp coach might be able to find some work, at a tenth of the pay,” Hayden says. Shane pretends not to hear the edge of bitterness in his voice. “What about you? Any word on whether or not you’ll be able to play again?” 

“Not yet,” Shane admits. “I’m skating again. Got a trainer. It’s going pretty well.” 

“That’s great news, buddy. Can’t say I’m not jealous. I miss the hell out of it,” Hayden says. “But uh, if you can go back, how are you ever going to be able to get on a plane again? I have nightmares about that and I don’t even remember it.” 

Shane hasn’t thought about having to get on a plane again, and he really doesn’t want to think about it. If it comes down to it, he will if he has to, but he sure as hell won’t be able to do it without a heavy dose of something first.  

“Do you remember anything?” Shane asks instead of answering Hayden’s question. Arthur shifts into Shane’s chest and toys with the button on the pocket of Shane’s shirt. 

“Nah. I was totally out for most of it,” Hayden says. “JJ said I screamed once, but I never opened my eyes. Only thing I remember at all is seeing the ground coming at us through the window.”

That lines up with Shane’s memory of it. There are still small bits and pieces missing, but he’s got the overall picture now. He kind of wishes he didn’t. Some of the things he remembers are things he wants to forget.

“What about you?” 

“I remember most of it,” Shane says. “None of it’s good.” 

Hayden’s quiet for a minute. He stares out at the lawn, at the overgrown grass, probably regretting not cutting it. Or maybe he regrets not being able to cut it.  

“Why did you go back in, Shane?” Hayden asks suddenly. “You could have gotten out safely and you didn’t.” 

“Someone was still alive in there,” Shane says slowly, thickly. He can still hear him sobbing, calling his name. “I just… didn’t make it that far.” 

Hayden gets quiet again. The silence is longer this time. Shane glances at Hayden from the corner of his eye and his face is impossibly sad. 

“I know I said this before, but I’m grateful,” Hayden says softly. “You saved my life, buddy. I don’t even know how to thank you or JJ for that.” 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Shane says. “I wasn’t going to leave you there.” 

“I just keep thinking if you hadn’t stopped to save me, you’d still be playing hockey.” Hayden sounds so unlike himself, Shane wonders if Hayden’s been stewing in guilt all this time, too. “Like, you’d be totally okay, like JJ.” 

“Hayd, whatever broke your neck… fell on me, too,” Shane says. “Mom told me the doctor said he didn’t know how I was… able to get up and walk around after. So that’s not on you. Don’t do that to yourself.” 

If only Shane could take the same advice. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the ones that didn’t make it. The ones he couldn’t save. If only he’d moved a little faster, pushed himself just a little harder, maybe he could have been the difference between life and death for someone. Even if it was one person, maybe he wouldn’t feel so bad. 

Maybe Ilya’s right about the therapy. Maybe he actually does need it. To make sense of this, at the very least. 

“I’m… grateful for Ilya, too,” Hayden says. “Jackie told me he was there for her while they were waiting for news. Means a lot to me that he did that.” 

“He’s been amazing. Taking care of me,” Shane says, thinking of how loving and patient and kind he’s been, even when Shane’s been difficult. Even when his own struggles were so difficult, it broke him down. “You should tell him to his face. I think he might need to hear it.”

“Do I have to?” Hayden whines. “He’ll hold it over my head for the rest of my life.” 

At that moment, Ilya comes flying outside, chased by all three girls, all of them laughing as Ilya’s fake screams for help echo through the yard. Once he reaches the grass, he falls dramatically to the ground, tackled by the twins plus Amber. Arthur launches himself out of Shane’s lap to join in.

“Help me!” Ilya cries in falsetto. “I am being eaten by goblins! Save me, Arthur!” 

The kids giggle and pretend to take bites out of his legs. 

“You should marry him,” Hayden says out of nowhere. 

“What the fuck?” Shane asks, laughing. “I thought you said I could do better.”

“Look, I’m not going to pretend he’s not an asshole.” Hayden tips his head at Ilya and the pile of kids that are now tickling him without mercy. “But that right there? That’s husband material, buddy.” 

Chapter 14

April 9, 2021

11:55 AM

Ottawa

“Shane!” Rose cries and throws her arms around his neck. “I’m so glad to finally see you!” 

Ilya nudges her out of the way with his hip so he can close the door behind her, then picks up her carry on and moves it out of the way of foot traffic. 

“Good to see you, too,” Shane says. “Been a while.” 

“It’s been forever. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get away sooner. This last film was an absolute disaster. Five reshoots, we had to re-record half the voice-overs, and then I had to go to Europe to do a press tour for that rom-com I did last year… but you don’t want to hear my excuses. How are you guys?” She finally acknowledges Ilya with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, handsome!”  

“We’re good. Great, actually,” Shane says. “Training’s going well. Cens are in the playoffs. But you know that.” 

“Speaking of! I got us the VIP box for tonight.” She turns to Ilya. “I know you have tickets, but Miles decided he wanted to come and he’s bringing a couple of friends, so I figured we’d make a party of it.” 

Ilya fakes displeasure. “My tickets are not good enough for you, Rose Landry?”

“Of course they are, but you know Miles travels with an entourage,” she says. “And VIP is catered. All the popcorn and hot dogs I can eat. Don’t be mad.” 

Ilya does not know Miles well, but he knows a few things about him. The first is that Miles is even more famous than Rose, which is saying something, and he’s worked almost non-stop since he was a kid. The second is that when he isn’t working, Miles loves to party. The third is that Miles fucking hot. 

The fourth is that he’s had a thing for Shane for years. Any time they’re in the same room, Miles stares at Shane with fuck-me eyes. There are paparazzi photos to prove it, and Ilya is always torn between suggesting a threesome and wanting to gouge his pretty gray eyes out. 

“The media will think you are dating my boyfriend again,” Ilya says. They probably will, too. Not that Ilya actually cares, though it’s fun to tease Shane about it. He thinks it’s kind of funny that after all this time, any public appearance together sparks rumors they’re back together. 

“They would anyway,” Rose says with a shrug. She slides an arm around Ilya’s neck, her face shifts into a seductive pout. “What can I do to make it up to you, stud?”

Amused, Ilya plays along. He leans down, his face an inch from hers. “I have some ideas.” 

Shane makes a choking sound, probably thinking that Ilya is about to suggest something filthy. Ilya holds back his laughter and leans down until his lips are next to Rose’s ear. 

“Two conditions,” Ilya says, drawing a fingertip down the side of her face. “The first is that you must wear Luca Haas’ jersey tonight.” 

“I can do that,” she says. “He’s adorable.” 

“Yes. Very cute. And it will make his whole year.” 

“What’s the second?” 

“Miles must wear mine.” 

“He definitely won’t mind that,” Rose says. “He’s low-key into you.”

“Is he.” 

Smiling a close-lipped smile, she nods slowly. “Mmm-hmm.” 

“The third thing –” 

“You said two conditions.” 

“The third is that you must come to Monk’s after the game. Do we have a deal?” 

“We have a deal,” she says and pulls back. Switching gears like the skilled actress she is, she looks around. Ilya forgot she’s never been to his house before. “This place is great.”

“Shane helped me find it,” Ilya says. He picks up her bag. “Can I show you to the guest room?” 

“Yes, please,” she says with feeling. “I need to wash the plane off.”

Ilya takes Rose and her bag to the guest room and leaves her to get freshened up. He re-joins Shane in the kitchen, where he’s laid out an assortment of little finger sandwiches and snacks. As if Rose really expects to be treated like a celebrity by a close friend. It’s cute, though, to see him playing good host. 

“So, Miles is a big fan, huh?” Shane says as Ilya slides up behind him and slips his arms around his waist. 

“Not as big a fan of me as he is of you, I think,” Ilya teases back. He kisses the back of Shane’s neck. “I will be very jealous later, when he is flirting with you in VIP.” 

“He won’t be flirting with me,” Shane says, but his cheeks color and give him away. “Besides, I’m still not interested.” 

“Why not? He is hot.” 

“Maybe because… I already have a hot boyfriend?”

“Yes? Tell me about this hot boyfriend of yours.” Ilya nips Shane’s earlobe. Shane elbows him back.

“Well, he’s… insecure… and gets jealous for no reason,” Shane says. “And he flirts with my ex-girlfriend… and he says filthy things to me in Russian. He hates the way I drive and he says I’m boring and… makes fun of the way I fold towels.” 

The words are still slow and halting, but there are a lot of them. Ilya smiles against Shane’s neck and tightens his hold, pressing his body against Shane’s back. “He sounds terrible.”

“He’s the worst. But… he also has this really sexy accent, and he’s funny and kind… and he always knows exactly what I need.”

“Yes? Tell me more.” Ilya loves it when Shane is like this. 

“He has nothing to worry about.” 

“Do you love this terrible man? ” 

“More than anything.” Shane turns around and presses a tender kiss to Ilya’s lips. “Not going anywhere.” 

Ilya didn’t realize how much he needed the reassurance until he hears it out loud. Always, in the back of his mind, is that voice telling him that Shane can do better than him. That someday he will wake up and realize that fact and Ilya will never see him again. But here Shane is, looking at him with his soft, dark eyes, telling him otherwise. 

“I am so in love with you, Shane Hollander.” 

“I’m in love with you, Ilya Rozanov.” 

“We are very stupid, aren’t we?” 

“Yeah, probably.” Shane glances at the clock over the stove. “You should probably… go take your nap. Big game tonight.” 

“You could come nap with me.” 

“I could, but you won’t… take a nap if I’m there. Besides. Company, remember?” 

“We could always ask Rose if she wants to join us.” 

“Join what?” Rose asks from the doorway. 

“Nothing,” Shane says and pulls away, blushing. He sends Ilya a pointed look. “Ilya’s… being weird. I think he needs a nap.” 

“Okay fine. Can you wake me up at 3:30 please?” Ilya asks. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. “I will set an alarm, but just in case.” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

Rose musses Shane’s hair a little. “What is going on with your hair, mister?”

“Hospital shaved it,” Shane says. “Growing it back out.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t shape it a little,” she says. She taps a finger against her lips, then seems to make a decision. “Put your shoes on. We’re going out. Ilya, we’ll be back in time to wake you up.”

“Are you kidnapping my boyfriend?” Ilya asks. 

“He’ll be returned to you safely, so long as he cooperates.” 

“No ransom?” 

“I’ll take pizza in exchange for bringing him back unharmed. Or maybe some sushi.”

“You are terrible at this.” 

“And you’re supposed to be taking a nap,” Rose points out. 

Rose’s laughter rings out as Ilya heads up the stairs to the bedroom. He’s not really feeling a nap right now, but he also needs to be in top form for the game against St. Louis. Though they’ve won three of their four games against them so far, they were brutal games and hard-earned wins.

He expects this one will be tough, too. St. Louis is on the verge of losing their spot in the playoffs but they are not going to go down without a fight. The Cens are going to give them one, too. 

A lot has been said about Ilya’s team this season. The usual jokes about how terrible they are. Then jokes about how their winning streak at the start of the year was a fluke. Then the disbelief when it continued and they made the playoffs. Now, the media is all aboard the hype-train, breathlessly calling it a Cinderella season and talking about how the Cens have totally fucked up everyones betting pools.

Always so fickle. Never any faith. 

Ilya has faith. Maybe he lost it for a while. Now that he’s found it again, he’s feeling… better. Less afraid he’s going to spontaneously decide to jump off a bridge. It gives him hope that his depression is situational, not permanent, something that can be fixed by fixing his situation. 

God knows, he doesn’t want to have to take pills every day like he’s discussed with Terry and Galina. The side effects sound worse than the problem they’re supposed to treat and he definitely doesn’t want to mess with any of that in the middle of playoffs. Or ever, if he doesn’t have to.

A win tonight will go a long way in terms of fixing at least one of his problems. The rest are more complicated. 

As he closes his eyes, a weight settles in, the way it always seems to when things are good. Ilya feels like he’s always waiting for the anvil to fall. For the other shoe to drop. For the punishment that always comes for believing he deserves better. 

The coming crash feels inevitable.

7:30 PM

St. Louis has come back with a vengeance, scoring a goal in the first three minutes of the game. Ilya’s having a tough time getting past their defense tonight, but managed to knock the puck past their goalie with a desperate and sloppy slapshot at the end of the first period, tying the game 1-1. 

A respectable start. Nothing to be pissed about. Yet, Ilya’s marinating in his own anger about allowing that first goal. His own fault, too. He’d lost track of the puck and by the time he found it again, it was slamming into the net behind Wyatt. 

“Don’t stress, Roz,” Bood says. “Plenty of game left. We got this.” 

Ilya nods and heads for the bench, where he sits down beside Luca and pats him on the back. “Beautiful pass, Haasy.”

“Great goal, Cap,” Luca says. Shouts erupt from St. Louis’ bench and Ilya glances over in time to see their team Captain and one of the defensemen grappling with each other. God only knows what over, but it’s probably stupid. “I’m glad we are not like that.” 

“Me too,” Ilya agrees. The refs are involved now. “I am okay with them fighting each other. They will be distracted.” 

He glances up at the jumbotron, watching the camera sweep over the crowd. After a moment, it zooms in on Shane, Rose, Miles, and a small group of people Ilya doesn’t know. Rose throws an arm around Shane’s neck and blows a kiss to the cameraman. 

Shane’s bashful smile is cute. His new haircut isn’t bad, either. 

Miles throws an arm around Shane, too, and Ilya narrows his eyes. At least he knows Miles doesn’t stand a chance. Even with those pretty fuck-me eyes of his.

Ilya elbows Luca and points to the screen. “Rose Landry is wearing your jersey.” 

“What? No she isn’t.” 

“Look.” 

They’re all showing off their jerseys for the camera. Two Rozanovs and a Haas. That will be on Sports Center later, for sure. And Crowell will probably be calling to annoy Ilya about it tomorrow. Like half the people in the arena aren’t wearing Rozanov jerseys, too. 

Luca’s blush spreads all the way to the tops of his ears and he covers his face with both gloved hands as the camera finds him and broadcasts his blush for the whole world to see. Ilya laughs and gives Luca’s helmet a pat and a gentle shove. He knows everyone can see his own big grin on the screen, too. 

“She thinks you are adorable,” Ilya sing-songs. “She told me.”

“She does not.” 

“I would not lie to you.” He gives Luca another pat as the camera moves on to some politician in another VIP box. “You will get to meet her tonight, I think. Miles, too.” 

Ilya’s seen Luca’s drawings of both their characters from the X-Squad movies, so he must be at least something of a fan. He’s captured their likenesses too well to only like the characters.

“Miles is very famous,” Luca says. 

“You like him? He is very pretty.” 

Luca shrugs. He bites his lip and shakes his head. “I don’t know what I like.” 

“Is okay. You are young. Plenty of time to figure it out.” 

The yelling is still going on from the other bench. Fists are being thrown, though both parties aren’t close enough to make contact anymore. Whatever is happening, Ilya wishes it would end, so they can get back to the game. 

“When did you know?” Luca asks. “That you were bisexual.”

“I was maybe fifteen, sixteen,” Ilya says with a shrug. 

“Was it confusing?” 

“Maybe a little, at first, but it was mostly exciting,” Ilya says. “More to choose from, you know?” 

Luca slumps forward, his elbows against his knees. Ilya pats him on the back. The yelling has finally stopped over at the St. Louis bench. 

“You are a smart kid, Luca. I think you already know what you want,” Ilya says. “Is okay to go for it.” 

Luca laughs softly. “You are not at all like I thought you would be.” 

“I am not what most people think.” 

The ref signals play can resume and Ilya rises to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go play hockey. We have a game to win.” 

11:13 PM

Monk’s is packed when Ilya finally arrives. The others got there well before him and he’s not sure how to explain that to Shane.  

He should be over the moon. The Cens have made it to the second round, securing their spot with a 3-2 win, but as soon as he’d gotten into his car, he’d felt the high of that win evaporate. That invisible heavy thing came crashing down on him, just as he feared it would. 

For almost twenty minutes, Ilya sat behind the wheel of his Audi in the parking garage, trying to pull himself together. It was another ten before he summoned the strength to put the car in reverse and drive away.

It didn’t feel like a panic attack. It was more like being plunged into perfect, unrelenting darkness. All he knows is that he’d wanted to crawl into bed, go to sleep, and never wake up again.  

There’s no logical explanation for the way he feels sometimes. No logical explanation for feeling this low after such a major win. A few years ago, he would have celebrated until the sun came up. Now he can’t even pretend to feel good about it. 

It must be like Terry said. Maybe the chemicals in his brain are fucked up, sending the wrong signals, jumbling up the highs and lows into a tangled mess of illogical, inappropriate feelings. If so, he’ll be glad for a medical explanation. At least a quirk of biology makes sense in a way that being exquisitely sad half the time doesn’t.

There’s only one way to find out for sure, and Ilya has been resistant to doing it so far. The last thing he wants to do is to have electrodes stuck to his head while they run tests to find out if his brain is broken or not, but it’s looking more and more like it’s something he’s going to have to do. And soon. 

Shane is at the bar chatting with Troy when he enters. Next to him, Rose is engaged in a lively conversation with Cassie and Lisa at a high-top where the three of them are sharing a huge basket of fries. The others are gathered together in booths or playing pool, where it seems Bood and Miles are bonding. He spots David and Yuna at a separate table with an older couple Ilya assumes must be Troy’s mom and stepdad. 

No one even misses you, his brain insists. They didn’t even notice you weren’t here.

Ilya shakes it off and heads to the bar. He gets a little thrill, seeing Shane wearing his jersey. 

“Hey,” Shane says. Concern is written all over his face. “Did you get lost?” 

“No. I had to make a stop.” It’s a lie, and he feels bad about that. “I like the new haircut.” 

He still misses the long hair, but this is nice too. It reminds him of the early days, when Shane went to the barbershop religiously to maintain his good Canadian boy image. 

“Great game,” Shane says. “How did it feel?”

“Fucking great,” Ilya says. Another lie. God, he just wants to go home. He rests a hand against the base of Shane’s neck and rubs his thumb over his freshly clipped hair. “Are you okay?” 

“Tired,” Shane admits. “It’s late.”

It is well past Shane’s bedtime. That will give Ilya a good excuse to leave early. 

“Are you ready to go?” 

“We can stay.” 

“Let me know when you want to leave, okay?”

Ilya puts on his cockiest smile as he makes the rounds. The longer he has to wear it, the more like a fraud he feels. His laughter rings hollow, his face feels like it might crack. It’s all a performance, and he’s starting to realize half his life has been spent pretending. Chasing dopamine highs and endorphins to stave off that awful, lonely feeling – sex, alcohol, drugs, sweets, hockey, driving too fast, doing things for the thrill of it. All of it has served to quiet the demons, but they won’t stay quiet anymore. 

Over the years, those things have become less and less effective. So it makes sense that a win like this isn’t enough anymore, either. No more than playing the life of the party or the social butterfly helps boost his mood.

Shane is the only thing that helps these days. 

As he plays his assigned role, he swans around the room chatting with his team, their wives, Rose’s friends, and he meets Troy’s mom, who thanks him for being good to her son. 

“It was amazing to see how much his new team supports him. And he speaks very highly of you.” 

“Troy is a great kid. Very talented.” Ilya smiles his most charming smile. It feels like he’s wearing a mask. “I can see where he gets his good looks from, too.” 

“Harris warned me you were a flirt.” She’s obviously flattered. 

And Ilya moves on, all the while, keeping an eye on Shane at the bar, who is now talking to a starry-eyed Luca and a grinning Rose. Her arm is draped around Shane’s neck, no doubt aware of the other patrons surreptitiously taking photos for their socials. 

Ilya can’t breathe all of a sudden. The room is too hot, with so many people here tonight, and if he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to scream. 

Before he can unravel in front of the whole place, Ilya finds his way to the back door, where a handful of wrought iron tables are set up for outdoor seating that no one ever uses. A pair of bar employees are smoking in the corner. 

He would kill for a cigarette right now. It’s been a while since his last. Not since Shane was still in the hospital. 

Ilya goes to war with himself about whether or not to bum one and ends up caving in. The employee is happy to share one from his pack, in exchange for a selfie for his Instagram. Ilya considers it a fair trade. He has to borrow the guy’s lighter, too.

He thanks the guy and goes to stand against the wall opposite and takes his first drag in months. It’s been so long, he gets a buzz off that first lungful, and then a pang of guilt for not being able to quit this stupid habit entirely. Shane’s going to smell it on him. He’s going to know. 

It’s not enough to stop him. 

It doesn’t lift his dark mood either, which is worsened when Troy steps outside, obviously on a mission to find him. 

“You alright?” 

Ilya closes his eyes and takes a long, slow drag on the cigarette. He exhales slowly, too, hoping his silence and the scent will chase Troy away. 

It doesn’t. 

“Just very tired,” Ilya finally says. “Tough game.” 

“You sure that’s it?” 

“Is nothing to worry about,” Ilya says with a dismissive wave. “I met your mom. She seems nice.” 

“Did you flirt with her?” 

“Maybe a little.” 

Troy leans against the wall next to him. He doesn’t say anything for a while. 

“You’re a great captain, you know,” Troy finally says, without looking at him. “The guys all really look up to you.” 

Ilya lets out an ironic laugh. “I have not been a good captain.” 

“Maybe not at first, but you ended up being one anyway,” Troy says. “You’re great at hyping everyone up. Makes me wonder if anyone’s doing that for you. And don’t give me that I’m my own hype man bullshit. I know it’s not true.”    

He used to be his own hype man. He’d built his reputation on being an arrogant, egotistical shithead and he got away with it by being everything he said he was. Little by little, he stopped believing he deserved it. 

“Anyway. You’re doing a good job. We’re where we are right now because of you,” Troy says. “Figued maybe you needed to hear that from someone.” 

Humbled, Ilya stubs out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. “Thank you for saying that.” 

“You’re welcome.” Troy crosses his arms over his chest. “Shane seems to be doing a lot better. He talked my ear off about trick shots earlier.” 

Ilya smiles, for real. He's happy to hear it. He wants Shane and Troy to be friends. "Of course he did.” 

“Things okay with you guys?” 

Ilya wants to tell Troy that Shane is just about the only good thing in his life right now. He settles for a generic answer. “Things are great. Now that he can talk to me.” 

“Bet that’s probably a relief.” 

“Yes.” A different bar employee heads to the corner where the others were smoking earlier. She stares at her phone like all life’s answers can be found there. Ilya pitches his voice a little lower. “I’ve been thinking about asking him to marry me.” 

It’s the first time Ilya has said it out loud, to anyone. It feels good to say it. 

“Really?” Troy’s whole face lights up. “Do you have a plan for how you’re going to do it?” 

“No,” Ilya says. “A lot of crazy ideas but nothing firm yet. And probably not until after playoffs.” 

He thinks about the most realistic option, which was his original idea – the dock at the cottage. Covering it with candles, like he said he would. Celebrating with a bottle of good champagne, some good food, a blanket spread out on the grass so they can make love under the stars. And later, a small ceremony in the backyard at his house, with everyone they love there to witness it. 

And then he starts to doubt himself. His plans. His surety that everything will work out in the end. 

“You better send me an invitation to the wedding,” Troy says. 

“Don’t worry. We will.” Ilya pushes away from the wall. “Is late. I should take Shane home.” 

He pauses in front of the door, feeling a little bit of that weight pushing down on him again.

“Thank you for talking to me.” 

“Anytime,” Troy says. 

April 11, 2021

9:22 AM 

Ottawa

Shane stares at the familiar cream-colored envelope and turns it over in his hands to look at his name written in fancy script on the front. His mom had his mail forwarded to her at some point, and she’d dropped a small stack off this morning for his perusal. Most of it was just statements and bills, which she already took care of for him, but for some reason he wasn’t expecting to get one of these this year. 

He opens it, taking care not to rip the thick, obviously expensive paper. The league never spared any expense on invitations for the yearly awards ceremony and there was a time when getting one of these was a big deal for Shane. Now that he’s been several times, it’s less exciting, unless he’s a sure bet for an award. Even that lost its lustre. After a while it was just a hassle. 

The enclosed letter states they’ve asked Shane to present the MVP award this year. He’d earned it last year, for Montreal’s cup win, and for being the top-scorer of the season. The letter also states he’s a guest of honor. 

His hand shakes as he reads it over, hardly able to believe how much time has passed already. It’s like he went to sleep in January and woke up in April. 

“What is that?” Ilya asks as he comes into the kitchen, probably seeking coffee. 

“MLH awards invitation,” Shane says. He slides it across the counter. “They want me to present.” 

Ilya looks it over, his neutral expression turning dark. “Do you want to go?” 

Shane realizes that he does. He’s not sure why, since his team doesn’t exist anymore, but it feels like something he should do. Something he needs to do. 

“Yeah. I want to.” 

Ilya doesn’t even pretend to hide his surprise. He stands there, his coffee cup hovering below his chin, eyebrows raised and his eyes fixed on Shane. “You know you will have to get on a plane to get there, right?” 

Of course Shane didn’t think of that, but he’s going to have to bite the bullet and do it at some point if he ever wants to play hockey again. JJ managed to do it somehow. Shane can, too. 

“I know,” Shane says. “But…maybe we can go a couple days early. I never get to enjoy it. Not even like… dinner out, or the casinos. Just there and back.” 

That gets Ilya’s interest. “That could be fun.” 

“It could.” 

“Okay. I will book something, if you are really serious,” Ilya says. “But I want to be sure you are ready to get on a plane again. Is okay to tell them no. You don’t have to be there.” 

“I want to see Vegas with you,” Shane says.  

Ilya’s smile is brilliant, all teeth. Brighter than it’s been in a while. “I would like that, too.” 

The truth is, now that Shane’s head is clearer, and now that he understands just how close he came to dying, he wants to start doing all those things he put off for later. That includes playing tourist in Vegas with Ilya, among a long list of other things. 

“Then let’s do it.” 

“Okay.” Ilya gives him a peck on the cheek. “I did not get an invitation yet.” 

“Presenter invite. Those go out first,” Shane says. “But if you don’t get one… you’ll be my plus one.” 

“You should put me anyway, so we’re seated together,” Ilya says with a giggle. “Crowell would love it.” 

“He really hates you, huh?” 

“Yes, but there is nothing he can do to me and he knows it. I have done nothing wrong.” 

Shane’s not up to date on whatever’s going on with that, but he’s picked up on the fact that Ilya is on the commissioner’s shit list. He’s just not sure why. When he asks, Ilya shrugs and gives him the run-down. The more he hears, the more horrified Shane becomes. 

Then, he gets angry. 

“He told you to break it off?” Shane asks. 

“Yes, but I consulted a lawyer. He has no proof, and there are no legal grounds for Crowell to punish me even if he did.” Ilya sips his coffee. “And there are no rules on the books that say we can’t be together. Right now, anyway. I am sure that will change.” 

“That’s good to know,” Shane says. “But he could make your life hard.” 

"He could, but he won’t. I am too valuable to their bottom line. Especially right now, when we are winning.” Ilya leans over and kisses Shane’s temple. “Don’t worry about it, moya belka. He can not hurt us. And if he tries, we will fight back.” 

“I like it when you call me that,” Shane says, smiling. 

Ilya bushes a fingertip gently over Shane’s lips. “I wish I didn’t have to go to practice.” 

“Bank it for later.” Shane says, wishing he didn’t have to go to practice, either. “What time do you have to leave?” 

“Soon. I have an appointment with Galina, then with Terry, then practice. It will be a long day,” Ilya says. “I should be home around seven.” 

Shane groans a complaint and leans his head against Ilya’s shoulder. “At least I have company.” 

“Any plans?” 

“Lunch. Maybe some shopping.” 

“Exciting.” 

“Gets me out of the house.” 

“I’m sorry you have been cooped up so long. Healing is important, though.” Ilya hugs him and Shane leans into it. “I will ask Galina for recommendations for you, okay?” 

Right. Therapy. The more Shane thinks about that, the more scared he is of going. If he hadn’t told Ilya he would, he might be inclined to skip it altogether. It’s not like he’s having nightmares like Hayden. 

“Is scary the first time,” Ilya says, like he can read Shane’s mind. It’s probably all over his face, so close enough. “Easier after that.” 

Shane hopes so. If he had to go today, he wouldn’t even know where to start.

April 14, 2021

10:50 PM

New York City

Ilya takes Troy and Luca with him to the Kingfisher. Troy is much more at ease this time, as Ilya expected. Luca is quiet, and not sure what to make of being dragged along to a gay bar by his team Captain. He seems more baffled about being invited than anything else. 

Scott is already at their usual reserved table when they walk in. Ilya waves to Kyle as they pass, then at Kip who’s seated at the bar with his friend Elena. 

“Hello, Scott,” Ilya says as he sits down. “You remember Troy. And this is Luca.” 

“Hello Mr. Hunter,” Luca says. His eyes are round behind his glasses. “Nice to meet you.” 

Ilya notices Scott flinches when he shakes Luca’s hand. His shoulder, probably. Bood checked him pretty hard earlier. Explains why he lost steam in the second half of the game, anyway.

“Hi, boys,” Kyle says. “What can I get you?” 

“Beer for me,” Troy says. 

“What kind of beer, handsome?” 

“Surprise me.” 

“Ooh, brave,” Kyle says. He cocks his head at Troy. “Hey. I remember you. How did your gay apple farmer like the pin?” 

Ilya chuckles at gay apple farmer. It’s a good description for Harris, though not a complete one.

“He loved it,” Troy says, unable to hide his grin. “Thanks again for that. Appreciate it.” 

“You’re welcome,” Kyle says. He moves on to Luca. “You’re new. And adorable… and possibly underage.” 

“I am twenty-one,” Luca says, puffing up like he wants to fight. “I am legal to drink in New York.”

Ilya looks at him, eyebrows raised. 

“It’s my birthday today.”

“Is it?” 

Luca hands over his ID. Kyle checks it, then flashes a cheeky grin. “Happy birthday, then, Luca. What can I get you?” 

“Pilsner is fine.” 

“Same for you, Ilya?” Kyle asks. 

“Yes. Thank you. And put the birthday boy’s beer on my tab.” 

“Will do. Scott? Another round?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.”  

“You did not tell anyone it was your birthday,” Ilya accuses.

“I didn’t want anyone to make a big deal of it.” 

“Should I get this whole bar to sing to you, then?” 

“Please don’t,” Luca squeaks. “I just want to drink my beer.” 

“Okay. Happy birthday, Luca.” Ilya taps the neck of his bottle against Luca’s. “Cheers.” 

Ilya turns to Scott, who’s obviously just as worn out as Ilya. 

“So, good game tonight, yes?” 

“Fuck off,” Scott says. “We’re tied.” 

The Cens had lost game one in overtime, 2-1 in New York’s favor, and then had come back and stomped New York with an embarrassing 5-0 win tonight. Which maybe made some sense if Scott was playing injured. Ilya had initially gone into this round certain that they would take it all the way to game 7, but if the following games went like they did tonight, maybe not. 

Tomorrow, they will be playing game 3 in Ottawa. That will be tough for both teams, playing back to back games on top of travelling. 

Kyle returns with their drinks. He makes a point to wink at Luca before he leaves. Ilya nudges Luca, who just blushes and shakes his head.

“Anything new with Crowell?” Scott asks. 

“No. Nothing,” Ilya says. “He has been very quiet since Kent got arrested.” 

“How many women is it now?” Scott asks. 

“Nine,” Troy says. “Two more from Toronto came forward last week, and a girl from San Jose a few days ago.” 

“I don’t get it,” Scott says. “The guy’s rich. He could pay for it if he was that desperate.” 

“Guys like Kent don’t like hearing the word no,” Ilya says. “They think they are entitled to whatever they want, so when they can’t have it, they try to take it.” 

“He still doesn’t think he did anything wrong,” Troy says. He picks at the label on his beer bottle, jaw clenched. “Even though there’s evidence.”   

“Have you heard from him at all?” Scott asks. 

“Not a word. I hear he blames me, though. For believing them.” Troy sighs. “My dad thinks he’s innocent. Fucked up, right?” 

“You’re doing the right thing,” Scott says. “Don’t ever doubt that.” 

“I don’t. Not anymore.” 

Ilya sips his beer and watches Kyle chat with Kip behind the bar. He notices Luca watching, too, and with more than just a passing interest. Kyle would probably chew Luca up and spit him out. 

“How’s Hollander doing?” Scott asks. They haven’t really talked about anything but Crowell since Houston. “I heard he’s skating again.”  

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Still some problems with speech sometimes, but he is doing very well.” 

“Good enough to come back?” 

“If he has his way, yes.” Ilya doesn’t want to elaborate. “We will see.” 

“Montreal could really use him next season. You hear about what they did to Spectre?” Ilya shakes his head. “More or less benched him five games in. Maybe you can guess why.” 

Ilya doesn’t know Aaron Spectre well, and he barely paid attention to what Montreal was doing after the game against them. They only talked a little back in Houston, and Ilya had been too preoccupied with his concerns for Shane to pay much attention. What he does know is that he’s a decent player – better than that little shithead Declan Miller. With Kent gone, Spectre should have been the starter. 

“He pissed off Crowell.” 

“And Montreal’s C-suite,” Scott says. “They’re not real big on activism, apparently. Specifically queer activism.” 

Spectre hadn’t struck Ilya as queer, but he also hadn’t clocked Scott, either. Nor did he spend enough time around him to get any kind of read. The advocacy must be recent. 

“If Montreal has a problem with gays, I don’t think they will want Shane back.” 

“Hollander’s one of the best players in the league. He’s beloved by fans. He makes the franchise a lot of money, and he can do no wrong. As long as he stays the kind of gay they don’t mind all that much,” Scott says pointedly. 

“You mean quiet about it.” 

“Yep.” 

Ilya’s not sure Shane will stay quiet about it, now that he’s decided to throw caution to the wind. Once they’re out publicly, there will be no going back. For either of them. It’s something they’re going to have to defend, probably loudly, and often.

Eric Bennett arrives, beer in hand, and slides into the booth next to Scott. “Hey. What’s going on, Roz?” He glances around the table and shakes his head. “Jesus, man. You’re like the Pied Piper.” 

“What does that mean?”

“You’re really out there bringing all the baby gays to the Kingfisher like a queer fairy godmother or something.” 

Ilya laughs. He’s certainly been called worse things. “Something like that.” 

“I am not gay,” Luca says. “I am bisexual. I think.” 

Ilya is not at all surprised by this information, but he is surprised by Luca’s bold and unapologetic announcement. He throws an arm around Luca’s shoulders and gives him a friendly shake, grinning. “Did that feel good to say?” 

“Yes.” 

On Luca’s other side, Troy cracks up. “Jesus Christ. This team is really fucking gay.” 

“We are going to have to change our mascot to a basket of fruit,” Luca says with a funny little giggle. “Though that would still be an improvement.”

The whole table laughs. Luca blushes, but looks very pleased with himself.

“It is a big deal, though,” Scott says. “You have more power than you think you do.” 

“Strength in numbers?” Ilya muses. 

“Exactly.” Scott’s stare is piercing. “Now you just have to decide what to do with it.”  

April 20, 2021

9:30 AM

Ottawa

Shane’s legs shake as he sits down on the couch in his new therapist’s office. Her name is Elise Foreman, and she came highly recommended by Ilya’s own therapist. Someone who specializes in grief counselling. 

The office is cozy, with pastel drawings of dancers and rainy city streets in matching frames, and there’s a crocheted blanket draped over the arm of the couch. Bookshelves are stuffed with hardbacks of various subjects, not just books about psychology, and the air smells vaguely of cinnamon and vanilla. 

On the coffee table, there’s a box of tissues. Shane stares at it while Elise settles into the high-backed chair across from him, a notepad in her lap. 

She’s in her fifties, maybe, with a pleasant, round face, a sweet smile, and her eyes are kind. That eases his mind a little. He doesn’t think he could do this if he was faced with indifference. He knows therapists are supposed to be neutral, but he’d probably walk out the door if he got the impression he was just another appointment. 

Even if he probably is, he doesn’t want to know about it. 

“So, tell me why you’ve come to see me, Shane,” she says. Her voice is soothing and girlish. 

“You know who I am, right?” he asks, ashamed that he has to, but it’s best to get it out of the way. 

“I do.” 

“Then you know what happened in January. The plane crash.” 

“Yes. A terrible tragedy.” 

Shane swallows around the knot in his throat and ignores the spark of anger in his chest. To everyone else, it’s a tragedy. To Shane, and those who knew the people on that plane, it’s much, much more than that. 

“Only five of us survived, plus the co-pilot,” Shane says. “That was my team. Now they’re gone, and my career might be over, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with that.” 

“Do you feel guilty that you survived and they didn’t?” 

“Who wouldn’t?” Shane asks. 

“Tell me what you remember about it.”

Shane walks her through it, in detail. If it shocks her to hear about Sammy bleeding out in his arms, or the way it smelled inside the plane, she doesn’t show it. She takes notes every now and then, but doesn’t interrupt his monologue. He doesn’t even realize he’s never said the majority of this out loud until he’s deep in it, describing how gutted he was to find his own bag instead of someone living. 

Words are coming easier now, his speech less halting. He’s glad for that. This would be so much harder if he was still struggling. 

“I’m so sorry you went through that. I can’t even imagine how terrifying that must have been,” she says. Shane senses genuine empathy, and he’s willing to bet that she hears some pretty terrible stories, but probably never anything like this. “Just to clarify, you put yourself in danger to try to rescue others?” 

“I was their captain,” he says. “They were my team. I had to save anyone I could.” 

“That was very brave of you, Shane. You know that, right?” 

“Probably pretty stupid, too, I guess,” he says.

“Sometimes there’s not much difference between bravery and stupidity,” she says with a soft laugh. “But bravery also requires one to be selfless enough to put aside their fears and their instinct for self preservation. That’s a rarer quality than you might think.” 

Shane supposes this is some sort of praise, but he would rather his team be alive. Or at least a few more of them. Then there never would have been any need for him to be selfless.

“Have you talked to anyone about this?” 

“Mostly just my boyfriend,” Shane says, stumbling over the word boyfriend. “A little bit with my friend Hayden. He was on the plane, too, but he doesn’t remember anything.” 

“How did your boyfriend handle you telling him about it?” 

“He was…great, honestly. God, he’s been so patient and kind and just solid, but…” Shane pauses. “He has his own things to work through, so I haven’t gone into a lot of detail. I don’t think he can handle hearing the really bad parts. He can’t even watch footage of me getting knocked out during a game.”

“What sorts of things is he working through, if you don’t mind me asking? Or if you don’t want to share that, tell me a little bit about him.” 

“He’s the best person I know.” 

Shane finds himself telling her more about Ilya than he planned. How they met at seventeen, started their affair at nineteen, and became exclusive at twenty-five. He tells her about Ilya’s struggles with depression, and how, in private, he’s soft-hearted and sensitive, and still somehow an asshole. He even talks a little about their sex life, and how for so many years sex was the only way they could communicate with each other, due to their situation. 

“We weren’t supposed to be together, you know? Because of who we are. Because we were supposed to hate each other. I think we both felt it pretty early on, but there was no way either of us could admit that.” 

Shane isn’t sure he should give that away, but he remembers how Ilya said he didn’t want to lie in his own therapy sessions. Lying would do nothing to help him, though Ilya isn’t the subject he came to talk about. 

“It was hard enough being gay when there were no players who were out, but being involved with someone who was supposed to be my rival made it impossible,” Shane continues. “No matter what we wanted, it wasn’t something we could have.” 

“Why not?” 

“Do you have any idea how big a scandal it would have been if anyone found out?” Shane asks with a brittle laugh. “It would have ended our careers. Players still get benched or forced out sometimes just for being gay. We still have to listen to homophobic shit in the locker room, even from our coaches sometimes.”

“I notice you’re using past tense. Has your opinion on that changed?” 

“Almost dying changed my opinion about a lot of things,” Shane says. “I used to think being gay was a problem I could fix. Something I had to hide, but I was Rookie of the Year, won four MVP trophies, two Olympic medals, and three Stanley cups, all while being gay. I don’t want to hide anymore. I think I’ve earned the right to not have to.”

“Is he on board with coming out?” 

“He’s just waiting on me to get my shit together.” Shane and plucks a tissue out of the box on the coffee table. He doesn’t need it, but he needs to do something with his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to talk about Ilya. He’s the one good thing in my life right now.” 

“It’s your session, Shane. You can talk about whatever you like. Plus, context about your life and your support system can help me determine a course of action.”  

He notices she doesn’t use the word treatment. He appreciates that. It’s a word he’s heard incessantly since he was able to comprehend his injuries. 

She makes more notes and Shane starts tearing the unused tissue into tiny bits, wondering what kinds of things she’s written down so far. He shouldn’t feel defensive about it, but he does.

“What about your family? Your parents? Are you able to share your experiences during the crash with them?” 

Shane sighs. He doesn’t really want to talk about them, but he supposes he might as well get it out of the way. 

“My parents are great. I owe my entire career to my mom. She’s been my manager since I was a kid, and she’s great at it,” Shane says. “But, she’s also someone who’s always moving forward. Every problem has a solution. We don’t dwell on what happened yesterday. If we fail, we analyze what went wrong and take steps to keep from repeating our mistakes. My dad… he’s great too, but my mom is such a force of nature, I’m pretty sure he’s just stays out of her way.” 

Elise scribbles furiously on her notepad and underlines something. Shane imagines she’s written the words tiger mom, which he heard a lot to describe Yuna Hollander all through childhood. 

“But I’m like that, too,” Shane says, suddenly feeling the need to defend her. “Up until the crash, my life was very planned out. I had a schedule that I stuck to, and I spent a lot of time analyzing games and plays, and figuring out how to fix flaws in my technique.” 

“Do you think your mother being so action-oriented makes it hard to talk to her?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “A lot of times, when I try to talk about personal stuff, I end up feeling like I’m being managed. Especially the times when I just need her to be my mom.” 

Shane definitely didn’t mean to say that, but… well, it’s true. It hurts to say it out loud, and he wonders how she would feel if she heard him say it. 

He doesn’t want to find out.

“Do you think your relationship would change if you took business out of it?” 

The tissue is now in fifty tiny pieces, cupped in the palm of his hand. He discards them in the small wastebasket beside the couch and tries to come up with a diplomatic answer to her question. 

“Definitely, but not in a good way,” Shane says. “She’d be really hurt if I fired her. And I know for a fact that she has my best interests in mind. I couldn’t say that about a management firm.” 

“Do the lines get blurred sometimes?” Elise asks. “Between management and parenting?” 

“They’re pretty much the same thing.” 

“Do you think they should be?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane says honestly. “I don’t think I could tell the difference anyway.” 

Elise scribbles something on her notepad. Shane imagines her playing tic-tac-toe out of boredom. He plucks another tissue from the box, only to crumple it in his fist.

“We’re almost out of time, but tell me about what you’re facing as far as your career is concerned,” she says. “I imagine with the injuries you described, it might not be safe for you to return.” 

Shane gives her the gist of it. The important part is not how hard he’s training every day to make it happen. It’s the possibility that he’s pushing himself to his limits chasing something that will always be out of his reach. He’s always believed that if he tries hard enough, nothing is impossible – Ilya is proof of that, but in this case, his fate will be decided by others. 

“My whole life is hockey. It has been since I was little, and I don’t know anything else,” Shane says. “If that goes away, I won’t know who I am anymore. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself if it does.” 

“Have you put any thought into it? Sat down and really considered your options?” she asks. 

“I’m sure my mother has,” he says dryly, before he can stop himself. “But no. I’ve been focused on my recovery.” 

“That’s your homework, then. I want you to sit down and make a list of things that you could do with your particular skillset, outside of playing professional hockey,” she says. “That is, if you want to meet with me again, of course.” 

Shane’s not sure if any of this has been particularly helpful. He hasn’t found any insight here, or any answers, just more things to worry about. He actually feels worse, like he’s scraped out and empty and raw. Like he might start bleeding if he brushes up against something too hard.

“It’s only the first session,” she says, like she can read his mind. “If things were so easy to fix in a single hour, I wouldn’t have a job. It’s much like hockey, I imagine. Putting on a pair of skates doesn’t automatically make someone an All-Star. You actually have to do the work.” 

That makes a lot of sense, and Shane feels a little stupid about assuming a single, introductory session would be enough. Of course he’ll have to put time and effort into it if he wants anything out of it. 

“Yeah. Okay. We’ll give it a try.” 

11:10 AM

No one is home when the Uber drops Shane off at the house. Rose had to go to a table reading or something for her next movie in Montreal, and Ilya is en-route from New York and should be home soon. He suspects his mom wouldn’t be too happy about him being left unsupervised, but Shane doesn’t really need someone standing over him 24-7 anymore. He’s not in danger and he has a cell phone and he knows how to call emergency services if he needs them. 

Drained, Shane trudges upstairs, forgoing his original plan to do some weight training when he got back. Instead, he takes off his clothes and crawls into the bed, dragging Ilya’s pillow into his arms. He lays facing the window, watching beads of rain trickle down the glass. 

Perfectly foul weather to match his perfectly foul mood. 

Weird, that he’s not sure why it made him feel like shit. All of it was stuff he never dared to say out loud to anyone else, but it hadn’t upset him to say it. As he’d recounted the events of the crash, and talked about his mom, he’d felt detached from it all. The only time he didn’t was when he talked about Ilya. 

He didn’t see how any of that was going to help him stop feeling like he’d failed the people who counted on him. 

The dreary sky and soft tick of the rain against the window makes him drowsy. He closes his eyes for a while, chasing thoughts of what to make for dinner, and then promptly losing them, until he falls into a dream about being outed and publicly mocked by reporters during a post-game interview. 

He wakes when the bed dips and Ilya’s body curls around him. “You have stolen my pillow.” 

“You can have it back,” Shane says thickly, but doesn’t make any effort to release it. Ilya claims part of Shane’s pillow instead and snuggles closer. A fresh, green scent wafts up from his skin. “You smell nice.” 

“New body wash. Irish Spring,” Ilya murmurs. “How was therapy?” 

“I spilled my guts to a stranger,” Shane says flatly. “It was great.” 

Ilya laughs softly and kisses the back of Shane’s neck. “Terrifying, right?” 

“At first. And then I couldn’t shut up.” Shane turns over to face him. “Did you feel like shit afterward? The first time?” 

“After every time. My brain is always a mess after. Too many thoughts, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. He notices Ilya looks tired. And impossibly sad. “What’s wrong?” 

Ilya shakes his head and burrows his face into Shane’s neck. Shane lets him, though frustrated by Ilya’s avoidance. He wraps an arm around Ilya’s back to bring him closer, wishing Ilya would trust him enough to tell him what’s going on.   

“Please talk to me, Ilya,” Shane says. “I don’t like it when you get all sad and quiet like this. It scares me.” 

The puff of warm breath against Shane’s neck might be a laugh, but he forgets about it the second Ilya’s lips touch his collarbone.  

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Shane says. 

“No,” Ilya groans and he places an open-mouthed kiss against Shane’s throat. “I want to do this instead.” 

“Why won’t you talk about what’s bothering you?” Shane asks, ignoring the want brought on by Ilya’s attention. It’s hard to keep the accusation out of his voice. “Is it a language thing? Pride? What?” 

Ilya sighs heavily and rolls away, taking his pillow with him. He glowers at the ceiling for a second and then closes his eyes. “Maybe both of those things. I don’t know. Is hard to explain.”

“Try.” 

Ilya’s mouth opens, then closes. He heaves another sigh and Shane goes to him, settling against his side. He tries not to shiver when Ilya’s palm glides down his arm. 

“I told you I get sad sometimes for no reason, yes?” Ilya asks. Shane nods. “It has gotten worse lately. Sometimes, it is very bad.” 

Shane shivers again, this time for an entirely different reason, wondering what the difference between bad and very bad are for Ilya. 

“Is today one of those days?” 

“Yes.”

“Is there anything I can do to make it better?” 

“Four or five blow jobs would probably help,” Ilya says. 

Shane snorts. “Four or five? Is that all?” 

Ilya laughs and his lips graze tenderly across Shane’s forehead. “Is known cure for depression.”

“RIP my jaw,” Shane says. “Seriously, though. What can I do?” 

“Just stay with me,” Ilya says. “You make me feel better.” 

“I’m not a cure for depression, either,” Shane says, though Ilya’s words make his heart flutter. “Is therapy not working?” 

“It is,” Ilya says. He heaves another sigh. “But, you remember Terry sent me for medical tests last week? Is a… chemical imbalance in my brain, so I will need medication. But I don’t want to take it until the season is over. You know, takes time to adjust. I don’t want it to affect the way I play.” 

Shane knew Ilya had some appointments with his team doctor that he’d been kind of vague about – is no big deal Hollander, is just regular check-up – but this is the first Shane’s heard that they were for mental health reasons. Montreal’s team doctor probably would have benched him if he’d even dared mention the word depression. 

“I am worried about side-effects, too,” Ilya says. “Some of them are not so nice. Some of them are scary. Anxiety. Liver problems. Suicide risk. And… maybe I will not be myself anymore.”

“But that stuff is pretty rare, right?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “But I still worry. And I might have to try a couple of different things to find one that works.” 

“At least you have answers now. About why you feel bad. And it can be managed. That’s gotta at least make you feel a little better, right?” 

“Yes. Good to have answers.” Ilya’s eyes flutter shut, like he’s about to drift off. “Don’t leave me, okay?”

Shane kisses his forehead. Ilya’s insecurity breaks his heart.  

“Never.”

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

April 21, 2021

8:32 PM

Ottawa

Game seven. Tied 1-1 at the end of the 3rd period. 

They’re so close to victory, Ilya can practically taste it. 

He’s exhausted. His whole team is, but so is New York. One more goal is all they need to win round two and move on to the semi-finals. There’s so much adrenaline running through Ilya’s veins as they line up, he feels a little sick. 

Across from him Scott Hunter looks like he’s ready to drop, though there’s no sign of the shoulder injury that slowed him down in game two. This round was supposed to be easy for New York. Seven games in, and it’s been a fight to the death. 

Just the way Ilya likes it. 

“Hunter. What do you call a dinosaur having a panic attack?” 

“When I told you to get new material, this isn’t what I meant.” 

Ilya grins at him and wiggles his eyebrows. “A nervous-rex.” 

Scott tries, and fails, not to smile around his mouth guard. 

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Rozanov.” 

“Yes, but you love me.” Ilya sing-songs and punctuates it with a wink.

Scott loses the face-off. 

Ilya takes off with his easily-won prize, knocking it over to Bood before Brett Acosta can check him. Bood pops it over to Troy, who is positioned for a breakaway and maybe a winning goal.  

It’s beautiful. Perfect.

Then it’s ruined when one of New York’s defenders pokes it right off Troy’s rainbow taped stick and bats it over to Andy Milner, who takes off like lightning toward New York’s goal. 

Milner is fast, but Ilya is faster. He plans to herd Milner into the boards and steal it back – Ilya’s favorite part of hockey. Someone is on Ilya’s ass, but he doesn’t look back to see who. It doesn’t matter. Ilya needs to fucking win this, he’s hungry for it. Starved, actually. 

Something that is not ice interferes with Ilya’s right skate and he goes flying forward, tumbling to the ground, right hand first, exactly the way he’s been trained not to. His right arm takes the brunt of his fall.

The pain in his elbow is immediate and blinding. Ilya folds into himself, on his side, cradling his arm, and he spits out several foul curses in Russian – not just from pain, but also frustration. He was so fucking close and whatever took him down could not have been anything but sabotage.

The referees stop play.  

This is the same elbow he injured a few years back, but it feels a lot worse this time. He slams his other gloved fist against the ice and curses again. There’s a commotion that he doesn’t see, and raised voices – sounds like Bood. All Ilya can focus on is the pain radiating up and down his right arm and the bitter disappointment of being taken out so close to the end.

“Hey,” Troy says, going to a knee beside him. “You okay?” 

“Fuck,” Ilya spits out as he sits up, holding his arm protectively to his chest. “What the fuck happened?” 

“Swanson’s stick got up under your skate. Looked like it was on purpose to me. Bood decked him for it.” Troy says darkly. “You hurt?” 

Ilya grits his teeth and nods. He’d like to get up and go finish whatever Bood started and knock Swanson out cold but he can’t straighten his arm. Doing so sends a bolt of pain all through him and rips an embarrassing and unwanted whimper from his mouth. 

Fuck. 

“Can you get up, Rozanov?” a ref asks. 

“Maybe.” 

Troy helps him up. The crowd applauds. 

Together, they skate back to the bench in silence. They both know this means Holmberg is going to have to center. And Bood is probably out on a penalty or unsportsmanlike, which means their chances of winning, even on the likely powerplay to come, have dropped significantly. There’s less than two minutes left of the game.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

Along the way, he thinks about Shane. About how dangerous it could be for him to play again. All it would take was one fall, one header into the boards, one aggressive check, and he might never be alright again. Ilya thinks he would rather have Shane as he is now and never able to return to hockey than have something terrible happen that will leave him disabled for the rest of his life. 

It’s the risk they take, playing this game. It could happen to anyone, at any time. The same fears he has for Shane are the same fears he should have for himself. All it takes is once, sometimes. The difference is, Shane has already suffered two head injuries. A third could ruin the rest of his life. 

He wishes the doctors could come to a decision soon about his future. The waiting has been hard on Shane. 

“You okay, Ilya?” Wiebe asks when they arrive. 

“I need a fucking doctor,” Ilya spits. “And a padded room, probably.”

Ilya’s so irritated, he’s 70% sure he’s going to cry out of pure frustration. His gut tells him that unless some miracle happens, they’ve come this far, only to lose it all in overtime.

8:35 PM

Shane planned to attend game seven with his parents, but at the last minute, JJ called and said he was bringing Hayden to Ottawa to watch the game with him. If they hadn’t already been on the road when he called, Shane would have begged off, come up with an excuse, but he didn’t have the heart to tell them to turn around and go home. 

It’s been way too long since he’s seen JJ. He has fuzzy memories of a hospital visit, and JJ has called, too, but those conversations never lasted long, due to Shane’s inability to say more than a few words at a time. 

It’s good to see him, but also awkward that he’s in Ilya’s house, which he’d mistaken for Shane’s parents house until Shane corrected him. 

“Why the fuck are you staying at Rozanov’s house?” JJ demanded. 

Shane had looked to Hayden for help, but Hayden only shrugged, so Shane had given the vaguest answer possible, about Ilya volunteering his place to Shane’s parents for Shane’s rehab and recovery since he wasn’t there much. It’s mostly not a lie. 

JJ hadn’t bought it. But he let it go. 

Things have been tense since then. JJ’s barely said two words to him. At least he can count on Hayden to fill the silence, though most of Hayden’s contribution involves cursing loudly and fluently at the screen. 

The game is almost over, still tied 1-1 with less than two minutes left. Shane goes to his feet as Ilya closes in on Milner, Swanson right on Ilya’s heels. He doesn’t dare breathe. 

Then, Ilya goes down hard, and all the blood drains from Shane’s body. 

“Nooo!” Hayden yells at the TV. “Fuck! Did you see that shit? Fucking guy just tripped him!” 

Shane moves closer to the TV, his heart pounding. Ilya’s clutching his arm, his face red and contorted in anger or pain or both. 

His first thought is that he needs to get to the arena. His second is that he should call his mom. Instead he just stares at the screen, watching Troy Barrett help Ilya to his feet. 

It should be a relief that he’s up and moving around, but it isn’t. Ilya holds his arm against his chest and his face reveals that he’s suffering. 

Shane hopes like hell it’s not broken. 

They replay it in slow motion and Shane watches in horror as Swanson deliberately hooks the blade of his stick in front of Ilya’s skate. Then, his stomach twists as Ilya falls. 

“What an asshole,” Hayden gripes. “Hope Swanson gets fucking suspended for that shit.” 

Shane’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. 

[Mom] They’re taking Ilya to the emergency room. It’s his elbow. Can you meet us there, or do you need us to pick you up?

Shane turns to JJ. “Can you drive me to the emergency room?” 

“What?” JJ asks, his face twisting into a confused scowl. “Why?” 

“Whatever. Forget it. I’ll call an Uber.”

He opens up the app, but JJ steps in front of him and pushes the hand holding the phone toward the floor. “He’s straight, Shane. I know you have feelings for him, but –” 

“Is that what you think?” Shane asks. “That I have I have a crush on my straight friend?” 

“It happens,” JJ switches to French. “I get it and it sucks. But it’s never going to go anywhere.”

Shane takes a breath and glances at Hayden, who just shrugs, no more help now than he was earlier. 

“Except it did,” Shane says, his stomach in knots. JJ isn’t going to take this well. “A long time ago, actually.” 

“Bullshit. You hated him.” 

“Yeah, sort of, but… Look, it’s complicated, and I’m sorry I never told you, okay?” Shane says. “But it’s a lot more than just a crush. For both of us.” 

“I didn’t like it either at first, buddy,” Hayden says. “But, yeah. It’s the real deal.” 

“What?! You fucking knew?” JJ demands. 

“He didn’t tell me. I figured it out, man,” Hayden says. “Believe me, I would have preferred he find himself a nice, sensible guy who wasn’t an asshole and definitely one who didn’t play hockey in the same fucking division, but… Ilya’s actually a great guy. Once you get to know him.” 

“Thank you, Hayden,” Shane says. 

“I feel like I don’t even know you anymore,” JJ says. His eyes are hard and full of betrayal. 

“I’m the same person I’ve always been.”

“A liar you mean? A liar who has been fucking the enemy this whole time.” 

“Will you stop?” Shane shouts. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. Because of this, right here! God, JJ. I wanted to tell you, but how the hell was I supposed to when I knew you’d act this way?” 

JJ flinches like Shane took a swing at him. 

“Whatever. Go fuck yourself. You can accept it or not,” Shane says. He’s hurt by JJ’s reaction. Not that he expected anything different, but he’d hoped JJ would at least try to be understanding. “I need to get to the hospital, so if you’re not taking me, I guess I’ll see you around. Sorry, Hayden. I’ll call you.” 

Shane leaves the living room and dashes upstairs to change out of his sweat pants. Once he’s changed, he texts his mom back, grabs some clothes for Ilya, then sits on the edge of the bed and tugs on a pair of running shoes. As he’s about to order a car, there’s a soft knock on the partially open door. 

JJ stands there, a combination of guilt, anxiety, and anger blending together as he glances around the room until his gaze lands on a picture on the dresser of Shane and Ilya together at the cottage, looking tanned and disgustingly in love. He lingers on it for a second, then turns his attention to the king-sized bed and then the nightstands that contain an assortment of their various belongings. It’s pretty obvious it’s a shared space. 

“I will take you to the hospital,” JJ says.  

“You don’t have to.” Shane’s not quite ready to let go of the sour feeling in his gut, knowing this is probably a preview of what they’re going to face when they go public. “You have a long drive back to Montreal. It’s fine.” 

“Listen, I’m sorry,” JJ says in French as he steps a little further into the room. “But you could have told me. Maybe I wouldn’t have taken it well, but if Hayden got over it, so would I.” 

“Better get over it fast, because I’m going to ask him to marry me.” 

JJ sags against the doorframe. “Shane…” 

"You know, I used to think the scariest thing that could happen to me is being found out,” Shane says with a humorless laugh. “I thought my life would be over if anyone knew. But, God, you know what’s a lot worse than that?” 

“Almost dying in a fucking plane crash?” JJ asks with an equally humorless smile. 

“Yeah. Almost dying in a fucking plane crash. That put a lot of shit in perspective,” Shane says. “I’ve been hiding this for almost eleven years, JJ. Longer than I’ve known you. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m fucking tired. And you know what the shittiest part of the way you acted down there is? I met his team, his friends, as his boyfriend, and not one of them treated him the way you just treated me.” 

JJ’s eyes get wide and round. His mouth opens, and it’s obvious he’s torn between being pissed and being ashamed. 

“His fucking team knows?” Shane doesn’t miss the note of hurt in JJ’s voice. 

“Yeah. Invited me over to a barbecue like it was no big deal. And god, they were so fucking nice to me, JJ. Our team would never have done that. Not in a million years.” Shane rubs his eyes. “They could barely look at me after I told them I was gay.” 

“I’m sorry they were like that.” JJ picks up the photograph he’d been eying. “I will need some time to get used to the idea. And I am still pissed that you didn’t tell me.” 

“How was I supposed to?” Shane asks helplessly. 

JJ doesn’t answer him. He sets the picture back down. “I don’t know if you remember it, but he was very sweet to you in the hospital. Very patient. He flirted with you. It surprised me, you know? Maybe I should have figured it out then.” 

Shane does remember that, a little bit. Ilya cutting his food into smaller pieces so it wouldn’t hurt so much to chew. The pride in his voice when Shane walked to him. The way he joked about Shane having a crush.

“He’s not always an asshole,” Shane says. “Are we still friends?” 

“Of course we are, you fucking idiot. Even though I am still mad at you,” JJ says with a wry smile. “But we should go, if we are going.” 

“Yeah,” Shane stands up and pockets his phone. “Let’s go.” 

10:36 PM

Ilya’s been waiting in a private exam room for over an hour. The only thing that’s happened so far have been some x-rays when he first got here, but since then, he’s just been sitting here, staring at the small TV in the corner, watching ESPN replay the final goal of the game. 

Every now and then someone pokes their head into the room to inform him that he’ll be seen soon. Yuna bustled in 20 minutes ago, expressed outrage about the wait, and promptly disappeared. 

The ER is busy tonight and Ilya imagines a sore elbow ranks pretty low in comparison to whatever else they’re dealing with. Still, he’d like to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. He needs Shane, a shower, and some sleep, in that order. 

He shivers beneath a blast of air conditioning from the overhead vents, wishing he hadn’t been sent to the hospital wearing only a compression shirt and track pants. It’s tempting to crawl into the bed and cover himself with the scratchy hospital blanket, but he has a feeling, if he closes his eyes, he’s going to pass out cold for the next twelve hours. 

They’d lost the game in overtime, after coming so close. He’s positive they would have won if he hadn’t gotten hurt, but Holmberg had failed to capitalize off the powerplay that resulted from Swanson’s tripping penalty, and then couldn’t seem to find either Haas or Troy on the pass. 

What a fucking letdown. They’d gotten so close. 

Still, he’s proud of his team. No one expected them to put up such a fight. Or come this far. That is not insignificant.

The door opens and Ilya expects someone’s finally come to tell him he just needs to ice and elevate it, but it’s Shane, his pretty, freckled face full of worry. 

“God, are you okay?” he asks. “What did the doctor say?” 

“Nothing yet,” Ilya says. “Is just a sprain, or maybe a bruise, I think.” 

He doesn’t tell Shane that his wrist hurts, too, or that he had actually screamed when Terry tried to take off his elbow pad. Terry had to cut it off instead. He doesn’t dare move it. Not unless he wants to pass out or maybe throw up. 

Shane sets a bag on the bed beside him. “I brought you some clothes. Shoes, too.” 

“Thank you,” Ilya says and kisses Shane on the mouth. Shane doesn’t flinch.  

He pulls a hoodie from the bag and tugs it over his head. The warm fleece instantly takes the edge off the chill, but he doesn’t even try to shove his injured arm through the sleeve. 

“Any idea where my parents are?” Shane asks as he sits down on the bed beside Ilya. “Mom texted me they were here.” 

“Probably bothering the staff to find out why it’s taking so long,” Ilya says. “She was not very happy I’ve been sitting here for a while.” 

“I’m not either.” 

“Is okay. Is not critical.” 

“Yeah, but you’re in pain. Did they give you anything?” 

“I did not want it.” 

Ilya draws Shane against his side, his uninjured arm snaking around Shane’s waist. A second later, Ilya’s kissing him, openly and without shame, and Shane kisses him back, without any apparent fear that they could be caught. Ilya loves that Shane’s willing to take the risk. It’s new and exciting, and Ilya can’t wait until they’re able to kiss each other in public, too. 

Right now, though, Ilya would really, really like to nail him to the sheets. Which would prove very hard in this narrow hospital bed, and with his elbow completely wrecked. 

“Do you think we have time for a blow job?” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s lips before diving back in for another, briefer kiss. “There is a bathroom over there. With a door that locks.”

“Shut up,” Shane says, punctuating it with a laugh. “I’m not blowing you in a hospital bathroom.” 

“Maybe a hand job, then?” 

“Later. At home. If you behave.” 

“I don’t want to behave.” He leaves a trail of kisses down the side of Shane’s neck. “I want you.”

Shane pulls back and Ilya can tell he’s actually considering it. Then the door opens, and a woman in a lab coat carrying a clipboard walks in. 

Abruptly, Shane hops off the bed and retreats to the padded chair next to the bed. 

“I’m Dr. Schuler,” she says. Her eyes shift back and forth between them. “Ilya Rozanov?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I am Ilya. So, you are here to tell me what is wrong.” 

“I am,” she says. “The good news is that nothing is broken. The bad news is that you have a sprained wrist and a torn ligament in your elbow.” 

“And how long will that take to heal?” Ilya asks, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He’d hoped maybe they could spend the next few weeks at the cottage, but he probably won’t be allowed to drive in this condition. 

“Your wrist should be fine in a few days.Typically, a ligament injury should heal up in about four weeks,” she says. “We’re going to go ahead and put you in a brace and a sling for now, which you’ll need to leave on as much as possible, including while you sleep. Avoid using your right arm – no lifting, no reaching, no driving, and definitely no hockey, and I’ll prescribe something for the pain –” 

“No thank you. I don’t like pills.” 

“I’ll prescribe it anyway, and you can choose to fill it or not,” she says. He can tell she’s not used to people saying no to pain meds. “Otherwise, it’s the usual. Ice and elevation for swelling. Heat for pain. I’m sure you’re familiar. I’ll send the information over to your team doctor, and he’ll probably set up a specialist appointment for you in the next few days. Any questions?”

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Alright. Someone will be in soon to get you fitted in a brace, and then you’re free to go. Just make sure to check out. The nurse at the desk will have your scrip and any relevant paperwork for you when you leave.” 

“Okay. Thank you,” Ilya says. He’s disappointed it’s worse than he thought. 

Four weeks. Such bullshit. Now, he needs to come up with a different plan for his proposal, and before he lets his doubts get to him again. 

He will think of something. Not now, maybe. A shower and sleep still take priority. 

But tomorrow. He’ll come up with a new plan tomorrow.  

April 23, 2021

2:30 PM

Ottawa

Ilya’s Uber drops him off in front of the Hollander’s house and he takes a deep, slow breath to quiet the butterflies in his stomach. He can’t believe he’s about to do this, but there’s no time like the present. Besides, there’s no reason to be nervous. Shane’s parents pretty much already consider them married, so this is just a formality. 

He hopes, anyway. 

This morning, Shane inadvertently gave him an idea when he asked if Ilya had booked anything for their trip to Vegas. Ilya hadn’t. He wanted to give Shane a chance to change his mind, not that reservations couldn’t be canceled, but he genuinely wanted Shane to be sure he was ready for this.  

That idea blossomed into a full-blown plan as Ilya booked the flight, tickets to a show, and a very special room for their mini-vacation. 

Now he just needed the go-ahead from Yuna and David, along with their cooperation in keeping things quiet for now. 

He’d dressed up a little – nice jeans, a belt, his button-down shirt tucked in, and he’d even gotten his hair trimmed. It’s probably all completely unnecessary, as is the bottle of wine he picked out – one of their favorites, to sweeten the deal – but he’s also not one to do things halfway. 

Nice, respectable boyfriend. Too bad the stupid brace on his arm ruined the effect somewhat. 

Yuna opens the door before he has the chance to knock and Ilya feels bad about the worry written all over her face. He didn’t exactly tell her over text what his impromptu visit, post doctor’s appointment, was about, but maybe he should have reassured her that it wasn’t anything bad. 

“Is everything okay?” she asks as she ushers him inside. “Your text didn’t say much.” 

“Sorry to make you worry.” He hands off the wine. “Everything is fine.” 

She looks at the bottle. “Oh, I like this one. What’s the occasion?” 

“Maybe just because,” Ilya says. 

David is in the kitchen, searching for something inside the freezer. “Hey son. You look nice. How’s the arm?”

“Is fine. The brace is annoying.” 

“I’m sure it is. Make sure you follow doctor’s orders, though,” David says. “You don’t want it to be a problem later on.” 

“I am being careful with it,” Ilya assures him. He pauses, rubbing his free hand over the strap of the brace nervously. “Could we sit for a minute? There is something I want to talk to you about.” 

“Sure,” David says. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“No. Thank you.” 

In the living room, Yuna and David claim the couch. Ilya takes an armchair, his English suddenly failing him. There’s a long silence before Ilya finds his words again. He’s not sure why he’s so nervous. It’s not like they aren’t expecting this at some point. 

Ilya takes a deep breath, then lets it out.

“I would like to ask your permission to marry Shane.” 

There it is. He said it. Out loud. To Shane’s parents. 

The silence that follows is deafening. They both gape at him, like they’re actually surprised. He thinks he might die if they say no. 

David cracks first, his face breaking into a big, happy smile. “You’ve got my blessing. I’d be proud to have you as my son in law.” 

“Thank you,” Ilya says. It’s barely a whisper. 

“What do you say, Yuna?” David asks, elbowing her lightly in the side. “Think the boys should finally get hitched?”

“They’re both adults. They certainly don’t need our permission,” she says stiffly. Ilya has a split second of fear that she disapproves for some reason. Then she tears up and smiles softly at him. “Of course you can marry him. I’m actually surprised either of you waited this long.” 

His voice completely gone now, Ilya can only mouth his thanks. The room gets a little blurry.

“So do you have a plan?” Yuna asks. 

“Yes. I have a plan,” Ilya says. He hopes they can’t hear the tremor in his voice. “Now I just need to pick out a ring. And find out Shane’s ring size.” 

“We can help you with that,” Yuna says. She sniffles a little and wipes at her eyes. “But I meant… the public part. Coming out and announcing your engagement. Do you have a statement ready?” 

He has a statement ready in his head in the vein of, fuck you, we’re in love and we’re getting married, and maybe eat a bag of dicks, Roger Crowell, but not an actual, official one that he can post.

 “I’m going to partner with Farah on the statement. And Shane and I have agreed to stop hiding. Sort of a… I’m not sure of the phrase. Like when you unofficially show up together in public. Make it known without announcing?” 

“A soft launch?” 

“Yes. Soft launch,” Ilya says. “Most of our friends know already, so it is not really a secret anymore. We are being seen together in public. Shane is coming to my games. There are pictures of us together on social media. Nothing crazy, looks like – what do they call it? A bromance, but maybe it’s enough to make it not so surprising when we announce it.” 

“I think that’s a good strategy. It’s less of a shock that way.” Yuna, now fully recovered and back in manager mode, nods. “You’re prepared for the backlash once you do announce it, though, right?” 

“We are prepared. And we have a lot of support from friends. I have made sure.” 

“Okay,” Yuna says. She grabs her laptop off the coffee table. “Then why don’t we open that bottle of wine and you can tell us all about your plan while we shop for rings online?”

Ilya grins. “I think I would like that very much.”

May 2, 2021

11:00 AM

Montreal

Shane looks around at the Voyageurs empty arena with a deep sense of unease. A thousand memories bombard him – his first goal in the MLH, laughing with the guys about stupid shit, winning his first Stanley Cup, watching all three banners drop. His whole career spent within these walls, this place practically his second home. 

Deep in his gut, he knows it will never feel like home again. It feels really wrong to be here, knowing the rest of his team will never skate this rink again.

He’s fresh off an extensive exam conducted by the new team doctor – a joyless, stern-faced man in his sixties, with all the personality of a cardboard box. He’d said little as he put Shane through a variety of tests, barely pausing to explain the purpose of any of them. Nor had he given any feedback beyond excessive frowning. 

Now, he’s standing at center ice, fully dressed in gear, ready to prove he’s still able to play hockey at the elite level. His own physician has given him a tentative all-clear, but the ultimate decision is up to Montreal’s doctor, management, and its new coach. 

Shane hasn’t met Albie Jameson yet, but he knows a little bit about him from research. Jameson has coached a minor league team for ten years with some success, and he played for Washington, Chicago, and Buffalo before that. His stats as a professional player are unimpressive. 

JJ told him Jameson is a real hardass. Not that this is anything new to Shane. In his experience, most coaches are like that. 

He takes a warm-up lap around the perimeter as he waits for someone to show up. It feels good to skate, but also like he doesn’t belong here. 

Jameson finally arrives, twenty minutes late, with two players from the new Montreal team, also kitted out in full gear. One of them is a goalie. Shane skates over to greet them. 

The coach looks him over with a bit of disdain. “Albie Jameson. You must be Hollander.” 

“Yes, sir,” Shane says and offers his hand to shake. 

“This Aaron Spectre, and Ethan Pelzer. They’ll be helping assess your skills today.” 

Spectre is friendly, Pelzer is indifferent. Shane is eager to get started. 

“Before we begin,” Jameson says, “I need you to understand, if we take you back, there are going to be certain rules you’ll need to follow.” 

“Of course,” Shane says, a little confused about what rules he might have missed in the ten and a half years he’s been playing. 

“I’ve heard a rumor that you’re gay. I don’t care if it’s true or not, as long as you keep that shit out of the locker room,” Jameson says. “I don’t want to have to deal with sexual harassment complaints, or hear about you checking out other guy’s asses in the showers.” 

“Excuse me?” Shane asks before he can stop himself. 

“I know how you queers are, and I don’t want it in my locker room.” 

Holy shit. 

Shane shoots a glance at Spectre, who looks quietly, coldly furious. 

“I assure you, there’s never been an issue in the locker rooms,” Shane says as steadily as he can. On the inside, he’s fucking seething. “Or anywhere else.” 

“Good. I trust it’ll stay that way. You ready to start?” 

Unease boils low in Shane’s gut. If he needed a sign that he doesn’t belong here anymore, maybe it’s this. He’s not sure he can play for a coach who more or less just insinuated being gay means he’s some kind of sexual predator. 

“Yes, sir.” 

First up is accuracy. He fires shot after shot at the goal, landing more than half of them on this new goalie, and then he takes shots at pre-set targets after, with near perfect aim. Not quite as good or as fast as before, but definitely still good enough to put him in the league’s top ten. 

Jameson looks unimpressed. 

Then it’s pass accuracy, with Spectre. His sends are better than his receives, but he only misses two of those out of god knows how many. Then mock face-offs, which he wins the majority. The ones he loses, he manages to get all but one back. 

Then it’s drills and speed trials. By the time he’s done, he’s exhausted, but he tries his best not to show it. 

“Not bad, Hollander,” Jameson says. “Spectre, Pelzer. You can hit the showers.” 

Shane makes a point to thank them both for their time. 

“I’m gonna level with you. You played with this team for what, ten years?” 

“Would have been eleven, but yeah,” Shane says. “Ten and a half.”

“If you’re cleared to come back next season, I hope you don’t expect to be the captain or the star right off the bat. This is a different regime and a whole new team,” Jameson says. “Giving preference or special privileges to big names, especially minority ones just because they're minorities is not how I operate. Ice time is earned, not given. I don’t care who you are, you start at the bottom, just like everyone else. And if your… tendencies… become a problem or your feelings get hurt by locker room talk, you better not go crying to management about discrimination. I run a tight ship, and it’s based on merit, not some performative diversity nonsense.” 

Shane very badly wants to cuss this guy out. He sounds like one of those peewee coaches who rants about how everyone gets a trophy now and how everyone is a sensitive crybaby these days. 

He’s not opposed to starting slow, if need be, or even skipping the first couple of games to make sure he’s game-ready when he does take the ice again, but this sounds like an excuse to bench him and keep him there. 

Shane has half a mind to ask Jameson if he realizes who the fuck he’s talking to. Though Shane has a reputation for being humble, he’s not above flaunting his accomplishments in front of dipshits like this one.

“With all due respect, Coach Jameson, I’m not a rookie,” Shane says. “To date, I have over 560 goals and I plan to hit a thousand by the time I retire. Ideally, I’d like to win a couple more Stanley Cups, too. If you want to waste that and lose out on winning your first cup as a coach, it’s your choice. I get paid the same.” 

Fuck. He didn’t mean to say it quite like that. 

It’s too late to take it back. 

“Say again?” Jameson asks frostily. “I must have heard you wrong.” 

“Maybe I’m mistaken, but you never won a Stanley Cup when you were pro, did you?” Shane asks as innocently as he can. He points up at the three most recent banners hanging from the rafters. “Those are all mine. Which I won while being both a minority and gay. But if that’s more important to you than this team winning, that’s on you. I’ll still be inducted into the fucking Hall of Fame and you won’t.” 

Jameson’s face turns red but he doesn’t have a comeback for it. Probably because he knows Shane’s right, and he’s just figuring out that Shane’s not going to be intimidated by some jumped-up hack with an inferiority complex. Especially not one who barely hit 300 goals by the end of his 13-year professional career and was never once part of a Stanley Cup winning team. 

With his current attitude, he’s unlikely to win any as a coach, either.

“Was there anything else?” Shane asks politely. 

“No,” Jameson says coldly. “Get the fuck off my ice.” 

Aware that he’s probably just fucked up any possible future with the franchise he’s loved for over ten years, Shane trudges to the locker room. All the anger drains out of him and is quickly replaced by regret for losing his temper. 

He should have just sucked it up and ignored it like he usually does. He should have just let the hockey speak for itself.

Inside, Spectre is getting dressed. Pelzer is nowhere to be seen. 

“You looked good out there. Your accuracy is insane,” Spectre says as Shane strips off his borrowed gear. “Sorry about what coach said.” 

“It got worse after you left.” 

“I’ve dealt with some homophobes in my time, but…” 

“They’re usually quieter about it,” Shane agrees. 

“Yeah.” 

Shane can only assume from context this guy is gay, too. “Sorry you have to deal with that. I wish I could say it used to be better, but I’d be lying. It was just more subtle.” 

“Well, I hope you make it. It would be nice to have an ally on the team,” Spectre says. “Or a captain who doesn’t put up with that shit. Like Rozanov.” 

“The Cens are definitely not your average MLH team,” Shane says with a smile. “All of them are really great guys.”

“I noticed. The way they treated Barrett on Pride Night was pretty fuckin’ amazing.” Spectre shakes his head. “I should get going. I'm headed home for a few weeks tomorrow and I still haven’t packed.” 

“Where’s home?” Shane asks. 

“Nowhere, Oklahoma,” he says. “Just in time for tornado season.” 

“Yikes,” Shane says. “Hey, uh, you wanna swap numbers? In the spirit of, you know, allies? I’m thinking I’m gonna need a few of those in the near future.”

Spectre smiles big enough for Shane to notice his dimples. “Hell yeah.” 

May 12, 2021

3:00 PM

Montreal

Shane throws himself into the back seat of Yuna’s car, his face and eyes red, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He slams the door behind him and slumps into the seat with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Hey, what happened?” Yuna asks before Ilya can. 

“Just take me home,” Shane says. It’s not an answer, but it’s enough to tell Ilya that Shane did not like what he heard today. “Seriously. Just go.” 

Ilya gets out of the passenger seat and climbs into the back. 

“Tell me what happened,” Ilya says as Yuna backs out of the parking space. “Are you not ready?” 

“It’s fucking bullshit,” Shane says. “They tried to make it sound like I’m not fit for play, called it diminished capacity, but – fuck.” 

His fist slams into the seat in front of him and he lets out an angry roar. Tears shimmer unshed in the corners of his eyes. Ilya reaches for his hand but it remains clenched and trembling at his side.

“What does that mean?” Yuna asks. “Did they find something health-related that will prevent you from playing?” 

“Yeah. It’s called homophobia.” 

Yuna stops driving abruptly in the middle of the parking garage ramp and turns around to look at Shane. “Did they actually say something about it?” 

“Coach did, but, no. It was obvious, though,” Shane spits. “Officially, I’m unfit for competition. They have concerns about my cognitive abilities. But they made it pretty clear they have a problem with me being gay.” 

Ilya has never seen Shane this angry before, and Ilya has pissed him off plenty over the years. Often on purpose. Shane’s so pissed right now, his whole body shakes and his teeth chatter like he’s caught a chill. 

“Start from the beginning,” Yuna says and continues driving. “Tell me everything they said.” 

Shane tells them about how well he thought he’d done during the skills tests, and how the doctor hadn’t said anything during the physical and hadn’t voiced any concerns about his health. Then he talks about the coach and the things he’d said. 

“I think that might be where I fucked up,” Shane says bitterly. “I should have kept my fucking mouth shut but the guy said I’d basically be benched until I earned it, like I’m some fucking rookie.” 

Ilya would very much like Yuna to turn the car around so he can go inside, hunt Jameson down, and knock him out cold. Instead he pries Shane’s fist open and tangles their fingers together.

“Then I met with the execs, and they went on and on about how they don’t care about my sexuality, how it’s not a problem as long as I keep my mouth shut about it. Kept talking about harmful activism and the importance of keeping it about hockey.” Shane says. A tear spills down his cheek and Ilya wipes it away. “But then the GM showed up and told me they’d made the decision to not renew my contract based on concerns about my health. Whatever the fuck that means.” 

Ilya wishes he could hold him right now, but he has to settle for holding his hand. It’s not like he could give him the kind of hug he wants anyway with this stupid fucking brace in the way. 

“Did you ask specifically what the areas of concern were?” Yuna asks.

“I was too pissed off. I just wanted to get out of there before I knocked someone’s teeth in.” 

That is very unlike Shane. He’s usually so very polite and professional with executives. Even in the face of microaggressions and invasive, inappropriate questions that would piss most people off, Shane’s kind of mastered the art of brushing it off, so the way he was treated must have been horrible if it set him off this much. 

“I am so sorry, sweetheart,” Ilya says. He wants to be as furious as Shane is right now, but he shoves it down in favor of comforting him. “I know you have been working very hard.” 

“All for fucking nothing.” 

“Hey. Is not the end yet,” Ilya says. “There are other teams.” 

“Yeah, and then we go back to never seeing each other. I can’t do that to you. I can’t do that to us. I don’t fucking want to.” Shane drags the back of his hand over his eyes and heaves a sigh. “Besides, they’re probably all going to say the same thing.” 

“Maybe not all of them,” Ilya says. He has an idea. It might not work, due to salary caps and whatnot, and also the possibility that it really is too dangerous for Shane to play again, but it’s worth a shot. “Ottawa needs depth at center, you know? Holmberg is just okay. Not great. You and me on the same team? Both of us on the powerplay?  All the other teams would fucking hate us.” 

Shane drops his hand away from his eyes and looks at Ilya. “What?” 

“Think about it. Ottawa is your hometown. They love you there,” Ilya says. “If you really are eligible to play, they would be stupid not to sign you.” 

“We could do that? Play for the same team?” Shane looks dumbfounded. “What about the salary cap? I’m not sure they can afford me, even with my diminished capacity.” 

“I am sure that can be negotiated,” Ilya says. “But, that is Farah’s job. Call her. Find out.” 

Yuna, who has been silent so far, catches Ilya’s eye in the rearview. She looks as stunned as Shane by the suggestion. 

“That’s actually a fantastic idea,” she says. “At least consider it, Shane. It’s a much better alternative than going to some place like New Jersey, or god forbid, some Western conference team.”

Shane doesn’t answer her. He’s looking at Ilya, his dark eyes cautiously hopeful. Ilya is cautiously hopeful, too. It might not be possible, but fuck, it would be a dream come true. No more having to wait two or three weeks to see each other. No more two hour drives to spend a single night together. Neither of them having to give up their career. Playing together.

“They won’t care that you are gay. They won’t care that we are together, as long as we disclose our relationship to management,” Ilya says. “So long as you can play, I think they would be happy to have you.”

“We could win a cup,” Shane says quietly.  

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Maybe a lot of them.” 

“I’ll call Farah when we get home.” 

“Good,” Ilya says. He tightens his fingers around Shane’s and smiles. “Everything will work out. We have fought too hard for this to give up now, yes?”

May 30, 2021

8:55 PM

The Cottage

Shane climbs out of his mom’s car outside the cottage, weary from a very long day back in Ottawa. He’d spent the first half shooting a commercial for CCM featuring protective gear, something his mom sprung on him three days ago – it’s a good way to stay relevant, Shane – and the second half of it enduring extensive medical, skills, and fitness tests to determine his actual eligibility to continue playing next season. After all, a second opinion can’t hurt.

True to Ilya’s word, Ottawa is interested. Very interested. Unofficially, of course. It’s not a done deal by any means, and won’t be until an offer can be made in July, but Shane hopes like hell he’ll have a place on the team next season. He doesn’t even care about being the star, the captain, or even the potential salary, he just wants – no needs – to play hockey again. 

There will be no definite answer for anything today, but everything went well, as far as he knows. He’d left feeling a lot more confident about his future than he had when he’d left the arena in Montreal. 

As a bonus, he’s been cleared for daytime driving again, which means he doesn’t have to rely on Uber or rides from his parents, as long as it’s daylight. He no longer has sensitivity to light, or headaches associated with it, but sometimes he sees distracting halos around lights in the dark. Bad enough that it impairs his nighttime vision. Until that clears up, he’s on restriction. 

Maybe now he can actually plan how he’s going to propose to Ilya. So far, life has gotten in the way, and he doesn’t want to just randomly whip out a ring while they’re watching Fast Five or Shrek for the billionth time. 

Maybe he’ll do it here, on Ilya’s birthday. That would be one hell of a birthday surprise. 

“Have a good night, Shane,” his mom says through the open passenger window. There’s a funny, soft smile on her face that he can’t quite read. “Call me in the morning, okay?” 

“Yeah. Drive safe,” he says. “Love you.”

He watches her drive off, wondering what that was about, but he’s too worn out to think too hard on it. 

Once her taillights disappear through the trees, he trudges up to the house, thinking of how nice it will be to grab a bite to eat and then crawl into bed. Maybe tomorrow, they can take the kayaks out. Maybe the jet skis, if it’s hot out. 

All the lights are on inside, which is a little weird, and something smells amazing, but Ilya is nowhere in sight. In the oven, a perfectly golden chicken and an assortment of roasted root vegetables are being kept warm under low heat. Ilya hadn’t mentioned cooking dinner tonight, but this is definitely welcome. Shane hasn’t eaten since breakfast. 

“Ilya?” he calls, but there’s no answer. 

Must be out back. Ilya likes laying on the lounge under the stars on nice, clear nights like this, though, not usually alone. 

Or, maybe his new prescription is messing with him again. The first week of taking it, it made him extremely sluggish, which kind of worked out, because it kept him from bitching about his arm being in a sling. But it had also made him sleep a lot more than usual, and very slow to get moving in the morning. 

Shane hopes he didn’t decide to cook dinner, only to fall asleep. 

Nothing looks dried out, though, and the heat is low enough that he doesn’t think anything is going to burn. 

At the back door, Shane pauses. There are about a thousand paper lanterns strung around the deck and more lining the dock. The table is set with plates, silverware, and wine glasses, and what looks like a bottle of wine chills in a bucket next to a candle in a jar. 

Shane’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t dare hope that this is what he suspects it might be. 

A movement on the dock catches his eye and Shane steps closer to the glass to peer outside. 

Ilya’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the dock, facing the water. It looks like a woman is sitting next to him. Long curls spill down her back, the light cast by the paper lanterns guilds them the same shade of gold as Ilya’s. 

Irina? 

Shane tugs open the door, a little breathless at the impossible thought, but when he steps outside, the woman is gone and it’s just Ilya, alone. 

A trick of light. Wishful thinking. 

Or maybe she does watch over Ilya, the way Ilya believes she does. 

Shane hopes so. It’s comforting to think she’s looking after him. 

His heart pounding, Shane follows the trail of lanterns down to the dock. Ilya doesn’t move until Shane takes his first step onto the wooden planks. Then he rises and faces Shane, his eyes soft and his smile nervous.

He looks good, dressed casually in khaki shorts and a loose white button-down made of some lightweight, almost sheer fabric. The brace came off two days ago, but he holds his arm just a little bent, the joint still stiff and tender. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi,” Shane says back. “What is all this?” 

“Your father helped me do it.” Ilya bites his lip. Shane can’t say he’s ever seen Ilya look so unsure of himself before. “Is nice, right?” 

“Yeah, I like it,” Shane says. “Romantic.”

Ilya shoves his fists in his pockets and saunters closer, his nervous smile shifting into a more confident, crooked grin. And god, he’s beautiful in this light. He’s beautiful all the time, but especially right now. 

“So, Shane Hollander. We have known each other a long, long time.” 

“Thirteen years now.” 

“Do you know, the first time we met, I could not get you out of my head. I don’t even remember what you said, but I think maybe you stole my heart then, I was just too young and stupid to know it.” Ilya shrugs, a little helpless. “I spent almost a whole year thinking about your freckles.” 

God. It always surprises him when Ilya says stuff like this, even when he’s heard it before. His honesty is so raw sometimes, it knocks Shane on his ass. Ilya’s continued fascination with his freckles is also something Shane secretly loves hearing about. 

“No. That is not true. I am always thinking about them.” 

“Always?” 

“Maybe not always, but at least ten times a day.” His smile is dazzling. “I want to wake up to them every morning. For the rest of my life.”   

“So, it’s my freckles you’ve been in love with all this time?” Shane teases, but almost embarrassed by how unsteady his voice is. 

“Yes. Just your stupid freckles.” 

“You’re an asshole.” Shane doesn’t even bother to keep the smile off his face.

“I guess it is a good thing you love that about me, then.”

“Sometimes,” Shane concedes. “Should I go get my glasses? So all your weird fetishes are covered?”

“That would not be all of them.” He leans in and presses a tender, adoring kiss to Shane’s lips. “But I think you already know that.”  

Ilya murmurs something in Russian as he pulls back. It’s too soft to try and translate, it doesn’t matter anyway because in the next instant, Ilya sinks to one knee and takes Shane’s hand in his. His lips touch Shane’s knuckles, his eyes fixed on Shane’s face. 

Shane feels like he’s going to laugh, scream, cry, and throw up all at the same time. His throat gets tight and it’s hard to breathe, and Ilya looks so…oh, god.

Ilya produces a black ring box, opened to reveal a gold band with black edges. Similar to one Shane had considered online a few weeks ago. Simple. Classy. Masculine.

“Marry me, Shane.” 

Shane is speechless. All he can do is nod. 

“Is that a yes?” Ilya asks. 

The plaintive, hopeful look in Ilya’s eyes is killing him. It makes Shane want to shove him down on the wood planks and kiss him into oblivion.  

“You beat me to it,” Shane says breathlessly. 

“What? Was it a competition?” 

“I was going to propose to you. Hayden told me I should and I just hadn’t decided how to do it. Or when,” Shane’s aware he’s babbling. And apparently he’s not capable of stopping. “And then you got hurt and… Then I thought, maybe your birthday. But, fuck, Ilya.”

“Hayden told you.” 

“Yeah.” Shane brushes curls away from Ilya’s forehead, aware they’re off track. “He called you husband material.”

“Oh. That was nice of him. I guess I will have to put him back on the guest list now.” 

“Shut up.” 

“That is your answer, then? Shut up?”

Shane leans down and drags Ilya’s mouth to his. 

“No. I mean, yeah,” he murmurs as he pulls back, looking at Ilya’s beautiful face. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

June 24, 2021

9:13 AM

Ottawa

Shane can’t believe he’s about to do this. 

He stands in line for first class boarding, his heart in his throat and his stomach threatening revolt. Nervously, he tightens his hand around the engagement ring suspended on a gold chain around his neck, holding onto it for dear life.  

Ilya’s hand rests boldly against his back, solid and warm and steady. It might be the only thing stopping him from giving in to the impulse to run away screaming.

“Is not too late to change your mind,” Ilya says. “We can leave now and drive straight to the cottage if you want.” 

“Nope.” God, it’s gotten hard to breathe. “Gonna have to do it eventually.”

Ilya hands off their tickets to the gate attendant and then they’re boarding. Shane barely notices the way Ilya smiles and flirts with the flight attendants along the way. His heart is about to leap out of his chest, and as they step inside the plane, the smell hits him first. It’s faint, but the acrid scent of burning jet fuel is unmistakable. 

For a second, all he sees are the shredded remains of a different cockpit, a different plane.

Shane freezes in the aisle, eyes closed, trembling like a leaf until it passes. Ilya’s hand presses lightly between his shoulder blades, grounding him. 

“Breathe,” Ilya says and Shane turns around to face him. His eyes are more green than gold in this light. A ring that matches his own rests against his chest. Beneath it, the familiar gold cross. Shane chooses to focus on that, and what it means, instead of how terrified he is. “Our seats are here. Do you want the window or the aisle?” 

Shane can’t decide. Then he decides it doesn’t matter. “I don’t care.” 

Ilya gently nudges him toward the window seat. He takes Shane’s carry-on and stows it overhead, and then his own. Shane is about to remind him to be careful not to aggravate his elbow, but Ilya probably doesn’t need a lecture. Shane probably doesn’t have enough breath to give one right now anyway.

As Ilya sits down, he threads his fingers through Shane’s and rests their joined hands against his thigh. Shane is too close to having a panic attack right now to care who might see it. It won’t matter soon, anyway.

“Do you want one of the sedatives your doctor gave you?” 

Shane does not want to be doped up for this. He thought at first that he would want to be completely knocked out, but he needs to be 100% aware, in case something happens. 

“I’m okay.” 

His therapist thought it was a huge step forward when Shane told her he planned to get on a plane again. He didn’t bother telling her he’d decided to do it before he even attended his first session with her.

“First time flying?” the first-class flight attendant asks kindly. God, it must be really obvious he’s scared shitless.

“No,” Shane says. “Plane crash survivor, actually.” 

“Oh,” the attendant says, eyes wide. “You’re Shane Hollander. I was informed you’d be on this flight.” 

“That’s me.” He lets out a breath. He wonders who the hell told her. Then again, they get flight manifests and famous passengers are probably made priority or something. “I figure the chances of it happening a second time are pretty slim, right?” 

“They actually are. It’s like a billion to one,” she says confidently. “You’re in good hands, Mr. Hollander.” 

“Good to know.” 

Her confidence actually makes him feel better. Marginally. The kiss Ilya plants on his cheek as she walks away helps too. 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. I must be out of my mind.” 

“You are very brave.” Ilya says. His thumb brushes against Shane’s own. “And I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” 

Soon, they’re taxiing toward the runway. Shane feels like he’s going to be sick as an attendant goes through the safety procedures. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing instead of the way the plane shakes and squeaks as it travels toward the runway. His grip on Ilya’s hand tightens, and he tugs the window shade down so he doesn’t have to see what’s happening outside.

When the plane makes a hard u-turn and then comes to a stop, Ilya starts talking to him softly in Russian, his lips right next to Shane’s ear. Shane’s far too focused on controlling his growing panic to translate anything, but he picks out individual words here and there – dinner, love, something about caviar, a surprise, the words excited and wedding. No doubt sharing the plans he’s been so secretive about so far. Or just expressing the tentative plans they have for a small backyard wedding at Ilya’s house next month. 

Which will soon be his house, too, officially, once the sale of the Montreal house to Cliff Marlow is finalized. 

The plane accelerates and Shane focuses on Ilya’s fluid Russian, and how beautiful and rich the language sounds when Ilya speaks it, not on the fact that they could very well die in the next sixty seconds. 

And then they’re airborne and Shane feels like his heart is about to explode. 

Ilya’s words turn decidedly filthy, and these are words Shane definitely understands. A hot blush blooms on his cheeks at the prospect of Ilya doing those things to him the moment they check into their hotel room. Too bad Ilya’s new medication seems to be having a bit of a cooling effect on his libido. Not that it stops him by any means, it just takes longer to get there sometimes. But, better that than a deeply depressed Ilya. It’s a trade-off Shane can live with.

Before he knows it, they’ve made it safely to cruising altitude and the seatbelt light is turned off, and Shane low-key turned on. 

Part of him wants to burst into tears. Because this has been terrifying. Because they survived. Because Ilya always knows exactly what he needs.  

“You are breaking my fingers, Hollander.” 

“Oh, fuck. Sorry.” He’s been holding on so tight, it actually hurts to let go. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Ilya says with a laugh. He opens and closes his hand, presumably to return blood flow to his squashed fingers. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m probably not actually having a heart attack right now, so maybe?” 

“That was scary, yes?” 

“Second scariest thing I’ve ever done.” 

The flight attendant approaches, carrying a can of ginger ale and a rather generous serving of whiskey on the rocks. Shane’s not into whiskey at all, and he hadn’t planned to be impaired for the flight, but at the moment, it looks like exactly what he needs to take the edge off. 

“Our Captain heard you like ginger ale. She thought you could use something a little harder to go with it.” 

In spite of himself and the absolute terror he’s felt over the last thirty to forty-five minutes, Shane laughs. “Tell her I said thank you. This is great.” 

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Hollander.” 

“Shane. Please,” he says. 

“Can I bring you anything, Mr. Rozanov?” 

“Whiskey will be fine for me, too. You can hold the ginger ale, though. And the ice,” Ilya says. “Thank you.”

“Did you put them up to this?” Shane asks once she’s gone. 

“No. Was not me. You are famous, remember. The captain must be a fan.”

“Mmm. Maybe.” 

Ilya leans over and presses a stealthy kiss next to Shane’s ear. 

“I am so proud of you,” Ilya whispers. “And we are going to have so much fun together.” 

“You’re really not going to tell me what you have planned?” 

“You will just have to wait and find out,” Ilya says with a gleeful smile.

When Ilya informed him he had a surprise for him, Shane couldn’t imagine what he might have in mind. He still can’t, and Ilya hasn’t given him so much as a hint. For the first time, Shane finds he’s annoyed by how well Ilya can keep a secret. 

“Fucking relax, Hollander. Drink your whiskey. Maybe take a nap.” 

Shane has absolutely no plans to take a nap on this flying death trap, but after downing two glasses of whiskey and ginger ale, he finds himself drifting off, lulled by the static hum of the plane’s engines and the light brush of Ilya’s thumb against the back of his neck. 

An announcement wakes him. At first, he’s disoriented, unsure of where he is. Then, he thinks he’s having a nightmare and he’s going to have to relive the horror of it all, but a hand tightens around his, and when he looks to his right, Ilya is there, smiling. 

“We are almost there,” Ilya says. “Landing soon. Is your seatbelt on?”

Shane never actually took it off. “Yeah.” 

“Did you know Vegas is my favorite place to fly into?” Ilya asks and slides the closed shade open. “It is like nowhere else in the world. There is a castle, Egyptian pyramid, Statue of Liberty, ancient Greece, Venice, all these crazy things in one place. Does not look real from up here.”

Shane can’t say he’s ever paid attention before. He probably shouldn’t now, but Ilya’s voice is kind of hypnotizing. And he’s right. It’s kind of magical. Like Disney World, for adults.

God, Shane loves Ilya so much. For this. For everything. 

“I like it at night, too, with all the lights. They say you can see Vegas from space, there are so many, and they are so bright,” Ilya says. He taps a finger against the glass. They’re flying a lot lower now. “Look. You can see all the cars moving. They don’t look real either, do they? Like toys.” 

The whine of the plane’s flaps moving into position for landing sends a shock of fear all through Shane’s body, and he tenses up, expecting the whole thing to come apart, mid-air.

“Is totally normal sound,” Ilya says conversationally. “Next will be landing gear.” 

Shane is familiar enough with flying that he should know this, but he appreciates the reassurance. And the warning. When he hears the familiar thunk of the landing gear descending, his heart doesn’t try to jump out of his chest.

God, he’s glad it’s Ilya with him for this. He would be so fucked if he tried to do this alone, or as part of an unfamiliar team.  

Everything is closer now and Shane shuts his eyes, remembering the way the ground rushed up at them and the treetops were visible outside the window. He holds his breath –

And then they are on the ground, the rush of wind against the wings loud but so very familiar as the plane slows to a stop. 

Safe. Alive. Unharmed. 

Ilya’s voice is a warm, sultry purr in his ear. “Are you ready to see Vegas with me, sweetheart?”

Chapter End Notes

Vegas is going to be a wild ride, y'all. Hehehe.

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

This chapter turned out way more fluffy than crazy. Except for, you know, the crazy. It also didn't want to end so you get an extra long one this time!

Thanks for reading! 💚

June 24, 2021

2:05 PM

Las Vegas

Ilya always forgets how hot Las Vegas is in summer. The dry desert air leaves him feeling dehydrated and sandblasted right away, but he kind of loves it. After living in places that are bitter cold for half the year, he relishes the warmth and the blazing sun on his skin. 

Shane’s not such a fan, but he doesn’t complain. Much.

The nights here are mild, though. Once the sun sets, the temperature drops drastically, to something much more comfortable. It will be perfect for their dinner later. Ilya smiles to himself as he thinks about what he’s got planned, hoping that Shane will get out of his own head long enough to enjoy it. 

He takes Shane’s hand as they exit the shuttle from the airport in front of the hotel and a little thrill races through him when Shane’s fingers slot into his without hesitation. As if it no longer matters at all who sees them. 

That’s a good sign. 

At the desk, Ilya checks in, Shane at his side. He listens politely to all the amenities the hotel offers, though he’s pretty well acquainted with them already. It’s not Ilya’s first visit, nor Shane’s, though maybe Shane doesn’t remember. It’s been years, after all. 

It’s also not the same hotel where the MLH awards will be held this year, so the chances of running into another player here are pretty slim. Most of them book rooms at the same place as the banquet, since there are often press events to attend beforehand. 

Ilya hasn’t been nominated for anything this year, not that he expected to be. Shane, however, as a presenter and guest of honor, will be busy the day of, with two separate press conferences, and a rehearsal. 

No doubt sports journalists will want to fawn all over him and ask questions about his alleged comeback. Shane hasn’t said it, but he’s nervous. His speech has improved so much it’s almost normal again, but sometimes, when he’s tired or anxious, it gets a little jumbled and he starts forgetting words. Or maybe, he just lets his head and his nerves get in the way. 

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Rozanov,” the clerk tells him and slides the little envelope containing their key cards across the counter. “Let us know if there’s anything you need.” 

Ilya thanks her and turns to Shane. “Come on. Let’s go up to the room. We have some time to relax before dinner.” 

“We have dinner plans?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says without elaborating. He heads toward the elevator. “But we have time for other things before.” 

“Other things.” Shane snorts. “You plan to keep those promises you made on the plane?” 

“Maybe.” 

The elevator door opens and Ilya hits the button for the penthouse. If Shane notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

“This place is familiar,” Shane says. “Did they have the awards here one year?” 

“They did. It has been a while, though.” 

It doesn’t dawn on Shane exactly where they are until they step inside the room. The furniture is different – it has been years, after all, but the open concept layout is the same, and so is the view. Not that Shane would know what it looks like during the day, but Ilya remembers. 

“Is this…?” Shane’s eyes get wide as he turns in a slow circle, taking it in. 

“Yes. Same room.” 

“Holy shit.” 

Ilya chuckles and carries both their bags to the bedroom, where he’s assaulted by memories. Ilya in a chair, Shane, on the bed, putting on a show for him, embarrassed, but determined to do a good job. How Ilya wanted to kiss him into the mattress and fall asleep next to him, and how fucking impossible it was for either of them to have that.  

“God,” Shane says, blushing as he stares at the bed. No doubt remembering the same thing. “That night was something else. I’d never done anything like that before.”

“I remember,” Ilya says with a grin. 

Ilya’s… sad all of a sudden. Not the kind that will take him so low he wants to be erased from the world, just regretful for all the time they wasted, denying themselves, torturing themselves.  

“I wanted you to stay,” Ilya says quietly. “That night. I had an early flight, yes, but…”

“Really?” 

“I wish I had kissed you. But, it would have made it harder. For you. Me.”

“Me too. I regretted it later.” 

“No more regrets,” Ilya says and backs Shane toward the bed. “So, what should we do? Take a nap? Watch some TV?” 

“I could really use a shower.” 

Ilya’s thinking about reenacting that night, but a shower also sounds good. Best to save fooling around for later.

He takes Shane by the hand and leads him into the large, fancy bathroom, which is just as nice as he remembers. Black granite, brass fixtures, fancy water pressure settings, frosted glass.  

They exchange kisses as they undress each other, leaving their clothing in a pile on the granite floor, hands wandering over each other’s skin. They make out in the shower, neither in any hurry to escalate things. 

Ilya loves that he’s gotten a second chance to do this, and that Shane is still willing to let him after all these years. He loves that he’s going to be able to for many more years to come. Wild, that their hunger for each other is the one thing that has never changed. 

He’s going to have to be very careful here, though. His medication makes it a little difficult to get off more than once a day. Sometimes, not even that much. Going there now means he might not be able to later.

It’s one of those side-effects he’d been warned about, and one he’s not at all a fan of, but it could be worse. It could have annihilated his sex-drive altogether. 

Ilya’s willing to give Shane whatever he wants now, though. And he does, slowly, lazily, on his knees in the shower, with Shane’s fingers tangled in his hair, murmuring encouragement in stilted, clumsy Russian. 

Later, after they’re both clean and dried, they tumble into the bed, where they exchange slow, unhurried kisses on top of the luxurious sheets. It’s sweet and indulgent and it’s been a while since they’ve done this. The fact that they can is still nothing short of a miracle, for more than one reason. 

Ilya came so close to losing this. He doesn’t plan to waste a second from now on. Whatever happens, he wants to make the most of it. 

“What time is dinner?” Shane eventually asks. 

“Eight.” 

“Good. I could use a nap.” 

“Yes. Has been a stressful day for you.” Ilya drags his hand through Shane’s hair, his fingers accidentally finding one of the scars on his scalp. A pang of sadness cuts through him, thinking of how it came to be. “It was very brave of you to get on the plane today, you know. I thought you might change your mind.” 

“I almost did. When we were in line, I thought really hard about running away,” Shane says with a small laugh. “But, I’d still have to do it eventually. And I wouldn’t have gotten to come here with you.”

“I am very glad you did.” 

Shane pulls back, a hand against Ilya’s cheek. “Thank you. For just… everything.” 

Ilya hums sleepily and presses his lips to Shane’s palm. 

“I mean it. You’ve been… I don’t think I would have come this far without you.” 

“I think you would have,” Ilya says. “I have never met someone so determined as you are.” 

Ilya doesn’t tell him that he would not have survived if Shane hadn’t. Maybe he would have stuck around physically for a while, but on the inside, he would have died a little more every day that Shane was gone until he just… faded into nothing. He wouldn’t have bothered seeing his therapist anymore, and he definitely wouldn’t have gone on medication. He wouldn’t have cared if he won another hockey game. He would have disappeared. Become nothing.

The crash would have killed the both of them, just in different ways. Because Shane’s nightmare, up until then, had been being found out. Ilya’s nightmare has always been losing Shane.

God willing, they’ll get to grow old together. Play hockey for another ten years or so. Adopt some dogs and a couple kids. Spend their summers at the cottage. Maybe Ilya will become a junior’s coach, maybe Shane will have a podcast or a regular spot on the MLH network. 

Only good things ahead for them. 

Ilya knows this. They’ve struggled enough. And after tonight, maybe they won’t have to for much longer. 

7:55 PM

Shane has no idea what to expect when Ilya takes him up to the hotel’s rooftop, but he does like that Ilya is so excited about it. His glittering eyes and smug smile are infectious, and Shane finds himself grinning back at him in the elevator without really knowing why. 

It’s good to see Ilya finding himself again. For the last month his moods have been more even and that sadness he carried around with him all the time seems to have lifted. Shane’s cautiously hopeful it means Ilya’s days of being scared of himself are over, or at least, will be few and far between.  

And of course, Ilya looks fantastic in his tailored suit – dark gray jacket and pants, white shirt, lavender tie, hair slicked back. The overall effect is more high-powered captain of industry or fashion model than a guy who makes his living playing a sport that routinely involves concussions and getting teeth knocked out. 

They exit the elevator and Ilya leads him to a spot that’s been curtained off and marked with a sign that says Reserved: Private Event. A slight breeze makes the curtains billow and the night air is balmy and dry without a hint of humidity. Perfect for outdoor dining. 

A hostess appears out of nowhere, her smile warm and welcoming. “Good evening, gentlemen. Right this way, please.”

Shane’s heart is thundering, but in a good way this time, as he follows her behind the curtain, where a table is set for two, complete with candles and flowers, and the view of the city lights reminds him of another night, a long time ago. 

It might even be the same place. If so, Ilya is certainly taking him down memory lane.

“Please, have a seat,” the hostess says. “I’m Rachel. I’ll be your server tonight. We’ll start your six course meal with champagne and an aperitif of Russian Red and Beluga caviar served with blini and creme fraiche.”

Ilya grins at him across the table as Rachel pops the cork on a bottle of dry champagne and ferries a pair of small plates to the table. 

Shane inspects the offering as she fills their glasses. In the center of each plate are two small pancake looking things with a spoonful of caviar in the middle, one an orange color, the other a deep black. The plate itself is ice cold when he touches the edge.

Over the years, caviar has been served at various functions he’s attended, but Shane has never actually tried it before. Not because he didn’t think he would like it, but because he rarely sampled the options at hors d'oeuvres tables, put off by the idea of food sitting around for a while like that. Warm fish eggs never sounded like something that was safe to consume.

He would probably never try it on his own, either, but Shane’s decision to do things he’s never done before means he’s going to try the caviar and he’s going to let Ilya plan adventures that take him outside his comfort zone. After all, tomorrow is not a guarantee. 

“Enjoy,” Rachel says and disappears behind the curtain. 

“This is fancy,” Shane says. “You really went all out, huh?”

“Yes.” Ilya gets up and moves his chair and plate so that he’s sitting next to Shane instead of across from him. “Have you had this before?” 

“Never.” 

“Okay. I will explain, because there is a difference and you should know about it. Russian red caviar comes from salmon usually. Is a very good, respectable caviar,” Ilya says. “But, Beluga caviar is the best in the world. Very expensive. Very delicious.” 

“Beluga, like the whale?” 

“No. Is from Beluga sturgeon. Very important fish in Russia.” Ilya takes a sip of his champagne. “Is best served with a good vodka, but a nice champagne is okay, too.” 

Shane’s glad there’s no vodka involved in this. He’s never been a fan. Not even the quality stuff Ilya drinks changed his mind about that. 

“Are these pancakes?” Shane asks as he picks up one with Russian red on it. 

“They are blini. Traditional Russian dish. Like a pancake but not.” He picks up one of his own. “Go ahead. Try.” 

Shane pops it into his mouth and Ilya watches his reaction with great interest. 

At first, all Shane tastes is the creme fraiche, but then there’s a salty, briny flavor as the eggs pop against the roof of his mouth. It should be unpleasant, but it isn’t. 

“Do you like it?” 

He’s surprised to find that he does. It’s not something he would go out of his way to get, but he definitely wouldn’t turn it down if it was offered again. 

“It’s pretty good.” 

“Yes. Now, take a sip of champagne and then try the other.” 

This one is even better, just as Ilya said it was. Still salty, but also rich and kind of… buttery or something.  

“I like this one a lot,” Shane says. 

Ilya’s smile is so pleased, Shane is glad he didn’t tease him about the impromptu caviar lesson. He realizes it’s something Ilya decided to share with him from home. He could have just let Shane eat it without comment, but he’d taken extra steps to let him know that these are explicitly Russian things, and very special. 

“Thank you for this,” Shane says. He takes a sip of his champagne. “Does it make you miss home?” 

“A little,” Ilya says with a small nod. He sips his own glass, thoughtful. “The first time I tried caviar was with my mother. It was New Years and my father had a big party with all his important friends. I was supposed to be in bed, but I wanted to see. She found me hiding at the top of the stairs and sent me to my room. But then she brought me some of the things from the party and we ate them there, on the floor beside the bed, me in my pajamas, her in her fancy gown. The caviar was my favorite. She told me it meant I would always have a taste for expensive things.” 

He smiles. It’s soft and a little sad. Shane’s heart hurts for him, for how the loss still causes him pain.

“I guess she wasn’t wrong,” Ilya says, his smile turning wry. “I do like expensive things.” 

“That’s an understatement,” Shane agrees. “How old were you then?” 

“Seven, maybe?” 

“I bet you were a really cute kid.” 

“I was adorable,” Ilya says, flashing that brilliant grin of his, the one that always makes Shane melt inside. “But you were, too, with your little freckles and your fat cheeks.” 

“I didn’t have fat cheeks!”

“Yes you did. I have seen the pictures,” Ilya says. “Is okay. I did, too.” 

Shane almost tells him he wishes he could see pictures of little Ilya, but he knows Ilya doesn’t have any, and he doesn’t want to make him sad.

Ilya tops off Shane’s glass, and then his own. Shane didn’t realize he already had so much. He should probably pace himself. Champagne has a way of going straight to his head. 

Rachel returns and clears the plates. “How is everything?” 

“Delicious, thank you.” 

“Great,” she says and places fresh plates in front of each of them, unphased by Ilya’s seating change. “For our next course, we have a white asparagus bisque with maitake mushroom brioche.” 

“Wow,” Shane says. “That smells amazing.” 

“This is one of my favorites,” Rachel says candidly. “You’re lucky. We only get white asparagus once a year, so it’s always a treat when we have it.” 

Then she leaves them to their soup. It tastes even better than it smells.

“God, I wonder if dad could make this,” Shane says. “This is really good.”

“Probably,” Ilya says. “I like his crab bisque very much. He taught me how to make it, so maybe we could try when we get home.”

“Definitely” 

They discuss wedding cake options until Rachel returns with salads of marinated bok choy, tangerines, and watercress, topped with thin slices of seared tuna, drizzled in a soy-ginger dressing. The salad is followed by wagyu beef with pencil-thin rainbow carrots and fresh green beans on the side. Then a palate cleanser of bergamot-lavender sorbet, and a dessert of key lime cheesecake so rich and decadent, Shane can’t finish it. 

By the time they’re done, they’ve killed the bottle of champagne and Shane is fairly drunk. He’s never had a meal like this, not even at the fancier events he’s attended over the years. Every single thing was delicious, and though the menu was fairly eclectic, somehow everything complimented everything else. 

To know Ilya picked this specific menu with him in mind tells Shane just how much thought he’s put into this. He can’t even imagine what else he might have planned if this is just the beginning. 

“This was amazing, Ilya,” he says. “Thank you for doing this.” 

“I told you I would come up with a romantic date for us.” 

“This is going to be hard to top.” 

“Yes. Maybe.” His hand covers Shane’s, his smile mysterious. “Are you ready to go?” 

“Do we need to pay?” 

Ilya waves him off. “Already taken care of.” 

“So, back to the room?” 

“No. I am not done with you yet.” 

“There’s more?” 

Ilya just laughs. 

10:36 PM

Ilya’s heart is pounding, though outwardly, he keeps his cool as they take the elevator down to the second floor, where there are an assortment of shops and other distractions available to guests. He’s a bit drunk and very nervous, but he hopes Shane doesn’t notice. Shane is more drunk than Ilya’s ever seen him, but it’s the giddy kind brought on by champagne, not the kind that will have him hugging a toilet later.

Downstairs, under the guise of using the restroom, Ilya texts Yuna to let her know they’re done with dinner. 

For a few minutes, they stroll around, checking out the amenities and shops. There are a lot of high-end brand stores, all closed at this hour, but maybe one or two he’d like to check out later. Ilya laughs when he spots a larger than life photo of himself in the Tom Ford storefront, looking pretty damn sexy in his suit, arrogant and unsmiling, with his shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal his mother’s cross and a peek of his pecs. 

“God,” Shane says. “It’s not fair.”

“What?” 

“That you got all the sex-appeal.” 

“Well, I was never hockey’s good boy, was I?” Ilya teases. He turns to Shane and gives him what he hopes is a seductive smile. “But, pretty, boring Canadian boys have their appeal, too.” 

He’s overwhelmed by the urge to kiss Shane right here, in public, in front of whoever might be watching. 

Soon. He’ll be able to do that soon.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he checks it quickly. 

[Yuna] We’re here!

“Something important?” Shane asks, a note of suspicion in his voice. 

“Nothing. Just stupid e-mail. Porsche really wants me to buy the new Cayenne.” 

Ilya can practically hear Shane rolling his eyes. “Like you need another.”

“I could trade it in,” Ilya says with a shrug. “New colors are nice.” 

“And you can still only drive it four months a year.” 

Ilya will never admit his sportscars are totally impractical in Ottawa. Even though they really are.

“Yes, but for four months a year I don’t look like a suburban dad named Brad driving my boring, practical SUV.” He stops and leans over. “And you look very sexy in passenger seat.”

“Is that another one of your fetishes?” 

“Yes. Passenger princesses are hot.”

“Who taught you that?” Shane asks, laughing. 

“Harris. Of course.”  

He guides Shane toward their destination, pointing out various things along the way to distract him, trying not to worry too much about Shane’s reaction. Ilya has faith this crazy idea of his is going to be one of the best decisions he’s ever made. He has a little bit less faith that Shane will be on board, but Ilya has taken care to arrange things so that maybe he will be. 

“Are you okay? You’re being weird,” Shane says, his suspicion plain. “Where are we going, anyway?" 

“You will see,” Ilya says and stops just shy of where they’re going. “And you’re going to love it. But first. Tell me if you still want to marry me.” 

“Of course I do,” Shane says, confused. “We just talked about wedding cakes.” 

“How much do you want to marry me?” 

“I don’t know. I’d marry you right now, if that were possible.” 

“Yes?” Ilya was hoping for that answer. “Then let’s do it.” 

“What?” Shane lets out a laugh of disbelief. “Ilya. We can’t.”

Ilya tips his head at the doorway behind him. The sign says Chapel.

“We are in Vegas. Twenty-four hour weddings. We could be married tonight. If you want.” 

“Wait.” Shane’s eyes are huge. “You meant that literally?” 

“Yes. We can get married right now.” Ilya tugs on Shane’s hand, and Shane follows, aghast but completely without a fight. “We have rings. We are in love. Is easy. Simple. And then I am all yours.” 

“Ilya. We can’t.” Shane says, but there’s a spark of hope in his eyes, a want that’s not so different from the one Ilya sees in the bedroom. “You know we can’t.” 

“What is the difference between now and waiting until July?”

“You know my mom would kill us, right?” 

“Would she?” Ilya asks with a smile as he leads Shane into the reception area. 

“Ilya, she’s already planned half –” Shane stops in his tracks. His hand comes up to cover his mouth and his eyes get misty. “Oh my god.”  

Yuna and David Hollander stand just inside reception – David in a navy suit with a silver and navy paisley tie, Yuna in a slim, navy blue halter gown with silver beads on the bodice. They’re both beaming and probably a little drunk themselves. Ilya might have arranged a special dinner for them, too.

“Ilya,” Shane says a little helplessly. “This is – holy shit.” 

“Surprise,” Ilya says. 

“Hey, son,” David says, grinning as he gives Shane a fatherly hug and a pat on the back. “How was dinner?” 

“It was great, but –” Shane manages, rendered partially speechless. “Holy shit.” 

Shane’s shock is so cute, his face red and a little scrunched as he struggles not to cry. 

Yuna leans in and kisses Shane on the cheek. She laughs as she takes Shane’s face in her hands. “Red, yellow, or green?” she asks. 

“Red. Green. Fuck. I don’t know. All of them,” Shane says. Ilya can’t tell if he’s laughing or about to hyperventilate. “Holy shit. This is a lot.”

Ilya reaches for Shane’s hand. “Do you need a minute? To think about it?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a little breathless. “But, wait. Will this be legal in Canada? Like, the same as doing it there?” 

Of course Shane would ask that. Fortunately, Ilya covered his bases beforehand. This was not an impulsive decision on his part, though it probably feels that way to Shane. 

“Yes. I checked first. Vegas wedding is valid in Canada. No problems.” 

Shane turns to his parents. "You… you guys knew? And you’re okay with this?” 

“We’re here aren’t we?” Yuna asks with a smile. 

“Dad?”

“Well, when Ilya told us his idea, I thought it was risky, just knowing how you are about schedule changes and things,” David says, “but I’m in if you are.” 

Shane covers his face with both hands and takes a couple of deep, slow breaths. Ilya’s pretty sure he mutters holy shit at least two more times before his hands drop away and he throws his arms around Ilya’s neck. 

“I hate you so much for this.” 

“No you don’t. You love it.” 

“Yeah,” Shane laughs but he sounds emotional. “I really do.” 

“So, you want to do this, then?” Ilya whispers in his ear.  

“This is such a bad idea.” 

“Everything we do is a bad idea. Never stopped us before.”   

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s fucking go.” 

Ilya grins. “Okay.”

10:51 PM

The actual Chapel is even nicer than it looked in the pictures. It also doesn’t look much like a church. The walls are covered with heavy off-white brocade fabric with silver threads running through it, the floors are made of beautiful white marble, and there are red roses everywhere – in large floor vases, on the altar, in ribbon-tied bundles attached to stands along the aisle, and in the bouquet in Yuna’s hands. 

It’s been a while since Ilya felt like bursting into tears. Not since he started his meds, but this time there would be a good reason for it if he did. He’s about to marry the love of his life, after all these years. He finally gets to keep something he loves. That would be worth crying over, if he were to allow himself to do it.

But he won’t. No tears on his wedding day. Not even happy ones.

He barely hears anything the pastor says. The words are probably similar to the ones he’s heard at other weddings over the years. He’s been to enough of them to know the script is pretty standard. A part of him thinks maybe he should have written them instead, but though his grasp of the English language is pretty solid these days, there aren’t enough words to express his feelings anyway. None that are big enough to say what he wants to say.

All his focus is on Shane, who by some miracle, is still here with him, alive and strong and beautiful and ready to take this leap with him. He detects no reluctance on Shane’s part, no hesitance to do this, only love and excitement. 

Ilya has waited for this for so long, he can hardly believe it’s really happening. A part of him maybe believed that it wouldn’t.      

He’s so busy looking at Shane, he almost misses his cue. 

“Do you, Ilya, take Shane to be your lawful wedded husband, in sickness –” 

“Yes, yes. All of that,” Ilya interrupts. “I do.”   

Behind him, David chuckles, which causes Shane to laugh, too. 

“Okay then,” the pastor says. “Shane do you take Ilya –”

“Yep. Me too,” Shane says. 

“Shane, you have to say I do,” Yuna scolds, but she’s also struggling not to laugh. 

“Fine. Yeah. I do.”   

Thrilled, and very close to tears in spite of himself, Ilya steps forward and grabs Shane’s face with both of his hands and kisses him. It’s an objectively terrible kiss – they’re both giggling, still giddy from the champagne and both too ridiculously, stupidly in love for it to matter.  

This time, the pastor joins in on the laughter. When they don’t stop, he clears his throat. “We haven’t quite gotten to that part yet, gentlemen.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Ilya says, flashing a sheepish, apologetic grin, even though he doesn’t regret it at all. “I forgot there is more.”

“It happens more than you know,” the pastor says. “Do you have the rings?” 

Ilya tugs Shane’s ring from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He takes Shane’s hand in his and repeats the words the pastor tells him to say as he slips the gold and black band onto Shane’s finger. A moment later, Shane does the same. 

The weight of it on Ilya’s finger is unfamiliar, but very welcome. It means he finally belongs to Shane Hollander, the way he’s wanted to for years.

“By the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and husband,” the pastor says. “Now you may kiss.”

This time, Ilya makes sure it’s a good one. 

June 25, 2021

12:10 AM

Las Vegas

They’re both still drunk when they stumble into the penthouse, having indulged in an additional two glasses each of champagne to celebrate while they signed the paperwork.  

Ilya’s definitely not supposed to drink this much – a drink or two every now and then is not forbidden on his meds, but it’s not really recommended either. He’s not worried, though. It’s not like he drinks much at all anymore. One night of overindulgence isn’t going to hurt anything. Especially not on his wedding night.

Shane’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes sparkle in the dim lamplight. His smile is adorably goofy and Ilya can’t help but back him up against the edge of the completely unnecessary dining table that’s just past the door. He strips off Shane’s suit jacket and then his tie and casts them both aside with a flourish. Both pieces land on the tabletop, knocking aside the metal sculpture that serves as a centerpiece.

“We are married,” he murmurs, half giggling in Shane’s ear. He’s probably said it a dozen times already, but he can’t quite get over the fact that Shane Hollander is his husband and they’re married. Legally. For real. “We are so stupid.” 

“I can’t believe we did this,” Shane giggles. “God, I love you so much.”

Ilya wants to devour him. He shoves Shane back against the table’s polished wooden top and tugs at the buttons of his dress shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the freshly exposed skin with wanton, hungry abandon. 

He’d planned to take it slow, but fuck, Shane is his husband now. His intoxicated brain keeps tripping over this new information, trying to assimilate it, and it’s playing on repeat like a broken record. 

Ilya can’t get Shane’s clothes off fast enough – he tugs impatiently at Shane’s belt and shoes, strips off his pants and his unbuttoned shirt, leaving him in nothing but his underwear and spread out on the table like a feast. 

He’s only dimly aware that he’s still fully dressed as he steps back to admire Shane’s body. Shane has worked so hard over the last couple months to get back into shape and it shows. 

“Beautiful,” Ilya murmurs.  

“Take me to bed,” Shane says in Russian and it breaks Ilya’s brain completely. 

Ilya hooks his arms under Shane’s knees and lifts him up off the table. Shane’s arms loop around his neck, and Ilya carries him into the bedroom, where he deposits him on the bed. Unable to help himself, Ilya drops his full weight on top of him, kissing him hard as Shane’s hands tangle in his hair with a needy purr. 

“Why are you still dressed?” Shane asks. 

“Maybe you should fix that, then.” 

Shane’s just as careless as Ilya was, tossing pieces of Ilya’s clothing away without any concern for where they land – his tie on the pillow, his shirt across the comforter, his pants in a pile on the floor. 

And finally, finally, Ilya gets to kiss Shane into the mattress the way he wanted to all those years ago, in this same room, back when they were young and stupid and having something like this was impossible. 

He feels so blessed to get a second chance. 

Blessed, to finally get forever. 

1:03 AM

Ilya’s half draped over Shane's chest, his hair still damp from the shower. He toys with the ring on Shane’s finger, spinning it around like a fidget toy. The soft smile on his face is all Shane needs to know they’ve done the right thing. He’s done the right thing.

A month is not that long a wait in the grand scheme of things, but Ilya needed this. The meds might have brought back some of his confidence, but they don’t do much to fix his unspoken fear of being abandoned. That’s something Shane didn’t notice until recently and he regrets that he didn’t. After Ilya gave so much of himself these last few months, maybe at the cost of his own well-being sometimes, marrying him now was the least Shane could do. Maybe now, that fear will go away, too.

Shane doesn’t have a single regret about tonight. The worst is behind them now. If he can survive a plane crash, and Ilya can survive months of depression so deep, it made it hard to function some days, they can weather the coming media shit-storm. 

“When do you want to make the announcement?” Shane asks. 

“Now, if you want,” Ilya says. He caresses Shane’s ring with a fingertip, then draws Shane’s knuckles to his lips. “But, whenever you are ready.” 

It’s tempting to do it now. Just say fuck it and let the chips fall where they may. For Shane, it’s still a terrifying idea, to have the world know the truth, but it’s also exciting, as long as it’s on their terms and no one else’s. 

And to think, a year ago, Shane would have been petrified at just the thought of this. Now he can hardly wait to get started. 

“How about after the awards?” Shane asks. “I don’t want it to be all about us. Not with the press here.” 

“When we get home, then.” 

“Yeah. That way we have time to plan it out. You know. Decide what we want to say.”

“I like that idea,” Ilya says. “Farah has written a statement for us already. I will send it to you to look at in the morning. The Chapel is supposed to send our pictures, too.” 

Even better. Shane’s not particularly eloquent, especially not when it comes to writing. Ilya can be, when the mood strikes him, but sometimes he’s too much to the point and would probably just write: We got married and fuck you if you don’t like it. 

“You talked to Farah about this?” 

“Of course.” Ilya yawns. “You are not the only one who can make plans.”

“For the record, I love that you did this.” 

“Yes?” 

“Da.” 

“Good. Because you are stuck with me now.” Ilya’s sleepy grin is precious. “And there are more plans for tomorrow.” 

“There’s more?” Shane asks, surprised. “I’m not sure there’s anything better than this.” 

“Probably not,” Ilya says. “But we will have fun.” 

“Are you going to tell me?” 

“No.” 

“Tell me one thing,” Shane asks, stealing Ilya’s line. 

“We will have brunch with your parents at the Bellagio.” 

That’s something, but Shane suspects that’s probably not going to be the highlight of their day. It’s driving him crazy, not knowing, but it’s also sort of exciting to give up control, knowing he can trust Ilya to make it worth their while.

“Are they included in the rest of our plans?” 

“No. They have plans of their own.” 

“I can’t believe they were in on it.”

Ilya chuckles, a rich, deep baritone that Shane feels in his bones. It’s funny how proud of himself he is, but why shouldn’t he be? 

“So what do we do about July?” Shane asks. 

“Yuna was thinking maybe we have a reception instead. Catered, with a fancy cake. We can do the vows the right way if you want to.” 

Shane laughs, remembering how quickly theirs went off the rails. “Mom would probably like that, but… I like what we did. Besides, I don’t want to take my ring off.”

“No?” Ilya touches the ring again. “No more hiding?” 

“No more hiding,” Shane says. “Let people wonder. We’ll be announcing it in a couple days, anyway, right?”

Ilya gets quiet for a minute. “Whatever happens, we are doing this together.”

“You and me against the world, Rozanov.” Shane smiles and kisses the top of his head. “Whatever they throw at us, we can take it.” 

“Is Hollander now, I think,” Ilya says. He places a lazy kiss on Shane's bare chest. “Rozanov is only for the ice.” 

“What?” 

“I am boring now. I should have boring name.” 

“Shut up. It’s not boring. You’re not boring either.” 

“I do puzzles and play board games with your parents instead of partying all night. I am very boring.” Then Ilya grows serious. “Your family has been very good to me and mine is… My brother will disown me when he hears anyway, so I would be very happy to leave it behind.”

Shane gets a little choked up. They talked about hyphenating their names but never decided on anything officially. To know Ilya loves his family enough to be one of them hurts his heart. Maybe it never occurred to him just how much Ilya needed a family, even though Shane’s known for years that Ilya’s own family, save his mother, have never been kind to him. 

“Are you sure? Your name is your last connection to home, isn’t it?” 

“No. My mother is still with me. That is enough, I think.”

Shane swallows down the lump in his throat and lets his fingers glide through Ilya’s hair. Ilya hums contentedly and nuzzles into Shane’s neck in a way that sends a shiver all through Shane’s body. 

“Ilya Hollander’s got a nice ring to it,” Shane says. 

“Better than Shane Rozanov. Sounds like Russian cowboy.” 

Shane snorts. “Are there Russian cowboys?” 

“Probably. Russians secretly like American things. John Wayne. Levi’s jeans.” 

“I don’t know. I kind of like it. But we could still hyphenate if you want.” 

“Too many letters. I like Hollander.” 

Shane kisses Ilya’s forehead, thinking his parents will love it. Especially his dad. 

“Hollander it is, then.”  

5:45 PM

“I swear this machine is rigged,” Shane gripes. “It’s like it’s programmed to get me addicted.” 

“Is how they make money, yes?” Ilya says with a big grin. “Have you won anything?” 

“I win five dollars, then I lose five dollars. That’s it. You?” 

“I won a thousand,” Ilya says with a shrug. Which he’s already cashed out, with no plans to continue playing. 

“What?!” Shane cries. “Obviously, I’m playing the wrong machines.” 

“You are taking this too seriously.” Ilya dares to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Should we go?” 

“You’re the one with the itinerary. I’m just along for the ride.” 

He sounds… grumpy. As if the stupid slot machine ruined Shane’s whole day. Which is definitely a sign that it’s time to go. 

“Why don’t we go find something for dinner?” Ilya says. “Your choice tonight.” 

Shane sighs and stands up, sending one last dark look of betrayal at the slot machine. Ilya wants to laugh, but he doesn’t want to make Shane angry at him, too. 

“What are you in the mood for?” Ilya asks. 

“Tacos, maybe?” Shane shrugs. “I don’t know. Something Mexican.”

Tacos do sound good. Ilya does a quick search and finds a restaurant at the Luxor with good ratings. It’s a few blocks away, and it’s still hot out, but it’s not a thousand degrees like it was earlier. 

The sidewalks are loaded with people of all kinds in spite of the heat – young, old, big, small, obviously American, obviously not. He picks out ten different languages. Most are taking it all in – the strip, the hotels, the palm trees, the gridlocked traffic, the random Elvis or Captain Kirk or person carrying a large snake. 

Shane’s quiet the whole way there and Ilya starts to worry he’s regretting getting married last night. He’s still wearing his ring, though, so maybe that’s not it. Maybe he really is just pissed off about losing. He never has taken defeat well. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks once they’re inside the hotel and out of the heat. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Shane says. “Just a lot on my mind.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Let’s get to the restaurant first.” 

The restaurant isn’t busy when they arrive and they’re seated right away. Shane orders a beer. Ilya sticks to coke, though he’d really like something stronger. 

“What is bothering you?” Ilya leans his chin on his palm and watches Shane’s face for any sign that he’s going to back out. 

“I got an e-mail while we were in the casino,” Shane says. “Apparently my guest of honor duties now include an unscheduled interview with ESPN. They’re gonna ask me about the crash.” 

“Oh.” 

So far, Yuna has kept the reporters and the requests for interviews at bay. Shane, being safely tucked away at Ilya’s house, had also helped. If there’s been any pressure to speak about it publicly, neither of them have been informed. As far as Ilya knows, JJ and Hayden have not spoken about it, either.  

“What am I supposed to say?” Shane asks. “Everybody died and it sucks?” 

“Tell them you don’t want to do it.” 

“It doesn’t sound like I can.” Shane rubs his eyes and opens the menu. “I don’t want to talk about it. There are details I’ve never told anyone, not even Elise.” 

Ilya thinks about the flight attendant who Shane said died in his arms. That had to be very hard to remember, even if Shane didn’t know the man. It’s only occurring to him now, Shane must have seen some very bad things if he’s not able to talk about it. Things that will maybe stay with him for the rest of his life.  

As he had last night, Ilya switches seats so he’s next to Shane instead of across from him. He takes Shane’s hand and holds onto it under the table.  

“Would you tell me about it?” 

“Someday. Maybe,” Shane says. “I’m not sure you really want to hear it, though. It’s…” He waves a hand in front of him, searching for the words he’s looking for. 

“A lot?” 

“Yeah. I don’t even want to think about it, let alone talk about it.”

He’s probably right that Ilya doesn’t want to hear the details, but he can handle it, even if it’s awful. “If you tell me, I will listen. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Ever. You also don’t have to tell them anything.”

“They’re expecting something.” 

“You don’t owe them anything, Shane. Tell them to fuck off if you don’t want to do it.” 

“That would go over well.” His tone is flat and humorless. 

“You could always tell them we got married instead,” Ilya says with a grin. “They would forget all about the crash. Cause a big scandal.” 

Shane laughs and shakes his head. “I think Crowell would have a stroke.” 

“Fuck him, too.” Ilya plays with the ring on Shane’s finger. “He will have to deal with it.” 

The waiter brings their drinks and a basket of chips with salsa, but neither of them have really looked at the menu yet. Ilya asks for more time. 

“What do you think about the chicken fajitas for two?” Shane asks.  

“Sounds good,” Ilya says. He’s not picky about Mexican food. All of it sounds good. “I think we need some queso for these chips, though.” 

Shane opens his mouth to say something, probably about how terrible queso is for him, then he shuts it. Probably because he knows queso is delicious, and life is too short to worry about a bowl of melted cheese. 

11:12 PM

Shane waits nervously in line outside a nightclub off the strip, Ilya at his side acting like he hasn’t a care in the world. It might not be that big a deal, but it’s immediately obvious that this isn’t just a regular nightclub – it’s a gay club, and judging by the other patrons in line, one that will be full of gorgeous men.

He’s not sure he wants to go in. Clubs aren’t his scene and no matter how hard he tries to learn to like them, he’s never seen the appeal. Ilya knows this about him, so he’s not sure why he chose to bring him here, of all places.  

“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya says. “You are going to have fun.” 

The Cirque du Soleil show they attended earlier was fun, and an unexpected choice. Ilya had gotten them tickets for the troupe’s adults-only show, which Shane had enjoyed a lot more than he thought he would. It had been equal parts sexy, provocative, and beautiful, and he’d found himself fascinated by the skill and flexibility required to be able to pull off some of the acrobatics involved. 

After, they’d walked around the strip for a while, looking at the lights and the people, the sights and sounds, and took selfies together in front of landmarks and hotels and even random things – the Flamingo, the Excalibur, a reproduction of the statue of the goddess Nike, a talking animatronic camel in one of the shopping malls attached to Luxor, even a wax Wayne Newton, and an Elvis impersonator. They’d checked out cheesy souvenir shops and caught the synchronized fountains at the Bellagio. 

All that was fun. This fills Shane with a kind of low-key dread that he can’t seem to shake, no matter how much he trusts Ilya. Logically, it shouldn’t be a big deal and he’s not such an uptight brat that he can’t let Ilya have some fun of his own after everything he’s done. Still, he worries that someone is going to recognize them and pictures or videos of the two of them making out at a gay club will hit the internet before they have the chance to tell the world themselves. 

But what does it matter? They’re married. They can do whatever they want now. 

Inside, they order drinks at the bar and take in the scene. Ilya seems to be in no hurry to haul Shane off to the dance floor, as Shane feared he might. He needs a few drinks in him to even consider it, and after last night’s indulgence, he’s not sure he wants to go overboard tonight. 

Would that matter, either? He has no commitments until his interview tomorrow afternoon. They can sleep in, order room service or hit up the hotel’s buffet for an early lunch. It’s not like they do this all the time.

It makes Shane anxious to see so many men engaged in open displays of affection, bodies pressed close together, some dancing, some just making out. He’s actively avoided places like this for years, afraid of being labeled or stereotyped, even after he came out to his team. He avoided being seen as anything but a hockey player, and all that entailed.  

He orders another beer and Ilya finally caves in and orders a vodka. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya yells over the music. “Freaking out?”

“I’m good.”

He’s sure Ilya doesn’t quite buy it, but he leans in and touches his lips to Shane’s, without hesitation or apology, in a room full of people. Shane’s first instinct is to pull back, but he forces himself to lean into it, to welcome it, because Ilya is his husband and there’s no reason to be ashamed and no reason not to kiss him back. 

By the time Shane finishes his second beer, he’s a lot more relaxed. 

“Come dance with me,” Ilya says.

Shane figured it was coming, but he hoped to avoid it. He’s pretty sure there’s nothing more awkward on god’s green earth than Shane Hollander trying to dance.  

“You know I suck at it.” 

“Anyone can dance. And no one here cares if you’re bad at it.” 

Ilya takes Shane by the hand and leads him to the dance floor, where men of all shapes and sizes and in various states of undress are dancing and making out without a care in the world. 

“Just follow my lead,” Ilya says, drawing him close, an arm draped around Shane’s neck. “Pretend we are alone.” 

That’s tough, in a room full of people, but Ilya’s so at ease, it puts Shane at ease, too. And when Ilya kisses him, the whole room vanishes. It’s just them and the primal, thundering music and Shane does what he was never able to make himself do when he danced with Rose – he touches, teases, lets Ilya know just how much he wants him. 

Then he does become aware that they’re not alone, that maybe people are watching, and that’s an even bigger turn-on than it should be. And Ilya seems to know it too. His hands grow bolder, his kisses more passionate, the glint in his eye hungrier. 

God. It’s all foreplay. Shane sort of knew that’s what dancing was, but it’s never worked on him before. Of course, he’s never danced with someone he wanted to be with either. Certainly not someone he loves. 

“I think we should go back to the hotel,” Shane says. 

Ilya’s smile is crooked – smug and sweet at the same time. He’s always been able to read Shane so well, and Ilya’s reading him loud and clear right now. Without a word, he leads Shane by the hand toward the door. Outside, he hails a cab. 

It’s only a mile back to the hotel, but it feels like forever. Traffic moves slowly and Ilya takes the opportunity to torture him by letting his hand travel up the inside of Shane’s thigh a little at a time, his fingertips tracing circles through the fabric of his jeans. Ilya knows exactly what he’s doing and it's driving Shane mad.

By the time they make it back to their room, Shane’s ready to tear Ilya’s clothes off. They crash through the living room, shedding shirts and belts along the way until they reach the bedroom. 

There, Shane has a brief flashback, to that long ago night, of sitting on the bed, following Ilya’s commands like a good boy, yet also realizing just how much more control he had over the situation than it seemed on the surface. 

Shane takes a breath and steps back, his eyes on Ilya’s, suddenly compelled to flip the script, even though they’ve done much worse over video calls since then.

“Take your clothes off.” 

Ilya’s eyebrow shoots upward, amused, but he obediently strips off his pants and socks as Shane turns his back and walks toward the chair in the corner. He grasps the back of it and drags it to the end of the bed. Ilya’s chuckle lets Shane know he’s read the situation loud and clear. 

“On the bed,” Shane says without looking at him. 

When Shane turns around, Ilya’s sitting in the center of the bed, just as Shane had all those years ago, but unlike Shane that night, Ilya’s gaze is fearless and eager. He leans back into the headboard, arms folded behind his head. 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Ilya purrs.

Shane tosses a bottle of lube onto the bed beside Ilya, then eases into the chair and leans back, emulating Ilya’s easy slouch. 

“Put on a show for me, Hollander,” Shane says, using Ilya’s newly chosen last name. “I want to watch.”

Ilya is more than happy to comply.

July 26, 2021

12:50 PM

Las Vegas

Shane expected the ESPN interview to be in the conference room, where the presser for the candidates for Rookie of the Year will be interrogated an hour from now, but instead, he’s taken to a smaller room that looks like someone’s office. There are potted palms in the corners, and a pair of plush armchairs set in front of a series of floor to ceiling bookshelves. On the other side of the room, an oak desk is being used to hold various types of AV equipment. 

He tries not to move his face as he sits down and allows a technician to attach a small microphone to the lapel of his suit jacket. The make-up they put on him feels heavier than usual, and dry, like it might crack if he so much as moves a muscle, and it doesn’t allow his skin to breathe at all.

At the moment, he’s by himself, and he really wishes Ilya was here for moral support, but he’s not sure how he would explain Ilya’s presence without giving something away. He settles for twisting his ring on his finger, hoping to glean some comfort the way Ilya seems to. 

“Shane!” The voice is booming and authoritative, though not immediately familiar. Still, Shane goes to his feet and turns toward the door to greet whoever it might be. He’s dismayed to see the Commissioner approaching, but instinctively holds out his hand to offer a handshake. “So good to see you. You’re looking well.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Shane says. 

“You are a hard man to get a hold of,” Crowell says. “Your mother’s certainly had you on lockdown.” 

Shane bristles at the mention of his mother. She’s his manager, and he’s not a two year old. 

“She was just doing her job. I wanted to keep the focus on my recovery.” 

“Yes, of course. Your big comeback.” 

There’s something about the way he says it that bothers Shane. As if he doesn’t have a chance in hell of ever coming back. Which Crowell could easily make happen, if he wanted to. 

“Sir, I know this interview is supposed to be about the crash, but I’m not ready to talk about it publicly,” Shane says. 

“Give it a shot. It’ll be cathartic,” Crowell says and pats his shoulder. 

“But… Why me? Why not ask JJ? He was there, too. He probably remembers more than I do.” 

“We could, but he’s not the one the public wants to hear from, son.” Crowell smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are cold and almost seem to be daring Shane to challenge him. “He’s a good player, but he’s not you. Besides, these will be softball questions. Don’t want the public hearing the gory details, now do we?” 

“No, sir,” Shane says. He swallows around the lump in his throat. All he has is gory details. 

“Good. Now that it’s settled, there’s another matter I wanted to discuss with you.” Crowell’s smile falls away. “I hope there’s no truth to these rumors about you and Rozanov. It would be a scandal if it were true, and I’m sure you don’t want anything standing in the way of your return to hockey.” 

God. How does he even respond to that? It’s very clearly a warning.

The corners of Crowell’s mouth hitch up into something resembling a smile, but isn’t. 

“Something to consider, Mr. Hollander.” 

Crowell turns on his heel, leaving Shane alone. 

He sits down and texts Ilya to warn him, his stomach churning with anxiety. The threat of having his career end because of their relationship has been a persistent fear since the beginning. Though Ilya assured him that legally Crowell can’t use their relationship against them, it’s pretty clear to him that Crowell thinks he can. Or he has some other excuse to fall back on. 

By the time the interviewer and crew shows up, Shane’s a nervous wreck. All he wants to do is get the hell out of here, find Ilya, and spend the rest of the afternoon sequestered in their room. 

Why did he want to come to this thing in the first place? He’s not nominated for anything. There was already some award for bravery presented to his mom while he was in the hospital, which he didn’t want, and doesn’t even feel he deserves. He was only invited for publicity, and he should have known that. Now he feels like an idiot for falling for it.  

“Hi. I’m Donna Osterfeld,” the interviewer says. “You must be Shane.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Shane says. 

“So, this interview will be pre-recorded and edited,” she says, “probably into a couple of shorter segments, so if you need to take a break, just let us know.” 

“Thanks. I will.”

He waits while she gets mic’ed up, then sorts through her notes, his stomach turning as he thinks about how the organization he’s given over ten years of his life to is so much more insidious than he ever imagined. How did Ilya see it when he didn’t? 

Because Ilya sees everything. Shane only sees the hockey. 

“And we’re rolling,” someone says. Shane puts his media face on, dreading what’s to come. 

“We’re here with Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs and one of six survivors of the deadly crash that killed 26 passengers on flight 3771 in January….” 

Shane tunes out for her introduction, not wishing to hear a recap of the worst day of his life. 

She starts with questions about his recovery, to his surprise. He gives a boring answer about perseverance and determination that would probably make Ilya roll his eyes. He mentions his amazing support system, great doctors, and trainers that helped him get where he is. He wishes he could publicly give Ilya his flowers too, without causing ruin to both their careers. 

“Word is Montreal has declined to renew your contract for next season. Can you tell us what led them to that decision?” 

Anger flares up inside him, remembering just how shitty they were to him, but no good will come of airing out his grievances. Maybe they don’t feel the need to be professional, but Shane does. 

“It’s unfortunate, you know? I played for Montreal for over ten years and I really love the fans and the city, but it wasn’t my choice,” Shane says. “Ultimately, their management felt I wasn’t fit for play and chose to pass on a renewal.” 

“Where does that leave you for next season?” 

“My personal doctor has cleared me to return to professional hockey next season, and that’s been confirmed by additional independent fitness and medical tests,” Shane says. “I have other prospects, though, which I’m really excited about and I’m looking forward to getting back to it, even if it’s with a new team.” 

They take a quick break to adjust a camera. Shane takes a sip of water from the bottle offered to him by a crew member and wishes this was already over. He’s never liked the media stuff, but he’s finding this a lot harder than usual, even though nothing so far is beyond what he can handle. 

“Okay. We’re good to go,” the cameraman says. 

“So, tell me about the moment you realized the plane was going to crash.” 

Shane’s chest gets tight and his mouth goes dry. It hurts to breathe. The make-up feels like it’s either going to suffocate him or melt right off his face. 

Everyone in the room is silent and staring at him, waiting for an answer. He doesn’t want to relive this with a camera on him, and he has a sudden, uncontrollable urge to run from the room.

“There was a loud bang… then an explosion,” Shane says. 

“That would have been the wing detaching, and then striking the tail section of the plane?” 

“I…I don’t know,” he stammers. “I guess it was. I only heard it.” 

His vision is starting to gray out, the same way it did that day. His head hurts and he’s nauseous. If he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to be sick. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” He shoots to his feet and rushes out of the room, ignoring whoever calls out his name.

He jogs down the hallway, in search of refuge – a stairwell, a bathroom, an empty office, a fucking maintenance closet, anywhere, so he can go to pieces without a witness – and runs straight into Scott Hunter. 

“Hollander,” Hunter greets, then frowns. “You alright?” 

Shane’s probably ten seconds from throwing up his brunch. “Bathroom?” 

Hunter points him toward the hall behind him. “I just saw Rozanov. You want me to go get him for you?” 

“Please.” 

In the bathroom, Shane stumbles to the sink and throws water on his make-up caked face, trying desperately to remove it. The nausea fades, but the anxiety stays with him. 

“Hey. You are okay." Ilya’s voice behind him is soft and soothing. “Come here.”  

Ilya draws him away from the sink, his face full of concern. Hunter seems to be guarding the closed bathroom door. 

“I couldn’t do it,” Shane says. “I couldn’t even answer one question.” 

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “They should not have asked.” 

Shane allows Ilya to clean the remaining make-up off his face, giving him a moment to collect himself. He’s ruined his suit jacket, but he doesn’t care. He’s not going back in that room, and maybe he’s not going to go to the awards ceremony tonight, either. 

“Better?” Ilya asks. 

“Better.” 

“Do you want to leave?” Ilya asks. 

“Yeah.” 

Hunter clears his throat. “Kip and I were going to grab a late lunch, if you want to join us.”

Ilya kisses Shane’s forehead. “You want to go to lunch instead?” 

Shane nods. He’s not sure if he’s hungry or not, but something cold to drink would be nice. 

“We will meet you in the lobby, okay?” Ilya says without looking at Hunter. 

“I’ll go grab Kip.” 

As soon as they’re alone, Ilya leans in and kisses Shane on the lips, cradling Shane’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

“Not your fault. I should have told them no from the start.” Shane closes his eyes. “Is it bad that I really want to skip the award ceremony?”

“No.” Ilya steps back and tugs his hand. “Lots of other things we could do.” 

“Like what?” Shane asks. 

“I will think of something.” He opens the door and steps out into the hall, still holding Shane’s hand. “Or maybe you have an idea.” 

Shane doesn’t, but this city is nothing but entertainment. Ordering room service and watching a movie is also an option, but he takes out his phone and searches potential activities for this evening to distract himself from his anxiety. 

They head for the lobby, bypassing the hallway Shane just escaped. 

Only to run right into Roger Crowell. He glances at their joined hands. His face turns red. 

“Well. I see my orders have been ignored.” 

Ilya’s hand twitches in Shane’s, as if to let go, but Shane’s grasp stays firm. Something tells him this conversation is not going to be a pleasant one, and he hits record on his phone before pocketing it. 

“I don’t like surprises. I like liars even less,” Crowell says. He gestures at the two of them with a disgusted sneer. “Whatever this is, it needs to end. Right now.” 

“Care to explain why?” Shane asks. “I want to hear exactly what your reasons are. Because as far as I know, there are no official rules against it.” 

Shane sounds brave but on the inside, he’s a five-alarm structure fire. 

“Don’t play stupid, Hollander. This would be very embarrassing for the league and you know it. Not to mention, your reputation would be ruined. Your careers would be over. Neither of you would ever play again.” 

“More embarrassing than the thirteen players with pending domestic violence charges and convictions last season?” a voice says behind them. Shane glances over his shoulder, where Scott Hunter is propped casually against the wall at the mouth of the hallway they just passed, fists shoved in his pockets. “Or the seven who have been accused of sexual assault? Two of those involve minors, you know. There are eight assault and battery charges. One attempted murder and one armed robbery.” Hunter pushes away from the wall. “Most of those guys are still playing, even though they’ve broken actual laws and hurt other people. And you consistently choose to ignore that. I think you’re the one who should be embarrassed, Mr. Crowell.” 

Shane is shocked. Not only by Hunter’s willingness to step in, but also by the facts. He knew there were probably men who liked to go home and bounce their wives and kids off the walls, and guys who coerced or forced women into having sex with them, and of course the occasional drunken bar fights, but he didn’t realize the numbers were that high. Very few of those incidents ever made the news. 

And here Crowell is, acting like what they’ve done is somehow worse than any of the things Hunter mentioned. He wonders how many others Crowell has bullied into silence over the years. If there were others, like himself and Ilya, that never got a chance to be happy. 

“This building is full of journalists,” Hunter says with an almost apologetic smile. “I bet they would love to hear all about the scandals the league has hidden while under your leadership. I’d be worried about that if I were you, not the players who aren’t hurting anyone.” 

“This has nothing to do with you, Mr. Hunter,” Crowell says.

Hunter strolls past them, winks at Ilya, and keeps going. 

“Have a good day, Mr. Crowell,” Hunter calls over his shoulder. Though his tone is friendly, it sounds like a threat.

Ilya lets out a funny giggle and squeezes Shane’s hand. 

Crowell’s not exactly shamed by Hunter’s speech, but he’s lost a lot of his bravado. He fixes his cold eyes on Shane for a second, then flicks them to Ilya. 

“Put an end to this. Immediately. Or there will be consequences.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Shane says. “We’re legally married, Mr. Crowell.” 

“No,” Crowell says, as if denying it will make it not true. “That is not happening.” 

“Are you telling us to get a divorce?” Ilya asks with a laugh. “Good luck with that. I don’t think there is a lawyer in all of North America that would take that case.” 

“If either of you want to play again, you will end this. And don’t even think about posting an announcement on social media,” Crowell says. “You’ll be a joke.”  

“You think you scare me? The only joke here is you,” Shane says ferociously. He lifts his chin and looks Crowell directly in the eye, taking strength from Ilya’s hand in his. “So here’s how this is going to go. Ilya and I are going to announce publicly that we’re married. We’re going to stay married and we’re going to keep playing hockey. And you are going to leave us the fuck alone and focus on fixing the real problems. If you can’t do that, then I’m sure there’s someone else out there better suited to do your job.”

Shane is shaking, but not afraid. Crowell doesn’t intimidate him and he can’t believe he ever thought he was intimidating. He’s nothing compared to what Shane has already been through.  

“If you continue to harass us,” Shane says. “Well sue the shit out of you.” 

Shane turns his back on the commissioner, Ilya’s hand in his, and walks away without waiting for a response.  

Fuck him.

“What do you say we head back to the hotel and order some room service?” Shane asks. “Maybe binge watch a boring car movie series thing together?” 

“Fast and Furious is not boring.”  

Shane kisses Ilya right on the mouth, in the middle of the lobby, in front of a dozen or more MLH players. And probably a few journalists.

And Shane doesn’t care at all.  

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

June 28, 2021

7:02 PM

Ottawa

“You can’t tell that’s us, right?” Shane asks, his brow furrowed as he peers through his glasses at the screen of his phone. “All of them are really blurry.” 

Ilya’s not thinking about the pictures at all. He’s thinking about shoving Shane down on the couch and kissing him senseless and doing filthy things to his body. To appease him, he glances at the latest images that have surfaced online of the two of them kissing in the hotel lobby, just to confirm their general blurriness. 

“Bad lighting, too,” Ilya says and switches the channel from the rugby game he hasn’t been really paying attention to, to sports news before Shane can ask him to. “Is not a big deal anyway.” 

“I know. I just want to be ready when the shitstorm starts,” Shane says. 

In Ilya’s opinion, it doesn’t matter, but he is a bit surprised the media didn’t explode into chaos within seconds of Shane’s impulsive decision to kiss him right there in the middle of the lobby. There were a lot of people around and obviously some of them took photos. Bad photos, but still. There were witnesses. Quite a few of them.

Not that Ilya minded at all. He’d fucking loved it. So much, that he skipped out on lunch with Scott and Kip, dragged Shane back to their hotel, and spent the afternoon showing him just how much he loved it. Now that they’re home, he’s still thinking about it – if he needed confirmation that Shane really was done hiding, he sure as hell got it.

“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya says and gestures at the TV. “News is all Crowell right now. Much bigger scandal.” 

“True,” Shane says and tosses his phone on the coffee table. “You think Scott was really the one who leaked it?” 

“Maybe. Or someone was in the hallway and heard him.” Ilya shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Crowell will not keep his job much longer.”   

Ilya suspects the photos have gone ignored by the media at large not just because they’re dark and blurry and the angle sucks, but also because the morning after the awards, news broke that Crowell has been involved in dozens of cover-ups during his tenure as Commissioner. Just as Scott had said, but it was a much more extensive list of crimes than the ones he named. Vandalism, DUI’s, shoplifting, stalking, harassment, felony drug possession, even one instance of suspected human trafficking. Not to mention the substance abuse and mental health problems that were covered up or went totally unaddressed. 

All the major news networks are carrying the story, not just sports news, with more information coming out almost every hour since the story broke. Ilya has to admit, whoever was responsible for investigating this did them a huge favor. Whether it was Scott feeding the information to the media like Shane suspected, or just an intrepid reporter who happened to be listening, that journalist deserved a fucking award.

“Allegations of bribery have surfaced in the investigation of MLH Commissioner, Roger Crowell,” the talking head on TV says. “A source alleges that both Crowell and Media Relations Director, Sharon Tolbert offered money, exclusive interviews with popular players, and prized seats at games to journalists, judges, and law enforcement officials in order to keep stories of wrongdoing out of the national news, and in some cases, players from facing charges. MLH Human resources director Jeffrey Savage has also been implicated in the cover-ups. ESPN has reached out to the MLH for comment, however they have claimed to have no knowledge of Crowell and Tolbert’s activities.” 

Ilya scowls at the face of the woman on the screen. She was the one back in Houston that threatened him for refusing to be interviewed. He mutters a curse and bids her good riddance, too. In her own way, she’d been just as horrible. 

“Meanwhile, other allegations have surfaced of minority and LGBTQ players being harassed by Crowell. Others have alleged harassment regarding personal causes, including one who was told he would be benched if he continued to post about the war in his home country. Another stated he was ordered to remove any references to ongoing civil rights protests from his personal pages. Crowell’s lawyers have denied any wrongdoing.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane says. “It really wasn’t just us.” 

“No. Not just us,” Ilya agrees. 

It would be a lie to say Ilya wasn’t enjoying watching Crowell’s empire crumble. It’s only a matter of time before he’s forced to resign. Ilya hopes he’ll actually get what he deserves. 

“Hopefully the next guy isn’t just as bad or worse.” Shane frowns at the TV, his forehead adorably scrunched. “Maybe we should find something else to watch. I’ve seen enough of Crowell’s face for a lifetime.” 

Ilya chuckles, switches to streaming, and randomly picks a movie from the top ten on the load screen. Robert DeNiro is in it, so it can’t be too terrible. 

“The chicken is probably almost ready,” Shane says. He slides over and drops his head into Ilya’s lap, peering up at Ilya through his sexy glasses with a knowing smile, like he’s aware of how distracting those glasses are. “You want me to make the salad?” 

“I already made it,” Ilya says. “Is on the bottom shelf. Blue bowl with the lid.” 

Shane’s eyelids flutter shut. “Okay.” 

“Tired?” Ilya asks, his fingertips skimming across Shane’s forehead to brush back the bangs that have gotten long enough to touch his eyebrows. “Busy day for you.”

They started their day with a very long run, before it got too hot out, then an intense upper body weight training session, a tai chi lesson, and then they spent the afternoon rearranging Ilya’s trophy room so all of Shane’s many awards could fit in there, too. Both of them should be pretty wiped out, though Ilya is feeling energized. Maybe it’s the meds, or maybe it’s just the fact that Shane is all his now.  

“Mostly just happy.” 

“What is making you happy?” Ilya purrs. “Blow job before breakfast, maybe?” 

“That definitely helped.” He opens his eyes. “I think we should go ahead and post our announcement.” 

“You want to do it now? In the middle of the Crowell bullshit?” 

“No time like the present,” Shane says. “We still have to decide which pictures we’re using first. But, yeah. Tonight. If you want to.” 

“Okay. I will get my iPad and we will look at pictures while we eat.” 

Shane’s smile is sweet, maybe a little sleepy, and Ilya melts inside. 

“I’m glad we got married,” Shane says. “I can’t wait for everyone to know.”   

“Me too.” Happiest day of his life, actually. No contest.

The oven timer beeps and Shane sits up with a grunt. “I’ll check it. Your iPad is still upstairs on the charger.” 

They sit outside on the deck, enjoying the nice evening over plates of mixed salad greens topped with slices of roasted chicken breast, blueberries, candied walnuts, and feta cheese while they scroll through the wedding photos together. 

“I like this one,” Ilya says. In it, he’s grinning from ear to ear. Shane looks like he’s about to puke. 

“I’m making a weird face in that one.” 

“Your face is always weird.” 

“Shut up. How about this one?”

It’s a really good shot, in Ilya’s opinion. Taken just after they’d finally stopped making out at the altar. Their foreheads are pressed together, their eyes are closed. They both look so peaceful and happy, even if they don’t use it for the post, Ilya will make sure it goes in the living room. Maybe on the wall, in a very nice frame. Along with several of the others. 

“Disgusting,” Ilya says with a straight face.

“It’s a good picture!” 

“But if people see this, they will know we are in love.” 

“Isn’t that the point?” Shane asks, confused. “To let people know we’re in love?” 

Ilya flashes a teasing smile at Shane’s frown. Shane is always so easy to rile up. Ilya hopes that never stops.

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane says. “Can you please take this seriously?” 

“I am. Is a great picture. But we are still disgusting. Look at us.” 

Shane rolls his eyes and moves on. They pick two more – one of their second kiss, after exchanging rings, and one of them with Yuna and David afterward, all of them beaming. 

“We should probably pick a couple others that aren’t wedding ones,” Shane says. “I’ve got a good one from the camp last summer that mom took.” 

They settle on six photos total, three of the wedding, one taken at the cottage, the one from camp, and a selfie of them together on the Vegas strip with all the lights and palm trees behind them. 

Shane creates a post, adds the pictures, then copies Farah’s statement, complete with a couple modifications of their own. 

“Are you ready?” Shane asks. 

“Fuck yes,” Ilya says. “Let’s go.”

Shane Hollander

@shanehollander24

---

We are thrilled to announce that on June 24, 2021, we, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, were married in Las Vegas, Nevada in the presence of Yuna and David Hollander. We know this may come as a shock to some of our fans, but please know that we have been in a committed, loving relationship for many years now, and this was not a decision we made lightly. 

For so long, we lived in fear of being found out and of having our careers come to an end, simply for the fact that we loved each other and we weren’t supposed to. Things have changed, and so have the times, and so we have chosen to stop hiding. 

It has been a long and sometimes difficult journey, but we look forward to the road ahead. We are so grateful for the friends, family, and teammates who have loved, supported, and protected us and our relationship over the years. You know who you are and we hope to see you at our upcoming reception. In lieu of gifts, we ask that you please donate to the @irinafoundation.

~Ilya and Shane Hollander

8:55 PM

They’ve turned off their notifications and stowed their phones away upstairs. Instead of worrying about the response, they tackled the laundry while watching a ridiculous heist movie together. Secretly, Ilya’s enjoying this easy domesticity. His younger self would have roasted his present self for it, and without mercy. He imagines his future self will eventually forget what a gift it is that he even gets to do domestic shit with Shane, but at the moment, he can’t imagine anything better than competitively folding t-shirts with his husband. 

“This movie is really bad,” Shane says. “It doesn’t even make sense. Isn’t it supposed to be about stealing a painting from Paris?”

It is pretty bad. The plot is muddled and frankly, stupid. Ilya’s not even sure why there’s a high-speed car chase through the streets of historic Prague, which is nowhere near Paris, and where in real-life, vehicle traffic is limited and very slow. 

The visuals aren’t bad, though. Prague looks beautiful on the screen, and the European cars are cool, though he knows for a fact that a VW Bug cannot outrun a Ferrari no matter how much tinkering might be involved. 

“Is fun, though, right?” Ilya asks as he folds the last t-shirt and places it on the pile. “Don’t have to think too hard.” 

“Makes me think too much.” 

Ilya gets up to put the folded shirts back into the basket to take upstairs when he steps on something sharp and hard. It breaks beneath his weight with a soft pop and cuts into the sole of his foot.  

“Fuck!” he shouts and flops back onto the couch to look at the damage. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Stepped on something.” 

That something hasn’t seriously wounded him – it didn’t even cut him, but it still hurts enough to be annoying. He picks the object up off the floor and holds it up. 

Wires. A broken clip. A tiny cylindrical bit. 

“Is that a microphone?” Shane asks with a frown. Then his eyes get comically wide. “Oh shit.”

Ilya has an irrational thought that someone has bugged the house until Shane starts laughing. 

“It’s from the interview. I forgot to take it off.” He sits down and takes it from Ilya’s pinched fingers, grinning. “I’d bet anything this is where the leak about Crowell came from.”  

“You think they heard it?” Ilya asks. “Why didn’t they out us at the same time?” 

“Maybe they thought Crowell was the bigger story.” Shane drops the ruined mic on the coffee table. “Or maybe they didn’t have enough proof. Or they didn’t hear everything.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “No need for them to do it now, anyway.” 

“Nope. No need for that.” Shane’s smile turns soft. “Everyone knows now.” 

Ilya expected Shane to have a small meltdown after they’d posted their joint statement, but he’s been pretty calm about it. Of course, neither of them has checked the news or their phones since then, so that might change if the response is overwhelmingly negative. 

It’s true that there will be plenty who will not like it, but probably just as many who will. Something to keep in mind, once the media vultures start circling. 

Whatever comes out of this, they’re both prepared to deal with it, good and bad. 

“Should we check the news?” Shane asks, biting his lip. 

“If you want.” Ilya doesn’t care about what’s being said. He grabs the laundry basket from the floor. “I’ll go put these away. Be right back.” 

When Ilya returns, the TV is turned on to sports news. 

“...shocked the hockey world this evening by announcing they were married in Las Vegas. Rozanov and Hollander have been in the news for over a decade for their long-time on-ice rivalry…” 

It’s just a rehash of their instagram post, without judgement or commentary. Nothing more, nothing less. No speculation. No outrage. Just facts. 

Then the story moves on to more Crowell stuff.

“Not so bad, right?” Ilya asks. 

Shane nods. “Not so bad.” 

July 5, 2021

10:13 AM

Montreal

“Ruby Pike!” Ilya shouts as he skates over to the adorable pint-sized defensewoman-in-training scowling angrily at another adorable pint-sized player who is busy frantically wiping something off his neck. “We do not put boogers on other players!” 

“I’m asserting dominance,” she says, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her hockey stick like it’s a cane. 

Ilya has to turn away from her for a second to stop himself from losing it – because Jesus Christ it’s hilarious, but Ruby does not need to know that or she’ll be encouraged to do it again. He takes a deep breath and schools his face into his sternest, meanest expression before turning back around. 

“Who taught you that?” 

“Brewer.” She shrugs and Ilya looks over at Brewer Anderson, a tall, well-fed boy of ten, who looks like he could be the spawn of Ryan Price and Cliff Marlow. The kid isn’t terribly bright, and he's kind of a bully, but he’ll make one hell of an enforcer someday. “He said you have to show everyone who’s boss.” 

“You want to be like that ding-dong? He is probably eating his boogers, too,” Ilya says, making his disapproval clear. “Listen. You assert dominance by stopping the other team from getting the puck to the net. That is your job. Not spreading germs to other people.” 

Ilya glances at Hayden, who is busy chatting up Leah Campbell on the sidelines. Hayden’s not coaching this year, but that hasn’t stopped him from hanging out all day while they’re in Montreal. He says it’s to keep an eye on Ruby but Ilya knows it’s because he’s bored and lonely.

“Pike!” Ilya roars. “Come here!” 

Hayden treads carefully across the ice in his tennis shoes, looking like he’s been called to the principal’s office. “What did she do now?” 

“Tell him,” Ilya orders. 

“I wiped boogers on Timothy.” 

“Why?” Hayden asks, dumbfounded. “That’s fu- that's disgusting, Ruby!” 

“He told me girls shouldn’t be playing hockey and said I needed to go make him a sandwich.” 

“That doesn’t mean you need to wipe boogers on him! Tell him real men make their own sandwiches! You think either your Uncle Ilya or your Uncle Shane ever did that?” Hayden asks. “You think they’d be playing professional hockey if they did?”

“No.”

“When we play MLH on the Xbox, is there an option to wipe boogers on another player?!” 

“No.” 

“Well there you go! Now go wash your hands before your Uncle Shane finds out and makes you go take a decontamination shower.” 

Ilya bites back a chuckle. Shane was likely to make them all hit the showers. Just in case. 

“What’s that?” 

“Something you really won’t like.”

“What about Brewer?” 

“You worry about yourself,” Ilya says. “Now go. And use soap.” 

Hayden sighs as Ruby skates off toward the locker room. 

“You are going to have your hands full with her,” Ilya says. 

“Going to? I already do, man. She’s like a feral cat. Can’t be tamed.” 

Ilya laughs because it’s kind of true. “Is your fault.” 

“I know,” Hayden says. “So, how’s married life treating you? Got any plans to have some demon spawn of your own, now that you’ve eloped with my best friend?” 

Ilya doesn’t know what that last part means, but he assumes Hayden is bitter about the lack of a wedding. Which, Ilya supposes, is fair. 

“Is great,” Ilya says. “But kids will have to come later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hayden says. “Still wish you guys like, had the wedding here. Would have been nice to be there for you, you know?” 

“I know, but it was what we needed,” Ilya says. “And you have been there for us, Hayden. You and Jackie.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean. You’re still gonna do it up at the reception, right? Cake and food and shit?” 

“Of course.”

Invitations for the reception went out three days ago. It was short notice, but it was always going to be. The party they’ve planned is a bit more casual than their original wedding plans. It will be too hot out for suits and ties anyway, but it will still be nice, with catering, a real wedding cake, and an open bar. Ilya is looking forward to seeing all their friends in one place, all at the same time. 

And for reasons Ilya can’t quite explain, he’d sent one to his brother, too. It’s not like he wants Alexi there, and there’s no chance he would ever come, but maybe a part of him wants Alexi to know he’s happy, in spite of being raised in such a joyless house, in such a joyless place, surrounded by such joyless people. Maybe he wants Alexi to know he finally has a family who loves him.

“So, what do you do now that you are not playing hockey, Hayden?” Ilya asks. “Do you have plans?” 

“I got a couple of ideas,” Hayden says and scratches his chin. “Jackie wants me to go to real estate school but I’m not sure I wanna sell houses. I don’t know shit about it, you know? Anyway, we’re not hurting for money or anything. The house and cars are paid off, and I got some income on the way from the settlement from the crash. It’ll be more than enough to keep us in hot dogs and beer for a while. I also got a couple of private lessons lined up. Might lead to a coaching job, maybe.” 

Ilya kind of doubts Hayden will be fit for a serious coaching job for a while. He’s still in a lot of pain from his injury, and though he doesn’t talk about it much, Ilya can tell by the way he holds himself that it’s worse than he lets on. 

As far as the settlement, it probably won’t be as much as Hayden’s hoping, after all the taxes and fees. Shane is planning to donate whatever his cut is to the Irina Foundation. 

“School might be a good idea for you. Learn something new, yes?” 

“Maybe,” Hayden says. 

“Or, maybe Jackie goes to school, becomes a real estate agent, gets a business degree,” Ilya says. “You stay home with the kids.” 

Hayden looks at Ilya like he’s crazy. Ilya doesn’t think it’s all that unreasonable a suggestion. 

On the other side of the rink, Brewer chases after a much younger kid with his ungloved finger outstretched. Ilya sighs. 

“I need to go talk to that kid before they are all covered in boogers,” Ilya says. “You should probably check on Ruby before she starts a fire somewhere." 

“Oh, Jesus. Don’t give her any ideas.” 

Ilya handles the Brewer kid, who stares blankly back at him with dumb cow eyes and just shrugs when Ilya asks why he’s doing what he’s doing, then sends him off to wash his hands too. 

On his way back to his own little group of future champions, who are working with Troy on passes, Shane intercepts him, looking very pretty with his flushed cheeks and his little nose pink from the cold. 

“Dinner with Troy and Harris tonight?” Shane asks. 

“Sure. Where are we going?” 

“Harris mentioned some German pub he knows. Says the schnitzels are amaze-balls. His words, not mine.” Shane shrugs. “Leah and Max might come, too.” 

Ilya’s stomach rumbles at the thought of a jagerschnitzel and bratkartoffel paired with a nice German beer. 

“That might be fun. We should invite Price, too.” 

“Yeah, I’ll ask him. I think Fabian got here yesterday, so we could make it a quadruple date.” 

“Great idea.” Ilya smiles. He loves the fact that not only do they have other couples to go out with, he also loves that it’s something Shane genuinely wants to do. No more awkwardness, no more fear. They can just enjoy spending time with friends over plates of good food and a few drinks. “JJ might get jealous, though.” 

“He can come too, if he wants,” Shane says. “He probably doesn’t, though.” 

“Too gay?” 

“More like, still a little pissed about us getting married. I guess he really wanted to be there.” 

“His feelings are hurt.” 

“He’ll get over it.” Shane shrugs again. “I’ll hang out with him before we head back home. Or maybe we can invite him over for dinner next week to smooth things over.” 

He doesn’t tell Shane that JJ cornered him in the hall on the first day of camp to let him know in no uncertain terms that he would carve Ilya’s eyes right out of his skull with a spoon if he hurt Shane. Ilya had found it funny, but also annoying. Hayden and JJ are so protective of Shane, like he’s some naive, innocent child that Ilya is somehow taking advantage of, even though Shane is a grown man who is fully capable of protecting himself and making his own choices.  

It would probably blow their minds if they knew what sort of filth their sweet, innocent little Shane was really capable of. 

Ilya notices a subtle insecurity in Shane’s posture. The way he bites his bottom lip tells him there’s something bothering him. 

“What?” Ilya asks. 

“I don’t want to talk about it here,” Shane says. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

“No. It’s not you. I just… haven’t heard anything from Farah yet.” 

“Is still early,” Ilya says. “You will hear something soon.” 

Shane’s gaze says he’s scared that he will, and that it won’t be the news he wants to hear. 

Ilya will never admit it, but he is too. 

July 11, 2021

7:21 PM

Ottawa

There’s a package in the mailbox when they arrive at home, after a long first day of camp here in Ottawa. It’s the size of a thick, hardback book, wrapped in brown paper, and the postmark is from Moscow. 

Ilya stares at it, his heart in his throat, wondering what Alexi could have possibly sent him. Or why he bothered to send anything at all. 

He follows Shane inside in a stunned silence, unaware of the worried look Shane is giving him until he asks if Ilya is okay. Ilya shows him the package and Shane’s eyes get wide. 

“What is it?” Shane asks. 

Ilya shakes his head. For all he knows, his brother has sent him a box of dog shit in response to his invitation. In the kitchen, Ilya sits down on a barstool and looks at the package again. The return address is llya’s old condo. 

So he kept it after all. Ilya figured Alexi would eventually sell it to fund a lifestyle he couldn’t afford without Ilya's money.

“Are you going to open it?” Shane asks. 

Ilya removes the paper carefully, then opens the box with shaking hands. 

Inside, Ilya finds a trio of envelopes. In the first are recent pictures of his niece. Ilya looks through them, smiling softly at how much she’s grown and how much she looks like his mother. 

The second contains dozens of newspaper clippings. They’re all old, and all of them document Ilya’s rise through the ranks of junior hockey, starting when he won his first real championship at the age of eight. The pictures attached to these old articles aren’t great, but Ilya can pick himself out with ease because he’s front and center in nearly every one. 

“Look at you,” Shane says softly. “You did have fat cheeks.” 

Ilya laughs, though there are tears in his eyes at the memory of his mother coming to these games to watch him play. She was always proud of him, win or lose, and always ready with a hug and a word of praise or consolation when needed. 

The most recent article of the bunch is dated three weeks before his mother died. 

These were hers. She’d saved them. 

Why did Alexi have them? Their father had thrown out everything that belonged to her. As far as Ilya knew, the only thing that remained of her was the cross around his neck. 

Why had Alexi kept them all these years?

Ilya searches the box for answers, but there isn’t so much as a note. Just one remaining envelope that he’s almost terrified to open. 

He’s crying even before he pulls the stack of photographs out of that last envelope, hope and devastation blending together and turning the world into a blurry watercolor painting as tears spill from his eyes. He knows exactly what they are before he even sees them.

His mother, as a teenager – in ballet class, on a bicycle, in a classroom. As an unhappy, terrified bride. A proud mother as she holds a fat, angry baby who must be Alexi. Sad-eyed and beautiful in dark blue silk on his father’s arm at some party. Beaming as she holds a scrunchy-faced baby Ilya. Laughing in fall sunlight, both her boys tossing leaves in the air around her. Her arms around a grinning Ilya, both his front teeth missing. 

She’s more beautiful than Ilya remembers. Sadder, too. Even in the pictures where she’s smiling the brightest, Ilya sees the pain she tried so hard to hide for so long. 

“You look just like her,” Shane says. “Even your smiles are the same.” 

It’s true. She has the same playful, crooked grin, the same hazel eyes, the same golden brown curls. 

The same sorrow. 

Ilya is reduced to a sniffling, snotty mess, knowing just how much he is his mother’s son. For years, he thought maybe he imagined things differently than they were but the evidence in front of him says otherwise.

She was beautiful. He was loved. 

It’s a bigger, more thoughtful gift than he could have ever imagined getting. Especially from his brother. Especially now. 

He’s grateful to have this, no matter what his brother’s reasons for holding onto them all these years and never letting on. Alexi could have done exactly what his father did, but he kept them, and he had enough of a heart left to pass them on.   

It fills a hole inside of him that has been empty for years, mending pieces of himself that he thought were lost. 

And for the first time in years, he sends his brother a text. 

It’s just two words: Thank you.

8:45 PM

Shane planned to throw together some quick veggie and grain bowls with some leftover rotisserie chicken, but the arrival of Ilya’s brother’s package has left Ilya an emotional mess, so he takes pity and has some Thai food delivered instead. 

It was a while before Ilya stopped crying. A little longer before he started talking again. Now they’re sitting on the couch, eating out of take-out containers as Ilya tells him stories about Irina. Some are sad, but most are sweet or funny. The one about the time Ilya ran away from home when he was seven, toting his hockey stick, skates, six pairs of socks, and a bag full of random toys, and decided he was going to live in a tree in the middle of winter is a little of all three. 

“She climbed the tree in her nightgown, then said, 'We will build a treehouse and I will live here with you,'” Ilya tells him. “We sat there in that stupid tree until after midnight, until it started to snow. I had not thought to bring a jacket or a blanket. I would have stayed all night, I think, but she was freezing and I did not want her to be cold. So we went back inside and drank tea and ate cookies with jam in the middle at the kitchen table.” 

“How did you get the hockey stick up the tree?” Shane wonders. 

“Very carefully,” Ilya says with a small laugh, but he quickly grows sad. “She asked me why I wanted to run away. I told her it was because she wouldn’t leave my father, no matter how bad he treated her. That made her cry. I didn’t know then that she couldn’t leave. My father was police. Wherever she went, he would have found her. She was trapped and there was no way out.” 

Ilya bows his head and takes a breath. Shane prepares for more tears, but they don’t come. 

“I have always wished I never said it. I didn’t know it would hurt her so much.” 

“You were seven, Ilya. We all say stupid shit at that age.” Shane touches the back of Ilya’s hand. “What you said probably wasn’t what hurt her, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but it still upset her,” Ilya says. He smiles a little. “I was so stupid. I thought I could just move into that tree and live there forever. No food. No money. In the snow.” 

“You had skates, though.” 

“Yes. Very useful in a tree.” 

Shane smiles. As bittersweet as the memory is, it’s a cute image. And Ilya is just as cute in the pictures of him as a boy as Shane imagined he would be. It’s obvious how much Irina loved him, and how much he loved her in return. 

He’s glad that Ilya’s brother decided to send him the photos. Whatever his reasons were, Shane’s glad Ilya finally has a small part of his mother back. Maybe he’ll finally be able to make peace with her memory. 

“Do you want to try some of this?” Ilya asks and offers Shane his container of green curry chicken. “Is very good. Not too spicy.” 

Shane switches with him, trading his Pad Thai for the chicken. He takes a bite and nods. “I should have gotten this.” 

“Then we wouldn’t be able to share.” 

His phone vibrates on the table and he sets the container on his knees to retrieve it. More than likely, it’s just a reminder about something from his mother, but it’s not. 

It’s an e-mail from Farah. The subject line is: Offers. 

Shane hesitates before tapping on it, terrified that it’s going to tell him no one is interested. He’s too slow, too damaged, too much of a liability, his career is at an end and he’ll never play professional hockey again. 

Then he takes a breath, his heart pounding, and opens it. 

There are half a dozen attachments. 

“Holy shit,” he murmurs when he sees the list of teams interested in signing him for next season. There’s only one name he wants to see, and it takes him a second to find it.

“What?” Ilya asks. 

Shane can’t find a single word to say, so he shows Ilya the e-mail instead. Ilya skims it, then his smile grows huge and bright, without a hint of sadness. 

“So. You are going to Minnesota, then?” Ilya asks. 

“What? No. Fuck you!” 

Ilya laughs and hands the phone back, following it with a loud kiss to his temple. “I can’t wait until Montreal realizes they fucked up so bad you went to Ottawa.”  

“The fans already have,” Shane says. He doesn’t go online much, but he’s seen how pissed they are that Montereal passed on him. “Not my problem anymore, though.” 

“No,” Ilya says more seriously. “Because you are home now. Where you belong.” 

July 21, 2021

2:00 PM

Ottawa

Shane beams at the cameras, proudly holding up his brand new Ottawa Centaurs jersey with its newly redesigned mascot, courtesy of Luca Haas, on the front. He puts it on and pulls the matching Centaur’s ball cap on, too, tugging it low over his eyes to hide how emotional he’s feeling about this. 

He almost wishes Ilya was here, but it’s probably good that he isn’t. One look at the pride and happiness in his face would undoubtedly cause Shane’s tears to spill over, and Shane is not willing to cry on national TV. 

The salary Ottawa offered wasn’t that great. Less than he wanted, a lot less than he was worth, but honestly it was still more than he’d expected. Colorado, Arizona, Detroit, Minnesota, and New Jersey had all expressed interest and they’d offered a lot more money, but Shane turned them all down. Ottawa wasn’t just his first choice – in his book, it was the only choice. 

Of course, the media is having a total meltdown over it. Not just the fact that Shane accepted a deal for a lot less than he was worth, but also because he’s married to his new team’s captain. Podcasters are questioning if this arrangement should even be allowed, and the fans are divided, but Ottawa’s owners and management team are overjoyed about having two of the biggest names in hockey on their roster. They’re even more thrilled to be the first team in history to have not only four out players, but the first hockey husbands, too. 

Not to mention a real shot at a cup this season. Maybe even a dynasty. 

Shane imagines the merch sales following this presser are going to go through the roof. He’s already done a photoshoot with Gen, the team photographer, wearing shirts and hoodies and jerseys with his name and number on them, all of which are set to launch this afternoon on the official website. 

“Shane, what can other teams expect from Ottawa this coming season?” the reporter from CNN Sports asks. “Are you looking to win the cup this year?” 

“The championship is always the goal, isn’t it?” Shane says easily. “But I think this season is going to be an incredible one for Ottawa. I’m really excited to be back in my hometown and to join such an amazing team. With this lineup, I have no doubt the other teams are shaking in their skates right now.” 

There’s laughter from the press and the owners at his dumb, scripted joke. Probably because it’s fucking true. They should be absolutely terrified.

“Have you faced much backlash from fans since you announced your marriage to Ilya Rozanov?” a reporter from FOX Sports asks. 

Internally, Shane sighs. He didn’t really want to make this about him and Ilya, but he supposes it’s something he’s going to have to deal with for a while. Maybe, the hype will die down once season starts, and once Dallas Kent’s and Roger Crowell’s respective trials begin. Both have pleaded not guilty to their various charges, both are expected to fight them in court, and both are sure to be a media circus. 

He hopes his scripted, rehearsed responses that always circle back around to hockey will be the end of questions about Ilya, but the next couple are explicitly about his relationship with Ilya – how it started, when it started, and how he feels now about the rivalry the media and the league both capitalized on. 

They’ve declined every request for interviews so far and they plan to keep it that way. Ilya doesn’t care who knows what at this point, but Shane feels a fierce protectiveness of their past. It’s precious to him. Even the bad times feel like something he needs to cherish and keep safe. He wants to keep something that’s just for them.

“We’re pretty private about our personal relationship and I don’t see that changing,” he finally says. “Even though we’ve gone public, I think it’s important to remember that we’re both here to play hockey first and foremost and we’re both really excited about the season to come.” 

With that, the presser ends. Shane shakes a few hands, poses for photos with the owners, all of whom have been incredibly supportive and kind, and finally finds himself in a hallway away from the cameras and finally able to take a breath and relax. 

“Shane!” a voice calls from behind him. He turns around to see Harris making his way toward him, a big grin on his face. There’s a large, fluffy dog on a leash beside him. “Welcome to the team!” 

“Thanks,” Shane says, unable to stop himself from grinning back. Ilya wasn’t lying when he said Harris was great. The guy is a walking ball of sunshine. “Who’s this?” 

“This is Chiron, team puppy, Ilya’s 4-legged bestie, and my very furry roommate. Figured I should introduce you before pre-season starts so you don’t freak out about bears in the locker room.” 

“That’s a puppy? He’s enormous.” Shane scratches the dog behind one of his ears and receives a wet, slobbery lick to his hand. “Wait. He goes in the locker room?” 

“Ilya’s fault. Well. I started it, but he has a tantrum if Chiron doesn’t get to visit.” The dog sniffs Shane’s shoes with a concerning amount of interest. “He’s not quite a year old yet. Still has a bit of growing to do, and god help me and my poor little apartment.” 

Shane gives Chiron another scratch. His fur is very soft. “Did you guys decide on a property yet?” 

“Oh, we found the cutest place,” Harris says. “Three acres outside the city, four beds, three baths, and a mother-in-law cottage separate from the house that we’re going to turn into a gym. Lots of space for this monster to run around.” 

“You made sure to get everything inspected? You know, foundation, roof, plumbing, electrical, all that?” 

“Yep. No major problems except for some truly hideous wallpaper from the 70’s. And one of the walls in the master bedroom is done up in squares of cork and mirror like a checkerboard for some reason, but other than the cosmetic weirdness, it’s perfect,” Harris says. “Anyway, that’s my long-winded, roundabout way of saying thank you for the house shopping advice.” 

“Happy to help,” Shane says, and he means that sincerely. 

“So. Are you ready to do the Q & A?” 

Shane blinks at him. Wasn’t that what he just did during the press conference? 

“I promise it won’t take long. Twenty minutes, tops,” Harris says. “No invasive questions, just fun stuff for the fans.” 

Oh. Right. The one for the team social media pages. Shane doesn’t want to answer any more questions today, but he might as well get it out of the way. He’ll be busy the rest of the week finalizing plans for the reception. 

“Yeah. Sure. Let’s do it,” Shane says. 

“Awesome. My office is this way,” Harris says and tips his head at the hall behind him, then starts walking. Chiron happily follows along. “You know, you guys should come out to my family’s farm for dinner soon. We’re loud and crazy and there are a lot of us, but it’s always a good time. And my mom is really eager to meet Ilya’s new husband.”

“I’m probably not what she’s expecting,” Shane says. “I’m not all that exciting.”

“Trust me. You were not what any of us were expecting,” Harris says with a loud laugh that echoes through the empty corridor. “With Ilya’s reputation, we figured it was going to be a politician’s wife or something. Until the crash, anyway.” 

Shane gets a sharp pang of sympathy in his chest, thinking of how hard all that must have been on him. Then a pang of regret for how badly he reacted to the news the team figured it out. 

“I don’t know how he got through it without falling apart,” Shane says. “I wouldn’t have been able to function.” 

Harris’ smile gets a little sad. “We could tell he was hurting, you know? But he’s always been so private about his personal life, none of us really knew what was really going on or how to help him. We just knew something was wrong.” 

That hurts even more.

“I’m sorry. I’m rambling and I didn’t mean to go there. This is a good day,” Harris says and breaks into a big grin. “You’re a Centaur now. And you get to play hockey with your very handsome hubby everyday from now on. Oh – speaking of! You’ve probably seen our player special interest shorts on social media and I was thinking we could maybe do something fun with the two of you together.” Harris holds both hands up and spreads his fingers wide. The dramatic effect is somewhat ruined by the dog leash. “At Home With the Hollanders.”

Shane has no idea what Harris is talking about and that must show in his lack of response. 

“Ridin’ with Roz? BBQing with Bood?” Harris rattles off. “Line-art with Luca? Hazy’s Heroes?” 

“I don’t think I’ve seen those.” Shane feels bad for admitting it. “But I’m not on social media much.” 

“My whole life is social media. But, that’s my job, so it kind of has to be,” Harris says cheerfully. “Take a look at them when you get a chance. They’re just fun little videos about our player’s hobbies or special talents. We’re doing a new one for pre-season called Trick Shots with Troy. But I bet the fans would love to see you and Ilya at home being all cute and domestic together.” 

Shane laughs. “You want to film us folding laundry?” 

“I’m sure you guys do more than that,” Harris says. 

“We’re pretty boring.” And the one thing that definitely isn’t, Harris can’t exactly put up on the team website. “Nobody wants to watch a video of Ilya pushing around a vacuum. You’d be better off showing him some dogs or something.” 

“That’s a thought. Dogs do get a lot of likes and Ilya always turns into a big puddle of goo whenever he’s around one,” Harris says with a cheeky grin. He stops and opens a door that leads to a small office. “Maybe I’ll take him to the dog park. Then again, if someone has a puppy, he might actually steal it, and then we’d have a scandal on our hands. But… Ilya pushing around a vacuum could be pretty hot. If we put him in little red sequinned booty shorts with a Centaur on the butt and nothing else.” 

Shane’s brain short circuits. The thought of Ilya vacuuming the living room in tiny shorts is suddenly a very compelling image. He would tease Shane mercilessly for it, but he would absolutely do it, and with that stupid sexy smirk on his face, too.  

“He would probably enjoy that,” Shane says, smiling fondly at the image. The image also makes him blush. “Pretty sure that’s not what front office has in mind, though.”

“No, but the fans would sure love it. Ilya in any state of undress always gets tons of likes. Actually, that’s true for most of the guys. You’ll learn quick our fans are pretty thirsty. Anyway, I’ll think of something fun for you guys.” Harris attaches his phone to a stand set in front of a chair by the wall. “Go ahead and have a seat while I set up.” 

Shane waits patiently while Harris does what he needs to do, and he spends those minutes petting Chiron, who has decided Shane’s thigh is the very best place to put his very large, very furry head. Shane doesn’t have a lot of experience with dogs, and the only pet he had growing up was a goldfish that only lived a couple of weeks. But it’s kind of nice, and the adoring way Chiron is looking at him reminds him a little bit of Ilya when he’s in the mood to be sweet. Which is a really weird thought. 

Troy enters the office carrying a paper beverage tray with two cups in it and a small paper bag. He greets Shane with a nod and Chiron immediately leaves Shane’s side to slide up next to Troy with a big doggy grin, tail wagging enthusiastically.  He sets the beverage tray and bag aside to drop to a knee and give Chiron his undivided attention. 

“I think he loves you more than he loves me,” Harris pouts. 

“Nope,” Troy says and produces a dog treat from his back pocket. “Sit, buddy.”

Chiron sits. His tail thumps heavily against the floor. 

“Oh, so it’s bribery.” Harris tries to frown but doesn’t quite succeed. 

“So is this,” Troy says and tosses the paper bag in front of Harris. 

“Cake Pops!” Harris shouts and digs into the bag. “Whatever it is you want from me, the answer is yes.”   

Troy snorts and passes one of the cups to Shane. “Ilya said you take yours black. I hope that’s right.” 

It’s too late in the day for coffee but Shane thanks him and takes it. The scent of it overpowers the sugary odor of whatever is in the other cup. 

Q & A video forgotten, Harris reaches into the bag and produces four cake pops. Shane is only familiar with these because the Pike kids are nuts about them, and Hayden, in his boredom, bought some kind of cake mold to make them at home. Hayden got kind of into it and randomly sends Shane pictures of their creations. 

The ones in Harris’ grip are decidedly more professional looking than the misshapen zombies and princesses coming out of Hayden’s kitchen. Three of the four are summer themed. A sun wearing sunglasses. A beach ball. A puffer fish. A random man’s head.

“These are so cute!” Harris cries. Then he stops and stares at the one that looks like a man, frowning darkly. “Wait. This one looks like Roger Crowell.” 

“It kind of does,” Troy agrees with a grimace. Harris offers it to him, but Troy shakes his head. “I don’t want Roger Crowell in my mouth, thanks.” 

Harris cackles. Loudly. 

“Shane?” Harris asks and holds it out in Shane’s general direction. He wiggles his eyebrows. “How about a little revenge? Bite his head off. You know you want to.” 

“What Troy said,” Shane says, trying not to laugh. He can’t imagine ever having a conversation like this with anyone in Montreal’s management offices, ever. “I’m good with pretending he doesn’t exist.” 

“Aren’t we all,” Harris says. He drops the Crowell pop back in the bag and shoves one that looks like a beachball into his mouth, then returns his attention to his laptop. “Okay. We should get started. Troy? You sticking around?” 

“Gym.” He kisses Harris goodbye. 

Shane is briefly startled by how on-display their affection for one another is. He’s still not used to seeing it, at least, not in a hockey context, and he’s definitely surprised by it happening in a management office. It’s still weird to him to have both of his worlds, which were previously so completely separate, smashing together like this. 

At least now the butterflies in his stomach aren’t from fear. At least now he gets to have both. It’s just going to take some getting used to. 

“Glad to have you on the team, Hollander,” Troy says from the door. “Congrats.” 

“Glad to be here. And thanks.” 

As soon as Troy is gone, Harris gets up and clips a mic to Shane’s new Ottawa jersey. 

“Nervous?” Harris asks. 

“Should I be?” 

“Nah. I’ll be gentle. Softball questions only, you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, and we’ll keep it light and fun.”  

Harris’ first question is one he’s answered a hundred times during his career, though maybe not so much recently. But when he was younger, nearly every interview, he got asked who his favorite player was growing up.

“Gretsky.” 

Harris sighs. “It’s wild to me that every last one of you gives that same answer. Except for Wyatt. He named some goalie from the 90’s no one has ever heard of.” 

“Gretsky’s a legend. Even people who don’t know anything about hockey know who he is. There’s a reason for that.” 

“True.” Harris smiles. “Who is your favorite current player?” 

“Is this a trick question?” Shane asks and Harris’ grin grows wider. The answer is obviously Ilya, but Shane kind of doesn’t want to admit that his favorite player is the team captain he’s married to. He also wants to torment Ilya, just a little. “Scott Hunter. Of course.” 

He’s pretty sure Harris’ howling laugh is loud enough that the executives upstairs can hear it. 

“Ilya is going to file for divorce,” Harris howls. 

When Harris recovers, he moves on. Shane struggles with the basic questions – naming any hobbies outside of hockey, his favorite indulgence, favorite TV show, and he can tell Harris is a little frustrated with him and trying not to show it. 

“You and Troy have a lot in common,” Harris says. “His brain is 90% hockey, too.” 

“I’m in good company then,” Shane says. Chiron finds his way back to Shane after sitting nicely for the cake pops he didn’t get, and drops his head on Shane’s knee, begging for attention or food with his warm, hopeful doggy eyes. “I told you, I’m not that exciting.” 

“I disagree. You’d have to be at least a little bit interesting to keep Ilya’s attention all these years.” 

Shane still has no idea what it is that has kept them together all this time. He’s never been sure what it is about him that Ilya finds so intriguing. Beyond the sex and the way they challenge each other, there’s no one thing he can point out that can explain it. 

“Okay. If you could have a super power, what would it be?” Harris asks when Shane doesn’t respond. 

A few years ago, it would have been the ability to teleport himself. He’s probably wished for it a thousand times over when all they had was calls, texts, and video chat, but he doesn’t need that anymore. Now that he doesn’t, he’s not sure of his answer. 

“Maybe the ability to stop time?” he finally says. “Or maybe just slow it down. You know, to make the good stuff last.”

“Good answer,” Harris says. “Are you a dog or a cat person?” 

“I’ve never had either,” Shane says. “I like the idea of cats. They pretty much take care of themselves. But, I’m sure if Ilya has his way, there’s a dog in our future. So I guess I’ll find out.”

“I keep telling him he needs one, but I get it. It’s hard when you’re on the road half the year,” Harris says. “Okay. Next question. You ready?”

Shane’s ready for this to be over. Not because he’s annoyed with Harris, but because things like this reinforce the fact that Shane actually is really boring. 

“Tell me your favorite way to eat apples.” 

“Is this really for the video?” Shane asks suspiciously. 

“Yes. But, also my own personal curiosity.”  

“I guess it’s my dad’s baked apples,” Shane says, thinking of how long it had been since his dad made them, and how delicious they were – never over or underdone and swimming in butter and brown sugar with a hint of spiced rum. “He used to make it all the time when I was a kid.”

“He doesn’t make it anymore?” 

“He might still make it for my mom and maybe Ilya when I’m not around,” Shane says. “I’ve been pretty careful about my diet for years, so things like that were off-limits. But…”

Shane lets that hang. He suddenly feels bad about the way his family had tried so hard to accommodate him. It had been so important to him at the time, but he’d been kind of an ass about it, too. And for what? A lot of stress and miniscule results. 

“But now you’re going to eat the baked apples?” Harris prompts. 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “The ice cream, too.”  

September 16, 2021

10:30 AM

Ottawa

Shane stares at his stall in the Centaurs changing room, surveying the pile of merch that’s been left there for him – team t-shirts, hoodies, a windbreaker, all with his name and number on them. Plus a tote bag full of other merch. A glance around him tells him everyone else has goodies of their own, stacked neatly inside their stalls. 

It’s the first day of pre-season training and Shane is the only one here right now, having arrived early for his appointment with Terry to ensure his fitness for practice. He’d planned to get dressed right away and hit the ice before anyone else got there – not because he doesn’t want to socialize with the team, but because he’s got a lot of nervous energy to burn off. It’s been a long time since he’s practiced with people who aren’t Ilya or his private coach. He wants to do well, and if the past is any indication, Shane does not do well when he’s this wound up. 

Instead of getting into his gear, he takes a minute to look through the gobs of stuff he’s been gifted. Water bottles, a coffee mug, a travel mug, bumper stickers, a couple of key chains, a notebook, ink pens, a garden flag, even a Chuck stuffie in a Cens jersey. It’s all promotional items that most players pass on to fans or family members. Back in Montreal, Shane usually saved everything but the mugs for events involving kids. He plans to do the same here. 

He’s holding up one of the hoodies – red, with his name and number on the back – when Ilya walks in with Troy and Bood. 

“Hey, Hollander!” Bood says and pats him hard on the arm. “Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys.” 

Shane is not so ignorant of pop culture that he misses the reference. “Thanks. Glad to be here.” 

Ilya looks positively giddy as he leans against Shane’s stall, his grin stretched so wide it makes him look wolfish. “Are you excited?” 

“About bag skates?” Shane asks. “You know that’s probably what we’re doing, right?”  

“You know what I mean.” 

Shane is excited, but he’s tried very hard over the last week to keep it from showing. Mostly, it’s just an eagerness to get started, but there’s a small part of him that’s been terrified of finding out his best days are behind him – he still has a slight weakness in his left hand and he worries his reflexes aren’t as fast as they once were. Now that he’s here, about to go to his first practice since January, his anxiety has shifted closer to the bad kind. 

“You will do fine,” Ilya says confidently. “Don’t let your head get in the way.” 

He loves that Ilya has faith in him, even when he doesn’t have much faith in himself right now.

Ilya squeezes the back of his neck, then goes to his own stall to investigate the mountain of gifts inside. Shane returns his attention to getting dressed – he still wants to be the first one on the ice, if only to calm himself down. Ilya’s giggles distract him from that mission. 

“What?” Shane asks and turns toward him. 

Ilya holds up a red hoodie, exactly like his own, except for the number on the back. The name on it is Hollander. 

“Did someone mess up?” Shane asks. 

Ilya shakes his head, grinning. He points to the capital letter I to the left of Hollander. His practice jersey is the same. 

Shane gets a little bit emotional. “I thought you were going to stick with Rozanov professionally.” 

“Maybe I changed my mind.” Ilya’s smile is smug. 

“That’s gonna be really confusing for the announcers, you know,” Bood says, reading Shane’s mind. “Like, which Hollander did the damn thing?”

“They will have to get used to it,” Ilya says. “And I will like hearing them say it.” 

Shane is not going to cry in the room. He isn’t. But Ilya’s making it very, very hard not to. He looks so fucking proud that it takes everything Shane has in him to keep from throwing his arms around Ilya, shoving him down on the bench, and kissing him senseless.

Which is 100% against the no-PDA rule they decided on after Shane signed his contract. A rule he has a feeling will be broken sooner rather than later.

“What a softie,” Shane says to hide the fact that he’s drowning in his own feelings. 

“Can we still call you Roz?” Bood asks. “Or do I gotta come up with a new nickname for you?” 

“Whatever you want,” Ilya says. “Roz is still fine.”

“Good, ‘cause Hollzy’s taken.”

The door opens and the 19 year old rookie, a defenseman acquired in the most recent draft, steps into the room with wide, scared eyes. The kid is about ten feet tall and built like an industrial refrigerator, yet he seems absolutely terrified to have found himself here among his new teammates.

“Come in if you are coming,” Ilya says sternly. He takes one last admiring look at his new hoodie and then returns it to the pile. “You are the rookie, yes?”

The rookie nods.   

“Ilya Hollander,” Ilya says and extends his hand. He’s not smiling and his face is unreadable but Shane can tell how much he enjoyed saying that. “Team captain.”

“Nice to meet you.” 

“This is Zane Boodram, your assistant captain,” Ilya says and tips his head toward Bood, then introduces Troy. Finally, he gestures at Shane. “And Shane Hollander. My husband. This is also his first season in Ottawa.” 

Shane rolls his eyes as he tugs his shoulder pads on. He catches Bood shaking his head and laughing silently. The kid looks uncomfortable, but that might be because Ilya is purposely being intimidating. 

“We are only good people here,” Ilya says. “And we are not like other teams. We respect each other, no matter who we love or where we are from. Do you understand?” 

“Yeah. Got it.” 

“Good. Your stall is next to Barrett. Get changed.”  

He approaches Troy nervously, then startles when Luca and Wyatt arrive, already too deep in a conversation about superhero lore to do more than wave at everyone on their way to their stalls. Right behind them is another wide-eyed rookie, this one an Irish kid who is supposedly one of the best left forwards to come out of the European Juniors in a decade. 

Ilya gives him the same speech with introductions, but the kid is mostly unphased by it. His stall is next to Shane’s and he gives Shane a cocky smirk in lieu of a greeting.

He won’t be so cocky later, when he’s begging for mercy. Just like the rest of them. Shane might forget himself how brutal pre-season training camp is until it’s time for it again, but this kid has no idea what’s coming for him. Shane sure as hell didn’t his first season. 

Across the room, Ilya’s showing his I. Hollander practice jersey to Wyatt with the same energy as a kid on Christmas morning. Shane smiles at him as he pulls on his own. 

Ilya catches his eye and winks.

And like he always does, Shane falls a little bit more stupidly, hopelessly in love with this stunning, obnoxious, ridiculous man that he’s so very privileged to get to spend the rest of his life with. 

June 19, 2022

9:06 PM

Ottawa

The game is tied 2-2 with less than 4 minutes left in the final period. The next goal will determine who wins the championship, and Ilya is positive that it’s going to be them. His team has fought way too hard to get here to walk away empty handed, and he’ll be damned if San Jose steals it right out from under them on home ice in front of a packed house. 

He’s also praying this game doesn’t into overtime. It’s been years since he’s made it to the finals and he’s forgotten just how exhausting it is. He’s looking forward to some hard-earned rest once it’s over. 

Currently, Ilya’s on the bench, as tense as a violin string, watching the final minutes of the game play out. Luca’s got the puck and a clear line to the goal, then he gets checked by one of San Jose’s defenders and Ilya loses track of where the puck is. He can’t tell if Luca still has it, or if he managed to knock it back to Young or Shane in time.

Ilya goes to his feet, cursing, hoping he doesn’t see play shift back towards Wyatt. There’s a bit of a scuffle between Young and San Jose’s center, then a split second later, Shane is flying toward the goal, leaving everyone in the dust. 

God. He’s such a beautiful skater. If a championship wasn’t on the line, Ilya would take a moment to appreciate it, but he’s on pins and needles, barely breathing, his gaze fixed on the blade of Shane’s stick. 

“Come on, moya belka,” Ilya says under his breath. “Come on, Shane. Fucking go.” 

If he was asked about it later, Ilya would say that the game's final goal happened silently and in slow motion – Shane firing off a truly nasty backhand shot that grazed the tips of the San Jose goalie’s glove and kept on going, straight into the net. 

In truth, it happened in less than a second and the roar of the crowd was so loud the floor shook.

“That’s my fucking husband!” Ilya shouts as he grabs hold of the back of Troy’s neck and shakes him. “Fuck yes, Hollander!” 

Luca jumps on Shane, whose face is sweaty and flushed and fucking beautiful under all the lights, followed by Young and Boyle. Ilya wishes he was the one out there right now because Shane would be getting more than just a pat on the back or a helmet bump. 

Ottawa does not let San Jose score again. They don’t even get a chance to before the clock runs out. 

Then the game is over and the team spills out onto the ice to celebrate their victory. Helmets and gloves and sticks get dropped all over the place and Shane gets lost somewhere in the middle of a crowd of sweaty, tired, and overjoyed hockey players but Ilya shoves his way into the mess, drags Shane out of it, throws his arms around him, and crushes him into the glass. 

“We fucking did it,” Shane says, laughing in disbelief. “Holy shit. We did it.” 

“I love you so fucking much, Hollander. That was fucking incredible!” 

Shane grins at him, his long bangs plastered to his forehead and his cheeks flushed beneath his beautiful freckles. 

“Still think my backhand’s weak?” 

“Of course it is, sweetheart," Ilya teases. "But maybe more protein shakes will help with that.” 

“Eat shit." Shane gives him a light shove. “I fucking hate you.” 

“No, you don’t," Ilya purrs in his ear. "You love me.”

“Yeah. I really do.” 

He wraps his arms around Shane’s back and drags him against his chest, one big hand tangled in Shane’s sweaty hair. He bows his head into the crook of Shane’s neck, breathing him in. Shane somehow still smells nice, even though they’re both sweaty and gross.  

Stupid tears are streaming from Ilya’s eyes and he doesn’t care. He’s too happy to care. 

Because maybe he didn’t get to propose to Shane while holding the cup last year like he wanted to, but he will get to kiss him next to the cup they won together, in front of the whole fucking world, and that’s even better.

And when it happens, Ilya makes damn sure it’s a good one. 

~The End

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all so much for taking this ride with me. I never planned to write something this long nor did I ever expect it to get the response it got. So thank you to everyone who read, left comments and kudos! Love you all!!!💚

Other works currently in progress if you're interested:

Burning My Cathedrals - Canon divergence, set 10 years post-tunameltdown. Angsty slow burn. Will be updated frequently.

Closer To the Heart - Post TLG. Ilya winds up with custody of his 14 year old niece. Angsty family fluff.

Or, there's some Ilya vs. Wildlife silliness: Canada is Fun -Oneshot, cracky.

ETA: I am getting overwhelmed with kudos and comments now that this is completed. I'll try to respond to as many comments as I can, but if I miss some, I'm sorry! It's nothing personal, I promise! I appreciate each and every comment and they totally make my day! 💚🐿💚🐿💚